Adventures of Life

Hurricane Memories and Lessons from Wilma

2011-08-28T23:42:00.013-04:00

Irene never really had an interest in me and so I never really worried much about her. Living coastal in the South Carolina Lowcountry, I knew early on from news reports that Irene was one storm that was going to pass me by. She was heading north, leaving me with only outer bands of rain. But there once was a storm in South Florida that I’ll never forget, her name was Wilma.

I was new to South Florida in October 2005, having only moved there eight months before. And I was all alone. Although a sister of mine moved to Florida with me in February, by May, she and my two nieces were back home in Kentucky. So when Wilma came in October, it was just me, alone in an overpriced two-bedroom apartment. Oddly though, I wasn’t fazed and I wasn’t afraid. Wilma, early on, a Category 5, battered the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico first.

After hammering down on the resort town of Cozumel, Mexico, Wilma headed due northeast, and crossed the Gulf of Mexico to Florida, where she made landfall near Naples as a very strong Category 3. Crossing the Everglades she headed east for me, alone in my apartment in Plantation, Florida, Broward County; right outside of Fort Lauderdale. And I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. Sure I had heard plenty of warnings on the news, and it was only just a couple of months since Katrina, but I did not think this would be that bad. I stocked up on candles and some chips and bottled water and that was it. I didn’t fill up my gas tank, nor plug water in the bathtub. I didn’t even think to stock up on non-perishable food items. So when the storm came my way first thing on a weekday morning, I called my boss to let her know I wouldn’t make it into the office, and then I went back to bed for a late morning of sleep-in.

What sounded like a freight train jolted me awake. Still, I would have stayed holed up in my bed, if not for the sound of a crash that sent me to my feet. Wilma roared, howled, and pounded all around me, and the screen door off the balcony flew loose and there was nothing I could do about it.

I had to admit to myself, I was scared. But she didn’t stay around long. She tormented me and the rest of South Florida for a little over four hours, and then like that, she was gone, exiting off the coast near Palm Beach. She had conquered and moved on, killing more than sixty people and leaving millions without electricity. She left us with downed trees and power lines, evidence of tornadoes, and then, a sky full of Florida sunshine. Looking up, you would have never known that she had been there. Looking down and around; the destruction spoke for itself.

I was without electricity for an entire week. Gas stations ran out of gas, and I later drove around Broward County on less than a quarter-tank of gas in search of a fully operational grocery story only to find empty shelves. Before making that drive in my little red Neon, I decided to take a walk to survey the damage. Out in the parking lot, I noticed my car was just fine. But not all of my neighbors were so lucky. What I learned that October; all hurricanes must be taken seriously, and preparation is key. And this is what I saw…

Your Child on A Path towards Excellence and My Grandfather the Scientist

2011-08-08T17:55:00.006-04:00

My Grandfather was a nuclear physicist, and one day your child can be one too. I’ve written about my grandfather before, but I wanted to bring him up again as you prepare your children for the upcoming school year. My grandfather, my father’s father, conducted experiments for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) at the Plum Brook Reactor Facility in Sandusky, Ohio. My grandfather, born 1927, in Liberty, Texas, was the youngest of twenty children from a Creole family originally of Arnaudville, Louisiana.

When my grandfather was 14-years-old he joined the navy to fight in WWII. After the war, he took advantage of the G.I. Bill to go to college, where he met my grandmother.

In 1962, he joined NASA as a nuclear engineer. In 1966, my grandfather received his reactor’s operator license from the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission. My grandmother tells me that he would be exhausted after coming home late from experiments in the reactor. Below is a summary of my grandfather's work...

"American scientists and engineers carried out the 'Atoms for Peace' initiative at nearly 200 research and test reactors built in the 1950s and 1960s. These types of reactors are very different from power reactors, which are built to produce power by converting radioactive heat into electricity. In contrast, research and test reactors are used for scientific and technical investigations. Research reactors help engineers design experiments and build better reactors, while test reactors generate powerful radiation fields that enable scientists to study how materials respond to radioactive environments. One of the most powerful in the world was the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) test reactor, located at Plum Brook Station in Sandusky, Ohio, near Lake Erie. From 1961 to 1973, this reactor was home to some of the most advanced nuclear experimentation in the United States." -NASA’s Nuclear Frontier: The Plum Brook Reactor Facility

My grandfather, the scientist, was a father of four and very active in his community. A July 19, 1968 NASA newsletter, had this to say about my grandfather…

"Thomas Jenkins, Reactor Division at Plum Brook, was recently appointed a member of the Lorain Metropolitan Housing Authority. Jenkins, who is active in civic affairs, is co-chairman of the Oberlin High School PTA, advisor for Boy Scout Explorer Post 401, is treasurer of Dollars for Scholars and is a member of the City Industrial Commission." -Lewis News: Lewis Research Center Vol. 5 No. 15

He died before I was born, but throughout most of my life, I’ve always been proud of who I am, and where I came from, in large parts due to him. I had to excel in everything, because I often imagined this large man looking down on me from heaven, judging me on my every move. Today when I think about my nieces and nephews, I can only hope that they follow in his footsteps. I want them to excel in math and science, because I know that’s where opportunity lies.

The future of tomorrow begins with innovation, and coming from a math and science background will lead to a very successful life. I don’t have any children, but I do hope that parents realize the magnitude of a focus on science; with competition for the latest advances in technology, only the smartest of minds will advance. Parents it’s very important that you push your children to get good grades and take an interest in these subjects. When your kids come home from school, ask to see their homework, and check their math assignments.

If you are not sure how to check their math, you may be able to find help towards the back of their text books. When I lived in Indianapolis, one of my sisters lived with me during her junior year in high school and I tried to check her assignments every night after I came in from work. It was very important that she did well while on my watch, and she did.

I think of all the young men and women who are not doing well, who are running from gun shots or towards a jail cell and I know that their future is not secure. But for this next generation, coming in, parents your children can have a successful life by studying hard in math and science and by following the path of innovation in advanced technologies. Who knows, maybe one day your child can be the one to discover the power source we need for a FTL (Faster Than Light) Drive for deep space human explorations or he/she will find an sustainable alternative energy source that can save this planet from ultimate destruction. Parents it’s up to you. My grandfather followed the path of math and science and did right by his family and community. Right now that path is wide open and ready for our future leaders to take a ride.

I love Charleston!

2011-07-11T01:37:00.002-04:00

For any family member or friend that comes to visit, keep in mind that in addition to sightseeing and hanging out on the beach in Hilton Head, we will also take a day trip to one of my favorite places in the whole wide world, Charleston, South Carolina. Charleston has the look and feel of New Orleans; alive with old city charm, rich in history and tradition.

The other day my Dad and his wife and her sister came to visit me for a few days. Actually first they stopped in Atlanta to stay with my cousin Shandra and then they traveled further south to Orlando to visit with my Uncle Harrison and my brother Tommy and his kids. Since I don’t have children to play with (like my brother) or a nice relaxing indoor swimming pool at the house (Uncle Harrison), their visit with me meant plenty of time enjoying the sights outside in the heat.

I first took my family down to the May River in Old Town Bluffton to enjoy a cool breeze on a boat dock. Next we headed over the bridge to Hilton Head and slowly climbed to the top of the lighthouse in Sea Pines plantation. It’s hard for my Dad to pass up a day at the beach so of course before we left the island, he had to hit the water at Coligny. Saturday, on my Dad’s last day here, we decided to drive over to Charleston for a few hours, and then my Dad and my stepmother and her sister were to hit the highway to go back home to Indiana from there. I only wish we had more time to spend in Charleston.

Our first stop included the downtown Visitor Center where we parked our cars. Since we hadn’t had breakfast we made our way to the Farmers Market at Marion Square where I enjoyed a plate of Shrimp and Grits and my Dad discovered a vendor that made New Orleans beignets (a pastry made from deep fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar). Next we hopped on one of the free trolleys to the Historic District and found vendors selling sweetgrass baskets, jewelry, Stetson Cowboy hats and more at the Old City Market. I purchased a children’s book there from a beautiful local author titled The Bookdwellers.

On foot we went in search of the Old Slave Mart, where my tour book says is where slaves were sold and exchanged in the 1800’s, but on the way there we ran into a Gullah man selling sweetgrass baskets off to the side of the road who said slaves were sold and exchanged back at the Old City Market, which I disputed after we left the man, because as I pointed out to my Dad, my tour book says…

Despite what you might have heard, the Old City Market was not the site of slave auctions in the years before Emancipation. That dubious distinction goes to the Old Slave Mart. Slave marts like this one sprang up around the district beginning in 1856 when the practice of selling slaves on the side of the Custom House was outlawed.

Upon arrival at the Old Slave Mart (now a museum) we took a few pictures but decided we did not have enough time to tour the building. My Dad was eager to get on the road. He wanted to hit Knoxville for an overnight stay before nightfall. On our way to a trolley stop I convinced them to check out Waterfront Park where we met an old Gullah woman who just like the Gullah man, said that slaves were sold at The Old City Market. This wonderful lady told us about her family history. She told us that her people were descendents of slaves from the nearby Boone Hall Plantation. She also showed us a book written by her niece; Joyce V. Coakley, titled Sweetgrass Baskets and The Gullah Tradition. I plan to order the book on Amazon.com.

I said goodbye to my Dad and my stepmother and her sister back at the downtown Visitor Center. Since the day was still early for me and I was only an hour and a half from home, I decided to take a plantation tour at nearby Drayton Hall, where “the main house is considered one of the finest examples of Georgian-Palladian architecture in the United States.”

Known as a former rice plantation, the grounds of the property are well kept and beautiful. This plantation has been home to seven generations of slaves and descendents of slaves and has survived two wars, The American Revolution and The Civil War. I really enjoyed the tour of the main house and also my walk down to the banks of the Ashley River behind the property. I stuck around for a 45-minutes Connections program which was an interactive presentation on early African-American history in the Lowcountry.

After my tour I got on the road for home. There is so much more for me to do in this gorgeous city, but that was enough for one day. My entire experience in Charleston this weekend as always was wonderful. I’ve been here several times before, but this was the first visit with family. I love sharing my discoveries and adventures with loved ones. They always makes the experience for me that much more enjoyable.

Celebrating Culture at the Savannah Asian Festival

2011-06-12T01:50:00.003-04:00

Great thing about being human is that we are diverse and unique in our oneness. And when we open ourselves to new adventures, we learn to appreciate ourselves even more. But you don’t always have to travel half way around the world to experience something new. Sometimes a good festival can give you an introduction to sights and sounds from abroad.
Saturday I had a chance to experience music, dance and cuisine from Asian cultures of Polynesia, China, Japan, Vietnam, and Thailand at the 16th Annual Savannah Asian Festival. It was a beautiful daylong event attended by diverse people from everywhere. A packed house… White, Black, Brown, Asian, mixed… everyone came out to celebrate the unique cultures from the East.
And what a celebration! In addition to live performances and great food, we were also treated to shopping at the Asian Cultural Marketplace and a workshop on Asian and Middle Eastern Tea. This is an annual event and I hope to have the pleasure to attend again next year. In the meantime check out my video from Saturday’s performances...

Looking for Something to Do This Summer?

2011-05-30T17:01:00.016-04:00

For anyone with kids, I recommend you sign them up for swim lessons at your local YMCA. If you’re worried about the expense, stop by the front desk to see if you and your kids qualify for financial assistance. My siblings qualified for assistance when they were kids.

I think it’s very important that every child learns to swim. According to the American Red Cross, nearly 3,500 Americans drown each year, and of that more than one in five victims are children age fourteen and younger. Learning to swim is not only a life saving skill, but knowing the front crawl and the back stroke adds to hours more of fun when you and yours make your way to the swimming pool or beach. And when they get a little older, they can turn their skills into a part-time summer gig as a lifeguard, just as I did.

For those of you hitting the road, on your way down to Florida, see if you can add a stop to your itinerary and swing on over to the east coast to visit and tour the Kennedy Space Center. One of my sisters along with one of our nieces and I did so a few years back and we had a blast learning about our nation’s space program and our International Space Station. There were plenty of interactive exhibits and experiences. And just for the basic admission price, we were able to put in a full day of fun. Did you know that NASA is launching a new space program which will eventually use a robotic arm to pluck samples from an asteroid?

On NASA’s website, Administrator Charlie Bolden says; “It’s robotic missions like these that will pave the way for future human space missions to deep space destinations.” So exciting! Remember parents, math and science is where it’s at for our kids. This visit will be a great opportunity to inspire them to walk down that path.
For all you parents out there, looking for something for your kids to do, there you have it. Regardless if you are hitting the road or not, please one way or another, make sure your kids truly know how to swim, and push them towards excellence in education. From a non-parent interested in the possibilities of tomorrow, I thank you!

Could Roanoke Island be my Melungeon Connection?

2011-04-22T20:50:00.016-04:00

Melungeon: A member of a people mixed with White, Black,and
American Indian ancestry living in the southern Appalachians. -Dictionary.com

I recently returned from a short stay in the Outer Banks, which is a perfect family vacation destination on a group of barrier islands off the coast of North Carolina. There you can find kite flying on huge sand dunes, and hours of fun windsurfing in the Atlantic Ocean. Those interested in aviation will find the birthplace of flight exciting at the Wright Brothers National Memorial in honor of Wilbur and Orville Wright. And if you really love history, you have... Roanoke Island.

I stayed in Kill Devil Hills, NC in the Outer Banks, but of course the highlight for me, was my day trip down to Roanoke. I toured Roanoke Island Festive Park, an interactive family attraction that takes you back in time with a recreation of one of North America’s first settlements and a replica of a 16th century ship that made its way to the Outer Banks.

It was in the Outer Banks and specifically Roanoke Island, that the English attempted their first try at colonization. Spain had been in the game for some time. We all know the histories. By accident, Christopher Columbus landed on Hispaniola (today Haiti and Dominican Republic) in 1492. And by 1565, Spain it seems was all over the Americas and had colonized and founded St. Augustine, Florida, our oldest European city in the United States.

But finally in 1584, nearly twenty years later, the English competing against Spain for colonies in the New World, found their way to the Outer Banks. There Phillip Amadas and Arthur Barlowe, navigators for Sir Walter Raleigh encountered friendly Algonquian Native Americans, and convinced two of them, Manteo and Wanchese to return with them to England to meet the queen.

Seeing them as a non-threat, Manteo and Wanchese convinced Queen Elizabeth I to send settlers to the New World, and in 1585, the two Native Americans returned to Roanoke with 600 English men… soldiers, carpenters, smiths, cooks, shoemakers, and a minister.

On the island, the colonists turned to the Native Americans when they were low on food and supplies but relations with the natives soon became rocky when a Sir Richard Grenville accused the Native Americans of stealing a silver cup. So within a few months of arrival, the men were low on supplies and most wanted to go home. All but 108 returned back to England. And for those remaining, in 1586 an English explorer and privateer named Sir Francis Drake visited the colony after sacking the Spanish outpost of St. Augustine and offered them a ride back to England.

But here is where the story changes… To make room for the English colonists, Drake decided to leave some of his captured Moorish, Turkish, Spanish and South American Indian slaves behind in the Outer Banks. Nearly 400 slaves and prisoners were left behind. But what happened to them? Were they the first Lost Colony that history never retells because they were people of color? And where did these people of color disappear to? Did they make their way to the mainland to mingle with the natives and later West African runaway slaves to become the first group of mixed "race" people in North America, that some today call Melungeon?

When the English returned in 1587 with 150 additional men and woman, they found the original Roanoke settlement deserted and all the prisoners and slaves gone. Interesting enough, this second group of English settlers disappeared themselves after one of their leaders returned back to England for more food and supplies. When he returned to Roanoke, all 150 were gone and he found only the word “Croatoan” carved into a post. This mysterious disappearance of English folks makes up what is written and known as The Lost Colony. But few recognize that they weren’t the fist group to disappear.

Until my visit to Festival Park which included the Roanoke Adventure Museum, I did not realize that there were two Lost Colonies. I had read in my research about a Lost Colony Melungeon connection from Roanoke, but I could not see how that was possible, since all of the lost settlers in history books were from England, and in early mentions of the Melungeon people, Melungeons were dark-skinned. Now after this recent visit, these pieces of the puzzle have finally fallen into place. But the Lost Colony connection is just one theory of this early mixed group of people. I’ve written about another theory briefly in a previous post here.

I Am a Girl and…

2011-03-29T20:04:00.006-04:00

She’s your daughter… A young child, only eleven-years-old, is repeatedly ganged raped in a small town in Texas by a group of nineteen men between the ages of 14 and 27. Details here…

She’s your sister… A Libyan woman runs into a hotel lobby seeking to tell her story after being held captive, raped and beaten by Gadhafi security forces. Journalists are today afraid for her safety…

She’s your friend… A CBS news reporter is caught in the hysteria of a mob scene, triggered by victory in an Egyptian square, and is raped and violated. She’s back home in the states and recovering.

She is you…

I once knew a girl, a 14-year-old girl, caught in the embraces of a 19-year-old man. She attempted to escape, but instead was raped. She was on her way to a job interview, at a fast food restaurant, when she received a call to stop by for awhile. She was on her period. He forced her to take her tampon out. When it was over, instead of a job interview, she slowly walked home with tears in her eyes. No one was there. She went to the bathroom, and shut the door. She drew a bath and marked the day in her journal. Once again the walls within restored.

Sisters, Never Let Your Guard Down...

Race

2011-02-12T20:53:00.001-05:00

Of course you reject me.
I’m your roots and you have one foot on the ground.
Barely standing, but you shout you don’t want me around.
I cry out for you, but you pretend I’m not here.
I say I love you,
But you show you don’t care.
You fly away. The sky is blue.
You don’t know me, but I remember you.

Dodging Bullets: A Look at Violence in The Black Community

2011-02-07T20:23:00.002-05:00

The first time I had to run for my life, I was 13 and new to the city. Young and naïve in Lexington, KY, I was hanging with new found friends watching boys play basketball at Castlewood Park when I heard… pop, pop, and a scream: “Someone is shooting!”

I took off running toward the other side of the park, and terrified and scared, I reunited with my friends.

At the age of fifteen and sixteen I started going to house parties and eventually nightclubs and more shootings followed me there. I would be on the dance floor, swaying my hips from side to side and then out of nowhere… crack, pop, pop… pow! And people would be ducking and dodging and running for the door.

In college I truly expected to escape the violent episodes, but within my first semester of my freshman year at the University of Louisville (I later transferred to UK), I once again found myself dropping and then running for my life after a good time on the dance floor.

This past weekend I followed Breaking News on Twitter of an off campus shooting near Youngstown State University. One person was killed and eleven others injured at a Black fraternity house party. Police have two suspects in custody. Before the shooting, police say the suspects were thrown out of the party.

Violent behavior plagues the Black community. I hate to generalize and stereotype but looking at the numbers, more Black men have been dying at Black hands than any other racial category. According to research by Northeastern University, the number of homicides involving Black male youth as perpetrators increased 43 percent between 2002 and 2007 and as victims by 31 percent and those killed by guns, the numbers increased by 54 percent.

I speculate that these numbers have been going up since the 80’s. But why? I am not a psychologist, or an educator by any means, but I do believe continued exposure to violence in the homes, on the streets, and school yards along with the desperation that comes with poverty have contributed to feelings of hopelessness and helplessness and anxiety which have led to a deadly form of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). It has been passed down and undiagnosed from probably as far back as the 60’s and 70’s with the Civil Rights and Black Power Movements.

Today’s youth are dealing with psychological issues that have been passed down from generation to generation and the Black community continues to see the impact of this in the form of deadly shootings and other violent crimes.

For the past four decades, the Black community has dealt with the weight of freedom marches, violent and non-violent protests, boycotts, sit-ins, assassinations, water cannons, and lack of economic opportunity, inadequate education, an 80’s rise in drugs and crack babies.

Issues unresolved for generations have created stimuli that nearly collapsed the Black community and which continue in the year 2011 to impregnate our young men with destruction and lack of self control. The illness that results from this, PTSD continues to go undiagnosed.

According to Wikipedia,

PTSD is a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma. This event may involve the threat of death to oneself or to someone else or to one’s own physical, sexual, or psychological integrity, overwhelming the individual’s ability to cope.

When we see our young men acting out in violent behavior, I would say they have a problem with coping. So what can be done? What do we need to do to curb Black on Black violence in the African-American community? I have a three point solution…

1. Diagnose: We need to find a way to get to our children early to get them the help that they need. Preferably with in-house counselors and psychologists in middle schools.
2. Confront and Discuss: If we have mandatory classes which recognizes the signs of PTSD, then our kids will know that there is a reason for the way that they feel and behave.
3. Enable and Engage: Once our kids are aware of what plagues them, then we can hold workshops in schools on how to deal with uncomfortable situations, anger management, as well as the fear and anxiety that comes with everyday living or for extreme cases introduce them to psychotherapeutic interventions and Behavioral and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.

Regardless if my three point solution is worth a look or not, I do think we have to start somewhere, and first diagnosing this problem, would be a huge advance for the African-American community. Afterwards, we can find a way to work through this destructive disorder and lower the risk for PTSD as well as for being at a party and dodging bullets.

Tick

2011-01-31T00:56:00.002-05:00

And the sand lands in the power of my hands…
I hold still, I hold still.
And the wind blows and the minutes tick.
I hold still, I hold still.
What keeps me here but the movements I fear…
The wind blows, the wind blows,
Time moves, sand slips…
I hold still, I hold still.

They Come Flying to Me

2011-01-27T09:07:00.009-05:00

Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love commits me here, ever this day (or night) be at my side, to light, to guard, to rule and guide. Amen

I don’t collect Angels, but I do have a collection. And I never thought about it before, but all my little angels have been gifted to me. Today I had a visit from an angelic older lady who noticed one of my angels on top of my office desk. She mentioned that she keeps angels next to photos of her children as protection. She said she had quite a huge collection but she purchased not a one. She said all of her pieces had been given to her by loved ones, and she’s come to believe that her Angels have flown to her. As she said this and shared her story, I connected and realized that all my angels have come flying to me too!

I remember once at a Melungeon conference with my Mom, sister and ex-boyfriend when a total stranger came up to me and handed me her angel lapel pin. She tapped me on the shoulder as I sat next to family in the hotel conference room after a presentation on mixed ancestry. The lady told me that I was beautiful and that a little voice told her to gift her lapel pin to me.

This past December my mother gave each of her daughters ebony angels for Christmas. Mine guards family memories on a shelf in my dining room.

The angel that sits on my desk in the office came to me one day by a client. The client brought me one of hers from her personal collection as a thank you to me. I don’t know what all this means, especially the significance of possessing angelic figurines. But I do know that when I was a little girl I used to say a prayer to my Guardian Angel along with The Lord’s Prayer and The Hail Mary every night before I fell asleep.

As I got older and even now I continued to say my nightly prayers but over the years I lost my appeal to my guardian angels. After today’s office visit I now realize that my guardian angels have not forgotten me. Maybe these little gifts are just their way of letting me know that they are still here for me whenever I’m in need. Tonight in thanks of this I think I just may get down on my knees and in gratitude think of them.
Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love commits me here, ever this day (or night) be at my side, to light, to guard, to rule and guide. Amen

A Painter’s Passion

2011-01-20T13:07:00.015-05:00

Paul Gauguin… I don’t know a whole lot about art, but I sure do like this guy’s work. Born in Paris, France in 1848, post-impressionist painter Paul Gauguin spent time with family in Peru during his early years and traveled the world during his adult life looking for the wild and exotic.

He was mad about color and obsessed with bringing the human experience to life. He traveled throughout Europe and the Americas and eventually found his way to the beauty of Tahiti. He died 700 miles away in Hiva Oa on the Marquesas Islands. Below are a few pieces of his work which speak to me.

We're Only Human

2011-01-04T15:22:00.000-05:00

To all my brothers and sisters around the world who have been asked the all important question, "What are you?" Or if you are personally asking yourself this question about your own self worth. Take a look below and remember take pride, because you are exceptionally Only Human...

Eternally

2011-01-03T16:15:00.000-05:00

In This Moment that I hold dear...
I look in the eyes of the unknown, and of that which I fear,
And I say thank you Lord for blessing me with another day.
Thank you Lord for the love that has traveled through
and toward my way.
My path has been bumpy, the storms have been fierce,
but the love has been constant throughout the years.
Thank you Lord.
Family is Everything

Sugar Cookies

2010-12-13T22:26:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite memories as a kid was in the kitchen with my Mom making sugar cookies. Times were tough, but with just sugar, eggs, butter and flour, seems like we always had enough for cookies.

I remember one snowy winter night in the kitchen with my brother, baby sister and Mom and arms covered in flour and cookie dough, when the song Silent Night by the Temptations came on the radio.

Another great memory of mine is of hearing my mother and brother sing. Tonight watching Mariah Carey’s Christmas special on ABC my mind flashed back to that kitchen scene.

My Birthday in New Orleans

2010-12-08T23:04:00.000-05:00

Life can be a lonely road sometimes, especially when you find yourself hundreds of miles away from family and friends. I cherish moments now that I get to spend with them. Recently when the opportunity arose to share a New Orleans experience with a close friend, I knew I had to do everything I could to make it happen and make it good. Although at times I did want to back out of our plans only because I’ve gained a lot of weight since my move to Hilton Head. This friend of mine, I hadn’t seen in nearly four years and I used to date her brother. I hated to have to have her see me like this. But I decided to take a chance. I really needed to hang out with someone familiar. I don’t do that at all in Hilton Head and Bluffton. In the Low Country it’s just me and my cat Jake. My life has never before been so void.

So, I work for RCI, a timeshare exchange company. I’ve been with the company for nearly ten years. With employee benefits come free resort stays. As employees though, we don’t have priority on inventory. Usually I put in a request for a resort and get on a search (or wait list) and cross my fingers and pray that a unit at my desired location matches to my request. This past June, I received an email that my search for New Orleans matched for a two bedroom (sleeps six) partial kitchen unit at the Wyndham La Belle Maison resort for the check in dates of the first week of December. I jumped on it and took the reservation, although I still wasn’t sure if I could make the trip or if I would have anyone to travel with.

I thought of my friend, although it’s been probably more than five years since I’ve dated her brother, my friend and I have kept in touch on a regular basis by phone. I tossed the suggestion out to her I think in July or August, but it wasn’t until October till she was sure she could make it happen. And once she purchased her airline tickets, I knew that there was no backing out. New Orleans was happening for sure.

The Thursday before my Monday birthday, I dropped my cat off at the kennel and then got in the car and drove down and across Georgia into Alabama and I spent the night at the Drury Inn in Montgomery. I broke up my drive with an overnight stay, because I didn’t want to be exhausted for New Orleans. This was my first stay at a Drury hotel. Usually I don’t think much about the hotel experience, because I’ve been spoiled with my resort stays over the years. But the Drury Inn was a pleasant surprise. Of course I read the reviews on Orbitz.com before I booked the reservation, but still I was impressed. The room, immaculately clean and spacious. They offer complimentary breakfast and free happy hour complete with hot snacks, also, free wireless and free long distance. This hotel blew me away. But that was just one night, on Friday morning I checked out and drove down to New Orleans. My friend arrived Friday night and on Saturday morning, our adventures began.

The Wyndham La Belle Maison resort is just a few blocks down from the French Quarter and just about everything we did was within walking distance. But boy, am I glad we brought our tennis shoes, because we walked the heck out of them. We started our Saturday morning looking for a particular tourist Center. We were looking for coupons and deals on plantation and cemetery tours. Somehow we kept missing the ‘recommended’ Visitor Information Center and by accident we found ourselves taking an impromptu self tour of the St. Louis Cemetery #1, north of the French Quarter. Here the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Marie Laveau is interred along with other famous and notable New Orleanians in above ground tombs and vaults.

From the cemetery we made our way back toward the French Quarter and stopped for a $12 a piece breakfast of Cajun Hash Browns and bottled water at the Café Beignet on Bourbon Street. On a full stomach we were ready for a little “gris-gris” and set off in search of the historic Voodoo Museum. A little smaller than expected, we paid $5 each for an introduction to the history and origin of this magical supernatural power. According to our souvenir fact sheet,
“Voodoo came to Louisiana directly from West Africa and was first recorded in 1719 with the arrival of the first slaves. By the early 19th century, Voodoo dances in Congo Square in New Orleans were a regular Sunday event.”
Although it seems spooky, the Voodoo Museum is definitely worth the visit if you like history.

After the Voodoo experience my friend and I made our way to the Krewe of Jingle parade along Canal Street, and were treated to Mardi Gras beads thrown out into the crowds by the handfuls. Our Saturday evening topped off with a stroll down Bourbon Street with hundreds of other party-goers. Jazz, blues, zydeco, rock and hip hop blasted from bars and clubs. She and I ventured into a club or two, but we didn’t linger too long anywhere.

Sunday we awoke early again and found ourselves on a free ferry across the river to Algiers. Algiers was once a holding area for slaves till they were well enough to be sold in New Orleans. Algiers also served as a holding area for the Canadian Cajuns, after they were expelled from Nova Scotia. My friend and I didn’t see much, so after a brief walk we quickly caught the next ferry back across the Mississippi to buy tickets for a visit to the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas.

Later that day and probably the highlight of our Sunday, we attended Chanukah at Riverwalk for a traditional Israeli music and lighting of a twelve foot menorah. With my first experience of such a traditional Jewish event and holiday, it was even more delightful with a taste of a latke pancake. Served for free (with optional donations) at one of the booths. The latke is a potato pancake that is traditionally eaten by Jews during the Hanukkah festival. I believe my friend topped hers with sour cream.

We left the lighting ceremony around 6pm and although dark now, my friend and I were in the mood for more adventure. With a little help from the concierge at the resort, we found ourselves south on Canal street boarding a streetcar for a trolley ride to the historic Cemeteries district, where we passed a cemetery of victims from Katrina. From that ride we transferred to the St. Charles Streetcar which took us through the Garden District and gave us a look at huge magnificent homes.

Monday, my birthday, and we were not tired at all. Over the weekend we had basically walked from sun up to past sun down and yet Monday morning, we were still ready to see more. Taking our time, we left the resort around ten and walked through the French Quarter to 1100 Chartres Street for a tour of the Old Ursuline Convent. Completed in 1753, this building is a part of the Catholic Cultural Heritage Center of the Archdiocese of New Orleans and once was home to Ursuline Nuns and later priests serving the local Italian community.

The most beautiful part of the Convent I found to be the sanctuary of St. Mary’s Church (attached to the convent). This church completed in 1845 was a center of worship for the French, Spanish, African-American, German, Irish and Italian communities. Entry to the grounds of the Convent including the church is only $5.

Leaving the Old Ursuline Convent we had every intention of taking a ride on a lunchtime Harbor Jazz cruise on the Steamboat Natchez, but the weather in mid 40’s to low 50’s kinda turned us off from cruising the Mississippi that day. We took in a movie instead at The Theatres at Canal Place, where they serve you a meal and drinks while you relax on reclining chairs with feet propped up on a comfortable ottoman in front of a mid-size movie screen.

After the movie we dashed across the French Quarter to the St. Louis Cathedral for a free jazz concert performed by Ellis Marsalis of the legendary Marsalis clan.

Before I dropped my friend off at the airport the next day we had lunch at the Copeland Cheesecake Bistro which gives my favorite restaurant, The Cheesecake Factory a run for its money.

My friend is a very private person, and that is the reason I have not used her name in this post. But I am grateful that she flew down to spend time with me for my birthday. I think all my life I’ve been surrounded by loads of family and friends that in the past I may have taken for granted. Now that I am in South Carolina all alone, I now realize that friends are important. Just like family, friends do feed the soul and this soul is currently full from a great trip with a wonderful person down in New Orleans.

On Our Way to the Top of the Lighthouse

2010-10-17T22:49:00.000-04:00

“Alright, you go on up, I’m going to wait right here,” my then 17-year old sister Obadiah declared after we’d made our way to the grounds of the Key West Lighthouse and Keepers Quarters Museum.

She and my then 21-year old sister Onierita and I decided to drive down from Weston, a small resort town west of Ft. Lauderdale. I had been in South Florida maybe a little over a year when my sisters and I decided to plan this day trip.

Only a few hours away, we knew we had to try the conch fritters, and bring home key lime pie as well as hit the Pirates Museum, Mallory Square, and ride a trolley to the historic Key West Lighthouse. We talked about the itinerary beforehand and that’s why it came as such a huge surprise when Obadiah protested taking the journey to the top.

“What,” Onie and I questioned in unison.
“I’m going to wait right here,” Obadiah smiled up at us defiantly.
“Oh no,” I said, “You’re going with us!”
“Yep,” added Onie, “you have no choice.”

Obadiah reluctantly headed towards the stairway and the three of us climbed the eighty-eight steps of the narrow spiral staircase to the deck of the lighthouse. Once there, the three of us enjoyed the view of the ocean and the island below. We basked in the moment of accomplishing a feat of a new adventure. Together, my sisters and I stood on top of the world.

A few years later, after my job relocated me to Hilton Head, South Carolina, Obadiah and I and our then 7-year old niece Kelacia stood at the base of another tall and lingering structure, this one a 90-foot red and white striped tower in Sea Pines Harbour Town on Hilton Head. Both Obadiah and I were eager to conquer the 110 step stairway of this lighthouse. My seven-year old niece raced ahead of us and beat us to the top. Although this was her first lighthouse visit, Kelacia had no fear of going where she had never gone before.

A Gathering of our Native Americans

2010-09-25T22:32:00.000-04:00

"The tribes who still live the traditional way of life believe that nature and the Indian people spoke the same language. They believe that nature was the guide and provider for the tribe and that nature gave each tribe power and its own unique identity. The tribes developed dances around the animals and natural forces in which they believed. It is those dances that are danced at pow-wows."
Gathering of Nations, A PowWow Experience

Ever been to a pow-wow? I have and it was beautiful. And I hope to one day go again. I was raised in the Black experience, but per my Mother and Father I do have Native American ancestry. My mother’s family mainly from Kentucky could possible carry the blood of Shawnee Indians and my father’s people, mainly creoles from Louisiana and later Texas, carry the blood of the Chitimacha Indians. Many others do as well, yet how many people outside of active Native American tribesmen actually know what that means.

What does it mean to be a Native American in the 21st century? We read about their history in our biased history books, but few of us know much else about the original inhabitants of North America. A Pow-Wow won’t tell you everything you need to know about their culture, just like listening to rap music will not tell you everything about the African-American experience. But a Pow-Wow can give you a glimpse of the Native American world.

About seven years ago my ex and I decided we wanted to learn more, and we booked a trip to the annual Gathering of Nations, the largest pow-wow in North America. Held each spring in Albuquerque, New Mexico, thousands of people and hundreds of tribes descended on the pit at the University of New Mexico for a competition of traditional dance and fierce drum beats. It was a weekend event that began with a Drum Roll Call and a Miss Indian World Competition and ended with a colorful closing ceremony and an announcement of contest winners.

During the pow-wow, my ex and I were delighted to see the young and old of tribes from Canada and all over the United States dressed in brightly colored feathered headdresses and buckskin costumes decorated with beading, elk teeth, and shells. The actual pow-wow started with The Grand Entry in which there was the beat of a drum followed by a powerful song and the participants rolled in. They proceeded into the arena from all sides and they moved in a clockwise circle, representing the unity of life and the path of the sun across the sky. Soon after, the competition and dancing began.

The pow-wow started Friday afternoon and lasted well into the night and concluded Saturday afternoon. Each hour we were treated to a new category of dance like the Grass Dance, Men’s Northern Traditional, Men’s Fancy, The Kiowa Gourd Dance, Women’s Jingle, and Women’s Fancy Shawl. Most of the dances come complete with a genesis-like story, which my ex and I read about in our Gathering of Nations Official Souvenir Program.

As exciting as the pow-wow was, he and I also enjoyed a visit to the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center, a ride on the Sandia Peak Tramway, Founder’s Day in Historic Old Town Albuquerque and a little club hopping at the annual Downtown Crawl. He and I had such a great fun filled cultural experience that we even considered relocating to Albuquerque permanently.

I highly recommend the Gathering for anyone and everyone, and if you check out their website, you’ll see that event organizers send out their invitations too; all are welcome. If you decide to go, below are some tips for you that I have from my program guide…

1. When the eagle staff is brought in during the grand entry, everyone stands and hats are removed.

2. If an eagle feather should fall during the dancing, everything will stop until a proper returning of the feather has been performed.

3. Pointing with a finger, particularly the index finger is considered impolite. It’s best to indicate a person or direction by pursing the lips and pointing with the eyes or to nod in the direction.

4. During the event, photos may be taken, but don’t use the flash during the contest. Ask permission before snapping an individual’s photograph outside the dancing.

For anyone interested you can find more information at www.gatheringofnations.com. The next Gathering takes place April 28th, 29th, and 30th, 2011. It will be held at the University of New Mexico Arena located in Albuquerque.

My Perfect Staycation!

2010-09-24T15:32:00.000-04:00

I had every intention of going to that concert in Charleston. I’d bought my ticket during the fan presale and was all hyped and ready to once again see the amazing Jason Mraz. Then reports came in about bedbugs and I didn’t want to chance a hotel. So then I decided I would just drive the more than an hour and a half back to Bluffton after the show. But after the murder of my neighbor, I wasn’t ready to make that drive that late at night.

On Sunday evening I started debating if I should go. The concert was on Wednesday, but by Monday morning I had my mind set on a vacation at home. And yes, I did initially take the entire week off just to attend one concert during the middle of the week to a city that is less than two hours away. Hey that’s what you do when you have vacation days to use. You use them or you lose them and I get a lot of Paid Time Off from my employer. Which I would say I deserve it, because I’ve been at my job for nearly ten years.

Back to my staycation. I could’ve gotten in the car to see family in Orlando or Augusta or Atlanta, but I’ll have plenty of time for them during The Holidays. So again I chose to stay home. And stay home I did. I turned on the TV and I caught up on all my favorite shows. I took a journey to an alternate universe with the crew of Stargate SG1. I later saw Elisabeth Hasselbeck scream her head off in defense of her fellow bewitched Republicans on The View. I caught Rachel Ray as she made her way into Kim Kardashian’s home, and I think I’ve figured out the latest of what’s happening on Days of Our Lives. Sami shot EJ and everyone still hates Nicole and oh surprisingly Hope is in jail for attempting to kill Bo. I tuned into Oprah too and I laughed nonstop with comedian Jon Stewart on Oprah's show. I’ve loved my daytime TV time, it sure has been nice. And to cap it off, my evenings have been perfect with Premier Week on ABC, NBC, CW and CBS.

As great as this staycation has been, I am a little sorry that I wasn’t able to catch another great performance of the talented Jason Mraz. I’m in love with that guy and his beautiful voice. Not only for his music, but also for the voice he gives to good causes like FreeTheSlaves and FreeTheChildren. It’s always an honor to be near him and to be touched by his energy. Luckily for me, I’ve seen him in concert many times. So although I missed him this time, I know there will be a next time. In the meantime, I still have access to some pretty good memories from many great shows before.

The Murder of My Neighbor

2010-09-22T19:53:00.000-04:00

What if all of this (life) is just a test and right now half of us are passing and half of us are failing. The purpose of this test would be for the entire human race to get past superficial things like skin color and religion. When those of us pass we get to move on to the next level of spiritual enlightenment when we die, but when those of us fail we are doomed to this crisis existence on earth all over again, until one day it’s too late, and the promised one returns only for those ready for the next step of this journey.

Regardless if I’m looking toward Buddhism or Jesus Christ, the essence of death boggles my mind. I have no idea what happens next and so at night I often imagine where our souls go once they’ve departed. In actuality I hate death, and yet I know it comes for me, it comes for us all. In preparation for the unknown, I try to live a clean life, and I try to do no harm.

What does the Bible say, love thy neighbor? I want to practice that. Thou Shall Not Kill. My neighbor was killed last month. Her name was Alexis and she lived on the first floor of my apartment complex. She was a peppy lady, and a young mother of twin boys. I didn’t know her well, but she was really the only person I spoke to on my way to and from.

I knew her killer, and like her, not very well. Her killer, Darold, was a, I imagine, a troubled man and he used to stay in our apartment complex. I think he used to shack up with a different lady, one that lived a few doors down from me, on the second floor. One morning, running late as usual, I rushed toward my car, eager to get to work, when I turned and saw the killer, Darold (before he did what he did) behind me, begging for a ride. He asked if I worked on the Island and if so, what side. He said he needed someone to take him to the south side. Suspicious by nature, I lied and told him I worked on the north side. He said, “That’s cool,” and walked away. I jumped in my car pissed, that he had just wasted my precious minutes, because like I said I was running late, and then I sped away.

Alexis knew Darold. But then again she knew everyone. She was friendly like that. I’m not. I guess the only reason why I was friendly with Alexis (we occasionally had small talk), is because of a fire alarm.

About a year and a half ago, in the middle of the night, blaring sirens and flashing lights jolted me from my peaceful sleep. I jumped out of bed, reminiscing of my college dorm room drill days to search for my cat Jake. But my paranoid little one was so petrified by the loud noise, that he would not let me anywhere near him. So while other occupants were gathered safely out in the parking lot as fire engines rolled in, I was inside trying to capture a kitten as he dashed from underneath my bed to the couch to under the dining room table.

With some kitty treat in hand, I was finally able to scoop up my nutty cat, and with him in his carrier about ten minutes later, we managed to be the last ones out. Since I didn’t see any flames shooting out the windows, I threw my cat in the back seat of my car and decided to walk around to find out what was going on. I ran into Alexis and her fiancé. Her twins were babies, and she had safely locked them in the back seat of her car. She introduced herself, and gave me the 411 on the latest. The alarm was sounded by a resident in the adjoining building, and basically we just had to wait for the all clear, and soon we would be back inside.

I was grateful for the update, and from then on we would stop each other and chat for a short while from time to time. I think one time I held her door for her while she hauled one of the twins in his car seat into her apartment. Often times I would pull up from an exhausting day at the office and see her struggling with the car seats of her boys. Sometimes I would wish that we wouldn’t pull in at the same time all the time, because sometimes I just didn’t feel like talking. I talk all day at work.

The morning after her murder, I came rushing down the steps as usual to find her fiancé knocking on his neighbor’s door looking for Alexis. I heard him ask if she was there, and I heard him say she didn’t come home the night before. I hurried to my car. I knew something was wrong. A day later I was reading in The Island Packet that a Bluffton woman was found stabbed to death with multiple knife wounds in Charleston. The next day after that , I read that police picked up a registered sex offender at the Bluffton public library for violating his sex offender status, and that he was the prime suspect in Alexis's murder. It was Darold. I didn’t even know his name until I saw his mug shot, but I recognized him immediately as the guy who just a few months before had asked me for a ride. He allegedly killed Alexis in her car in Charleston after a Sunday prescription drug run.

A couple of days later I cried my heart out. I felt guilty and I felt fear, and I feel sorrow that such a kind soul, took a couple of wrong steps and is now gone too soon. I wonder how her twin boys will fare. She took those babies everywhere she went. I rarely saw her without the kids. Alexis was only 27 and Darold 32. I don’t know exactly what they had gotten themselves caught up in.

Although the rent is sky-high here, and this area is a quiet rental community with little crime, I knew something was going on in my building that I didn’t want any parts of. Still I barely speak to any of my neighbors, although I don’t feel the dark evil trailing the halls as it once had before. But yet death will come again, of course it’s coming for us all. I hope not to be taken too soon. I hope none of my loved once will soon meet this fate. And I pray that none see their end at the hands of another man. Regardless of how we go, I wonder if we’ll be ready for what awaits at the other end, or will we be sent to endure the same tortures here, all over again?

Body of missing Bluffton woman found in Charleston County | islandpacket.com

Man Charged with Bluffton Womanâ€™s Murder

Do You Know Me?

2010-08-31T12:08:00.000-04:00

Do you know me? Do you remember me as I remember you?
We go back way too far to do what we do.
If not for love lost, then why love at all?
In the beginning we were one and now we fall.
Just to make sure you understand,
I didn’t want to, have to, take you, believe you me...
This is where we’ll end.
One day the circle will come around... again.

Tari: A Part Time Love Adventure

2010-07-12T10:03:00.000-04:00

I fell for him even before I met him. I had taken a part-time position at a local gym and fitness center and I was the first smile members saw when they walked through the door. I was a front desk clerk, and my job was to take guest fees and to register members for classes. It was an easy part-time job, filled with a bit of friendly and perfectly built pieces of eye candy. But as much as I enjoyed the well oiled machines that walked through the door, and as attracted as I was to just about every male there, I was most drawn to an employee that I had yet to meet. For some reason, fellow co-workers kept bringing up his name.

“Wait till you meet Matt, wait till you meet Matt,” they would say. They, were a young bunch. Most making their way through college. I was older and college was already years behind me, but this part-time job helped to pay the bills, because my full time salaried position just wasn’t cutting it.

So the first couple of days of this new gig, I had heard a lot about this guy named Matt. Matt was funny, Matt was cool. But Matt was away for a short time of play in Vegas, and not only that, instead of flying back, he and his buddy decided to rent a car at the last minute and drive across country, back home to South Carolina. And with that little bit of info, I was ready for love. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been dreaming of doing just that. Not the Vegas bit, but the driving from one end of the country to the other. This dream was probably ignited after reading On The Road by Jack Kerouac, required reading in one of my literature classes during my college days. I’ve kept that adventure close to me ever since. So anyone that can live that spontaneously for the road is a man after my own heart.

Apparently Matt had heard about me too, the new girl. On his first day back to the gym, he made his way to me with hand extended across the counter.

“Hey, I’m Matthew, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he smiled.

I returned his smile and leaned over and took his hand, “Hi, I’m Tari, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you too. I’ve heard some crazy stories about you.”

“Really,” still holding my hand, “What have you heard?”

And I looked into those sparkling blue eyes on a six foot slim frame with short blonde hair, and my heart skipped a beat, “Oh, just some things... So you just got back from Vegas?” I asked, taking him in.

“Yeah, me and my boy drove back.” Finally he let go of my hand, but sill not taking his eyes off me, measuring my short hour glass figure, and reddish brown skin, and short curly hair.

“Was it a long drive?” I asked.

“Oh, it was fun.”

“Really, I would love to hear about it.”

“What time are you outa here?” he sheepishly inquired.

“Nine,” and I blushed.

As dark as my skin is, it always frustrates me that my emotions show so easily when my cheeks flush red. And as of late, when ever I see a man that I want, that’s exactly what comes through. I knew I was older, this guy was still in college, but he was just so darn good looking, that I just had to have him.

“What are you doing after work?” he suggested.

“Hanging out with you,” I flirted back.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby,” and he grinned and started walking away.

“Cool,” I replied.

“Cool,” he laughed and then turned the corner towards the weight room.

I smiled and walked towards the register, grateful that no one had walked through the door to spoil our little fun.

Time to Get Your Dance On

2010-07-02T10:59:00.000-04:00

When’s the last time you’ve hit the dance floor? For me it’s been a while, a long while, and that’s absolutely insane. Time to change that! I LOVE dance. I love to feel the rhythm of a crowd full of strangers rollicking on a dance floor. I love to watch dance too, and from Solid Gold in the eighties to America’s latest showcase for raw talent; So You Think You Can Dance, I am forever a fan of this fluid art form. And finally lovers of the dance get to celebrate the freedom of movement. Mark your calendars, July 31st, is now officially National Dance Day. Come one, come all, shake your booty, free fall. In the meantime, here’s a little something to get you off your feet. From SYTYCD, ballet dancer Alex Wong and hip-hopper Twitch.... Enjoy!

http://video.yahoo.com/watch/7804315/20656854

We’ve Got to Begin Somewhere, I’m Saying No to Plastic Water Bottles

2010-06-28T15:20:00.000-04:00

Ok, so everyone is familiar with the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a mess down there, and unfortunately, as bad as this oil spill is, there are other spills happening right now around the world. Take Nigeria for example, according to a recent New York Times article, that country has dealt with an oil spill as bad as the Exxon Valdez spill every year for the past 50 years, and currently the children of this African nation swim in oil polluted waters, and unlike Gulf Coast residents, Nigerian people don’t receive much support or relief from their national government.

It’s sad to see where greed can lead, and I’m not just talking about Big Oil and corrupt governments. It’s unbelievable to me that Gulf Coast residents are eager to begin new offshore deepwater drilling when their outcry regarding what BP has done to our ecosystem and our wildlife and wetlands has been so loud. It’s also amazing to me that Governor Bobby Jindal can decry that President Obama has a disconnect with the people because he imposed a six month moratorium against any new deepwater drilling. Bobby Jindal claims this act on the measure of safety will have a devastating consequence on the economy because nearly 20,000 jobs will be impacted by this decision. Jobs can be found elsewhere, but another oil spill could impact our oceans and beaches and marine life for decades to come. Besides, thanks to President Obama, those Gulf Coast folks now have money coming in from BP to help until more jobs can be found.

Regardless of all of this political mess and nonsense, the problem that we are facing as a people is that we are continuing to destroy our planet and our natural resources with our excessive demand for materials that we really don’t need. For example, take water bottles. I have a beef of late with these plastic made from petroleum convenient things. I use to be a big advocate of them, buying them by the case loads, in an effort to get those around me to drink more water to forgo sugary drinks and soda. But now, I see where I have erred in my purchasing power. Plastic water bottles are made of oil and other chemicals. They are not biodegradable and will sit in our landfills for centuries to come. Needless to say, plastic water bottles may be around longer than humans and cockroaches, even if our earth finds a way to survive us.

Not too long ago, I decided to invest in a stainless steel water canteen. It’s reusable and better for the environment. Every night before I go to bed, I wash my stainless steel water bottle and fill it with tap water from the sink and stick it in the fridge. In the morning, my water is nice and cold, and I throw it in my lunch bag and I’m good to go. I recommend that all my loved ones and friends and readers find a way to invest in a stainless steel water bottle. You may be looking at $15-25 out of pocket, but you’ll be saving loads of money in the long run, and Mother Earth will be happy to know that you care.
Now, before you run to Target or Wal-Mart to make your purchase, you may want to be aware that you’ll find another type of metal water bottle on the shelves too, and that would be aluminum, which looks to be a little cheaper than stainless steel. But to be on the safe side, I would stick with stainless steel. From what I’ve read, aluminum could build up in your body and lead to all sorts of health problems. Also, some aluminum water bottles have been known to be lined with plastic, which defeats the purpose of a metal water bottle. So go with stainless steel, and make sure, there’s no white lining. Shoot, I’ve come to enjoy that cool refreshing metallic aftertaste from my water canteen.

Also, on a side note, I’ve decided to park my car, as much as possible, especially on the weekends. I’m sure I don’t need to go into details as to the reasons why. So what do you plan to do, to make sure that your children and their children have a clean and healthy planet to come home to?

The Uproar over Cleopatra and Black/African-American Ancestry

2010-06-16T13:23:00.000-04:00

I am so glad my parents decided to do their homework before they named me after a huge powerful figure such as Queen Nefertiti. Nefertiti was known for her beauty and her influence over her kingdom in Egypt and her pharaoh Akhenaton. Although there’s speculation of her birth place, evidence from an archeological dig back in December 1912, when her bust was unearthed, shows that Nefertiti was definitely a deep brown beauty.

But not all of her successors have that trait in common. More than a thousand years later, another powerful woman ruled Egypt. Her name was Cleopatra. Cleopatra was of Greek origin and ruled during a period of Greek occupation of Egypt. She was very fair skinned and there is no evidence that there is a direct link to African Ancestry.
You can find more details from the blog, BlackInCairo that I follow here... http://blackincairo.blogspot.com/2010/06/cleopatra-aint-black-noise-in-cairo-and.html.

So all the folks in the Black community crying because Angelina Jolie is slated to play Cleopatra in a new film need to do some fact checking. And speaking of Egypt, it’s my understanding that Egyptians don’t feel that they have a connection with any African-American, most likely because most African-Americans are descendent from slaves from West Africa; countries like Ghana, Nigeria, and The Ivory Coast.

I have a sister named Ranavalona, who is named after a queen from Madagascar, who named her twin daughters Anaya, looking up to God and Chinyere; God’s Gift. Names taken from the Igbo people of Nigeria. When my sister told me over the phone one day before the twins were due, the names she intended, I was so proud of her, finally names with a direct link to our ancestry, how wonderful!

Not to say that all ancestry of Black Americans originate in West Africa, because it does not. Most Black Americans are of mixed ancestry, so our ancestors not only come from West Africa, but North America and Western Europe. Some of our Ancestors are even of Mediterranean descent. Anyone ever hear of the Melungeons? Check out http://www.melungeon.org/ or http://www.melungeons.com/. I think my Granny’s father’s people have a direct connection with these people. My Mom use to tell me growing up, that Granny’s father’s people came over from Spain. For a long time I didn’t question that, but after college I started seeking explanations.

My mother’s family is from Kentucky, and from history books, Kentucky was settled by people from Ireland, Scotland, England, Germany, and Africa, so I could not put two and two together on the Spanish connection, until I dug up information one day of a mysterious group of people, from the mountains of Kentucky, Tennessee and North Carolina who were known to be dark skinned, but with European features. Although their origins still have not been pinpointed, it’s a great possibility that Melungeons could have shipwrecked off the eastern coast of the New World after they were kicked out of Spain as Moors and Jews during the Spanish Inquisition. Looking at photos of my great grandfather, I definitely see the possibilities.

But regardless of DNA tests, and actual evidence of Ancestry, I don’t feel African-Americans have a right to cry foul over who should play the role of a leading lady from Egypt. I think it should be up to Egyptians and people of direct Egyptian descent to decide if they want to become emotional over how Angelina Jolie portrays them. And speaking of Angelina Jolie, I like her, I like her a lot. I love just about every film that she touches, especially Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I think she’s doing a great job raising her kids, and I admire her for the Humanitarian that she is. Also, who’s to say, what’s in that actress’ DNA?

The Blood We Share With Mexican-Americans

2010-05-18T18:59:00.000-04:00

She’s beautiful and plays a Desperate Housewife on TV, and not too long ago this Mexican-American actress took a DNA test and discovered on the PBS series Faces of America, that she has African ancestry. Her name is Eva Longoria Parker, and while some viewers may have been surprised at what was revealed, I wasn’t one of them.

Eight years ago a friend and I vacationed in Acapulco, Mexico. There, we had the time of our lives. We did all the touristy stuff like sightseeing and taking loads of pictures, but what captivated me the most, was the connection I discovered we had with the Mexican people.

My friend Sanquetta and I stayed at the Mayan Palace Resort. The resort itself was a luxury that I had never before encountered. The lobby complete with marble floors and Mayan themes with a temple entrance was simply breathtaking. Combined with nightly entertainment, open air buffet restaurants and the longest lazy river pool in Mexico, this beach front property more than exceeded our wildest expectations.

But as much as we enjoyed the resort, the real fun began the moment we left property grounds and ran into our taxi cab driver Victor Castaneda.

We met Victor within hours of our arrival. We had decided to take an evening stroll to check out our surroundings, and after passing a line up of yellow and white cabs we crossed the street from our resort and encountered one taxi cab driver waiting patiently for our attention. When he saw us walk his way, he jumped out of the driver’s side and immediately opened the passenger doors.

“Hey ladies I have a ride for you,” he called out to us. “I will take you into the city.”

Sanquetta and I proceeded to inform him that we weren’t looking for a driver, because we were only out for a walk, but our soon to be new adventure buddy would not take no for an answer. He flat out told us he would be our driver and asked what time should we meet in the morning. Sanquetta and I had no choice but to cave and promise to meet him as early as possible.

The next morning my friend and I wondered if Victor would be true to his word, and sure enough as soon as we stepped off the grounds of the Mayan Palace Resort, there he was waiting for us, with arms folded across his chest, leaning on his vehicle with a big wide grin on his face.

I jumped in the back seat and Sanquetta took the front, and from there he took us to see Cliff Divers, where young boys climb the wall of high cliffs and plunge into the deep blue sea for sport. He took us up the mountain roads of the Escenica Highway to see The Cross at the Ecumenical Chapel of Peace. We even saw silver and gold crafted into art one day at the Jewelry Factory. He took us everywhere. We ate at restaurants we normally wouldn’t have considered as regular tourist, and we traveled down streets and dirt roads that alone we might have been too afraid to, but with Victor as our guide, we knew that he would never lead us astray. He was a lot of fun, but boy was he smitten with my friend.

Driving around town sometimes Victor would be so enchanted by my friend’s spell that he would literally take his eyes off the road to drink in her beauty. While me in the back seat would yell...

“Victor, the road, Victor, the road!”

In response to my yelling, he would say, “Don’t worry, no problem.”

As taken as he was with my friend, he was a good man and he showed us a good time. In all of that, all the sight seeing and driving around, I noticed something about the people that really stirred something in me. Looking at the sea of brown faces, I realized that some of the people reminded me of me. In the Mexican people I saw my dark reddish brown skin, my flat nose, my high cheek bones, and my frizzy hair. Even Sanquetta commented on how I looked like I belonged there. But Sanquetta looked like she belonged there too. I think if we spoke Spanish we could have mixed right in with the locals and none would have been the wiser.
When I returned home, I decided to do a little research and what I discovered helped me make sense of it.

First of all, it’s funny how as Americans we don’t really know much about Mexican history. They are one of our closest neighbors and their history is also our history. Before the Europeans arrived they were a nation of Native people. Their Indian tribes traded with our Indian tribes. The same Spanish that colonized parts of North America also colonized Mexico. And the same slave trade that brought Africans to the eastern coast of the United States, also took Africans to the coastal communities of Mexico.

Nearly 200,000 people arrived from Ghana, Senegal and Nigeria to work the silver mines, sugar plantations and cattle ranches. While many of these African descendents have mixed with and assimilated into the native and European populations of Mexico, you can still find strong visual evidence of the African legacy in the coastal communities of Costa Chica on the Pacific and Veracruz on the Gulf.

Acapulco is not too far from Costa Chica, where if given more time to explore, my friend and I would have found our way to poor fishing villages rich in dance, art, and storytelling that owes its song to the beat of Africa. I think of these people, isolated in their coastal communities who may have lost loved ones to adventure and better opportunity. I wonder how many of them have found their way to the United States, legally and illegally, only to be shunned and spit upon and told that they don’t belong.

And what about those from Mexico, that may have a deeper connection to our land than most Americans. I remember something Eva Longoria said while being interviewed by Dr. Henry Louis Gates Jr., on Faces of America.

She said, “We didn’t cross the border, the border crossed us.”

So what of those Mexican-Americans whose families have been here since the founding of our nation, but who may have lost their land after the Mexican-American war? Or yet, who still live on the same land but under a new flag and country? These people have not invaded our territory; we have invaded theirs and have taken it for our gain. As I listen to the debates regarding the new immigration law in Arizona, then hear about this new ban on ethnic studies in that state, I am saddened by this bullet we have created for our Mexican-American brothers and sisters. They have become an unfair target by our government and by those who oppose their integration into our society. I don’t really want to point fingers here, but in the land of freedom, I know we can do better.

I had a good time in Mexico. The people there treated me and my friend well, and some of them looked so familiar, that despite the language barrier, I felt the entire time that I was with family. And although I was not at home, I knew I was very close.

Sun Baking

2010-05-06T19:27:00.000-04:00

She lay on the chaise lounge face down on the deck of the pool, a few feet from the edge of the water. It was mid-day and the sun bore down on her intensely, baking her skin into a light golden bronze. Casually, she slid her spaghetti strap down her left shoulder to the side of her bikini bra. She didn’t want a tan line there. She wanted her upper body nice and even.

Not too far away, a dark-skinned woman looked out the window of the clubhouse overlooking the resort’s lazy river pool and noticed the middle-aged woman baking in the sun. The dark-skinned lady thought about how she would love to catch a few sun rays herself, since it was good for her body in it’s conversion of Vitamin D.

But, she didn’t understand the point of sun bathing to the point of obsession. She recalled back one time while in Acapulco, while relaxing out by the pool with a good book in hand, noticing an elderly gentleman laying out next to her, covered in what looked like lesions of melanoma.

Of course, her dark skin gave her the protection to lay out a few hours longer than lighter skinned folks before she would ever have to worry about sun damage.

She loved her dark-reddish brown complexion. She thought what the Lord gave her was beautiful. She also loved the natural color of her lighter-skinned friends and family members. But she realized as she watched the lady below roast her skin into something deadly, was that everyone these days seem to think that the grass is always greener on the other side.

Fairer skinned people sometimes long to be darker, and darker skinned people sometimes long to be lighter. She thought of all those young girls in Africa investing in jars of skin cream to make their complexions a shade different so that they would think that they know beauty.

Or even yet, of all those young girls with curly or kinky hair who have yet to embrace their crown of glory in their nature texture, because they have hidden it away under the guise of straightners, relaxers, wigs and weaves.

The dark-skinned woman in the clubhouse wondered when people would wake up and realize that just being Human was beautiful in itself. Naturally. No alterations necessary. When will people wake up and just be. The dark-skinned woman took one last look out the window and turned to walk away, but not before first muttering to her self;

“I need to lose weight. Maybe today I’ll start my diet?”

Thank You HBO!

2010-04-14T21:17:00.000-04:00

For most of my adult life, I’ve completely been against subscribing to premium movie channels. In the past, I’ve felt that if I really wanted to see a good movie and if I failed to see it in the movie theatre, well then I should just visit Blockbuster and rent it.

This mindset changed for me a few years ago. Upon my relocation to South Carolina, I decided to invest my money in a little at home entertainment. Now with my basic cable and internet package, I also have one group of premium movie channels, and that is with HBO.

HBO has been good to me, although my monthly bill is a bit too high, I’m still pretty content with their selection of movie choices and original shows. True Blood and Entourage are can’t miss summer thrills. And very recently, I’ve been really impressed with what HBO has had to offer.

Within the past few days, I’ve watched three fantastic shows that have been educational, enlightening, and entertaining. Those three are...

Something the Lord Made
Sugar
Treme

Something the Lord Made took me back in time to the 1940’s to visit with a Dr. Vivian Thomas and a Dr. Alfred Blalock as they overcame the racial tensions of the time to perform a medical breakthrough in heart surgery. Starring Mos Def, Gabrielle Union, and Alan Rickman, this true story takes you on a journey from Nashville to Baltimore to overcome segregation and discrimination to one of the greatest medical achievements of our time.

Sugar’s setting begins on the island of the Dominican Republic and follows the journey of a young baseball player as he’s picked to play in the minor leagues. His tale takes him to Iowa and then to New York, as he learns to overcome language barriers and love obstacles. While not a true story, this film introduces me to a whole new world in sports and the drive it takes within the Latino experience.

And finally, Treme! Premiered this past Sunday evening, this original HBO series will make sure we never forget the tragedy in Hurricane Katrina. Although the storyline is fictional, the setting is true and real and takes you to just three months after the storm hit to witness the celebration of culture and strength and music. And by the way, this comes straight from the creators of The Wire, so don’t take my word for it, but this show was bound to be great.

As you can probably tell, I love history and I love to learn something new and there you have it. Three great shows and all on HBO! What a great viewing experience!

How Safe Am I Really?

2010-04-07T23:19:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I don’t feel comfortable in this small town that I reside in. Although most of the time, I think it’s just me. Over the past few years I’ve become a bit paranoid and feel sometimes that pairs of eyes are trying to get a hold of me. Now it doesn’t help here that South Carolina is a conservative red state and that from time to time I’ve seen a confederate flag hanging over the balcony of the apartment across the parking lot from me. Nor does it help that at one time my office was so charged politically that I called in sick the day after President Obama was elected. Still despite all of this, I have felt relatively safe in my surroundings, albeit a bit uncomfortable. But tonight I experienced something so unsettling that I’m just not sure how I should label it.

Lately it seems I’ve had a taste for barbeque. A few weeks ago I was intrigued by a quick conversation on identity with the cashier in the drive-thru at Jim N-Nick’s BBQ and today, I decided to visit a new barbeque restaurant, one that I read about in one of the local magazines. I had seen the advertisement for the Original Bluffton BBQ in The Bluffton Breeze magazine. And because I wanted to find out if they were any good, I got online and found a few articles, giving them rave reviews. I was pretty impressed with what was said, and I eagerly looked forward to trying their pulled pork sandwich with their special sauce.

Now after a day of anticipation, I finally made it to the joint around 7:30 and put in my order for takeout. The cashier was a middle aged lady and seemed genuinely nice and hospitable and even a bit interested when she asked and I told her my name. They take your first name, so to call you when your order is ready. Since it was going to take about ten minutes, I decided to take a seat in one of the booths in the dining area. Before I sat down, as I was turning away from the counter, I noticed a stack of bumper stickers out of the corner of my eye. The stickers read… Tea Party Patriots.

After a quick glance, I fully turned and noticed a magazine rack next to the main door with current and past issues of The Bluffton Breeze and to the right of the magazine rack was a stack of flyers advertising a gathering of the Tea Party on Tax Day.

Quickly I grabbed a past issue of The Bluffton Breeze and tried to avert my eyes away from the Tea Party flyers. As I sat down I did a complete 360 of the room. There was a big anti-government poster on the wall next to me. And in the center of the dining room section there were two separate couples seated and enjoying their meals and chatting eagerly away, but when I sat down to the left of them, their conversations dwindled to nothing and within minutes they all were finished with their meals and saying goodbye.

I started flipping through the magazine and while I waited, a lone man came into the restaurant, ordered his food, picked up a Tea Party flyer and sat not too far away from me. I think he was fascinated by my hands, because I felt him staring at them as I nervously but quietly tapped them to the beat of the country music blaring out of the plasma TV above me.

Before my order was ready, I noticed the cook lean out of his window and say something to the cashier and glance over at me. The cook looked to be a guy in his mid thirties with shoulder length blonde hair and a smirk for a smile. After making eye contact with the cook, I decided to pick up that Tea Party flyer, and when it was announced that my order was ready, I asked the cashier if she minded if I grabbed one of the bumper stickers.

With a look of surprise, she said she did not mind at all. With a drawn out thank you, I grabbed my food and headed out the door to my car. As I started the car, I noticed the cook in his white apron step outside and speak to a family passing by on their way to the café next door. I can’t say for sure why the cook stepped outside, just after I got my order to go. Maybe he was ready for a brief break, or maybe that was his way of saying… “Girl, we don’t want you back here no more.”

When I got back to my apartment, I thoroughly inspected my meal. Everything seemed in place and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I paid for it, and I ate it, and hopefully the meal is safe. I will not be going back to the Bluffton BBQ, because I did not feel welcomed there and I wish I was braver, because if I was, I would be checking out this Tea Party party, just to see what they have to say and so that I could write about it in my blog the very next day.

Out and About Town This Fine Easter Sunday

2010-04-04T18:49:00.000-04:00

There’s not much to do here in Bluffton, South Carolina, but there sure can be loads of picture taking moments. I moved here a few years ago when my job relocated my office to the resort town of Hilton Head Island.

Hilton Head is a sea island off the tip of south eastern South Carolina.

And Bluffton is a tiny historic town on the mainland across the bridge from Hilton Head. It takes me maybe twenty minutes to drive from Bluffton to Hilton Head for my office hours.

Since I moved to this area, which is also known as the low country, I just haven’t ventured out much. I’ve hit all the sightseeing spots back on the island, but haven’t had a desire to check out the historic district of my new home community in Bluffton.

So today, on this fine Easter Sunday, I decided to drive around the corner with my Canon SX120 and park the car and take a walk.

Only five minutes away from my apartment, what I found here, is a photographer’s dream come true.

Of course I took lots of pictures and I'm posting them all on Facebook!

I’m Not Going To Let The 2010 Census Define Me

2010-03-30T18:46:00.000-04:00

I hope I don’t get in trouble, but I had been putting off filling out my 2010 Census Form, and now that I have filled it out, I may not have given the response that the government wanted to see.

I had been aware of the controversy regarding the word Negro, and I wasn’t too eager to deal with it. Still, I completely expected to have the opportunity to check a box that read Black, or a box that read African American or a box that read Negro. Instead, last night as I sat down to fill out my form, I discovered lumped together under one box to check, read the line....

Black, African American or Negro.

Hmm... So have we fully embraced this new millennium or have we traveled back in time to the 1920’s? I remember last month talking with my Grandmother regarding the latest census and asking what she thought about the word Negro being added, and her response was; “Why did they bring that word back?”

My point exactly!

The reasoning behind that was because the Census Bureau felt that some older generations may identify with that label best and may be more inclined to fill out the census form. That explanation doesn’t sit right with me and obviously my Grandmother doesn’t feel the label Negro defines who she is.

Earlier that evening, before I pulled out that form, I decided to pick up a quick bite to eat at Jim ‘N Nick’s BBQ. When I pulled around to the drive-thru window to pick up my order, a dark skinned girl, about my complexion, with a head full of spiral curls, looked at me and my natural locks and asked if I had a jheri curl.

“No,” I chuckled. She then asked me if I was mixed. I replied that I was just your average American. After that she proceeded to ask if I was Panamanian or from the Caribbean.

“Nope neither,” I said, “I’m from Kentucky.”

The girl was young, I think maybe still in high school, or perhaps recently out. But she quickly explained to me that she was from the Dominican Republic and people in her school, here in the states, always asked if she had a weave because Black girls didn’t have hair like hers.

But she said what they couldn’t get was that she wasn’t Black, and they refused to believe her, that she got her hair from her Indian Caribbean blood, so she said she eventually let them believe what they wanted to believe, that she was Black, but deep down she knew she was Dominican.

I found the impromptu conversation truly intriguing and quite fascinating. Not the intrusion on my ancestral background, because I usually get annoyed when bombarded with personal questions from complete strangers, but by her desire to relate to me, and her need to convey to me who she is as an individual. I didn’t ask her one question about herself, and yet she eagerly shared.

In her eyes I saw the pain of being thrown into a society that only views the world in black and white. Sometimes a person’s existence goes beyond the gray and is rooted in something deeper, something more. Take the group speak away and you get individuality.

So sitting at my kitchen table last night, and looking at my options to be counted, I realized these racial categories, Black, African American or Negro fail to sum up who I am. And further more, I am truly disgusted by out-dated language and will no way associate myself with the word Negro.

Negro is just the word black in Spanish, but here in the United States, historically it’s had a negative connotation. The other “N” word that I absolutely hate, is derived from the word Negro. I am from North America and my ancestors’ blood has been spilled on U.S. soil for centuries. If anything, I am just American, because America is my country of origin. Just like the girl in the drive-thru window who proudly proclaimed to me that she was Dominican.

I do understand the history and significance behind these racial categories, and I’m proud of the African-American culture, but what was the Civil Rights movement about, if not about the right to be free and equal and to define ourselves individually? And for those who think well, she just doesn’t want to be Black. I say no, that’s not it at all. I just don’t believe that we as humans are that different, and therefore it’s hard for me to apply a racial label to my being.

Plus, what’s the point of the census, if not to assign representation in Congress? I know that the census also determines who or what districts receive what portion of federal funds, but I don’t have any kids, nor am I married, nor receive any type of government assistance and I don’t see how I view myself racially has anything to do with anything.

For example, if I choose to check a box for one racial category, does that mean that I deserve more federal dollars to come my way, just because of the color of my skin? I’m college educated and am a middle-income wage earner. The census doesn’t even ask us our education level or income level. In my opinion, federal dollars should be given to areas that are poverty stricken or low income, but you should not be able to determine that by any racial classification.

So... looking over my form last night, I eventually bypassed all the options on the form under question nine and wrote X next to the option of Some Other Race.

In the space underneath, I wrote Human.

And hopefully 72 years from now, when these records are made public, some future descendant of mine will find my entry in the National Archives and say, wow, now there was a forward thinker!

A Special Kind Of Bond

2010-03-22T22:58:00.000-04:00

This past weekend my brother spent Friday and Saturday evening in the hospital with his baby girl. My 3-year-old niece Dezi was running a high fever Friday afternoon, and after a call from the daycare, my brother Tommy, rushed her to the hospital. She’s fine now, but when I talked with my brother Sunday afternoon, they were still at the hospital and my brother hadn’t had any sleep. He says he was afraid to take his eyes off of her, even for one second.

I wish I could have been there for him, because I hate that he had to endure that anguish alone. But I couldn’t, because he’s in Florida, and I’m in South Carolina. My mother is in Kentucky and my father is in Indiana, and they couldn’t have been with him either. My brother has lots of loved ones in Orlando, but no blood relative.

While talking with my brother, I asked how Dezi was handling being in the hospital, and he said that she was demanding to go home and that every time the doctor came by to take blood, she would give him the evil eye. At one time, the doctor remarked on how he’s never been looked at as viciously as the way Dezi looks at him. That’s how fierce my niece is.

I called my father after I talked to my brother to let my Dad know that Tommy was in the hospital with Dezi, and although my voice held steady while talking with my brother, I nearly broke down when I heard my father’s voice on the other end, which is odd for me, because I am not an overtly emotional person when it comes to relating with my Dad. I’ve always been independent and analytical when it comes to the relationship I have with him.

The last time my emotions got the best of me with my father, I was eight years old, and my mother and I, and my two siblings had been out all day visiting with friends. When we returned home, I noticed my father was not there waiting for us, but instead there was a note laying on the end table in the far right corner of the room. I can’t remember if I saw it before my mother, but somehow I got a hold of the note and learned that my father was moving out. My heart broke in two with that piece of paper, and the tears were nothing but steady streams.

Although I gave up the dependent naive Daddy’s girl routine at a very young age, my love for him and my admiration for my father never wavered. For me, my father has always been and will always be the smartest man I’ve ever met. In my opinion no one could ever beat him when it comes to intellectual discussion. He is indeed a walking encyclopedia and knows just about everything when it comes to politics, history, science and math.

My father is a connoisseur of information and when people ask me how I got such an unusual first name, I tell them it’s because my father is a history buff, although by trade he’s a middle school math teacher. Not to take anything away from my mother, but we have a difference type of relationship.

What my father and I have is kind of unusual. Our favorite past time with each other seems to be an endless debate session. We disagree on just about everything. But instead of having open emotional rants over the telephone, most times we spend our minutes defending our points of view. Whether it’s Gay Rights, Obama’s political agenda or the right to bear arms, he and I usually end up on opposite ends of the aisle. I turn left and my father turns right, and yet I still admire him.

Once my Grandmother and I were discussing the relationship my father and I have with each other and she said that it reminded her of the relationship he had with his father, my grandfather. I never met my Grandfather. He died when my father was a freshman in college, but if I had to, then I would have to say that my Grandfather would have been the smartest man I would have ever met.

My Grandmother says my father and his father used to sit at the kitchen table and debate issues and world views for hours on end. And my Grandfather use to drill my father on anything and everything. I can only imagine my father as a young boy trying to keep up with his Dad, who was a brilliant scientist. My grandfather, Thomas A. Jenkins I, was a nuclear physicist for NASA and conducted experiments with a team of other great minds in a nuclear reactor in Sandusky, Ohio.

A few years ago, I contacted NASA in regards to my grandfather. The Records and Forms Manager/ History officer there in turn sent me copies of a report that my Grandfather authored, as well as company newsletters highlighting my grandfather’s achievements, along with a video and a book on the importance of the Plum Brook Nuclear Reactor; my grandfather’s research facility.

I am so thankful for those pieces of the grandfather whom I have never met. And although I cannot sit at a kitchen table and discuss my stance on abortion or healthcare with this man, I am eternally grateful that I have the opportunity to spend hours on end to get my views across to his son, my Dad.

My father is a great man, and the best Dad I could ever wish for. And my brother is a great father too. His two children, strong-willed Dezi, and mild-tempered baby DJ, mean the world to my brother. Tommy brought Dezi home from the hospital yesterday afternoon and it’s really of great comfort to know that Dezi is feeling better now and is home and safe in the arms of her father.

I don’t know what type of relationship my brother will have with his first born, our Dezi, but I can only imagine that it’s going to be intellectually explosive. She already has mastered two languages, English and Spanish, and calls the shots around the house. She’s smarter than most kids her age and will fight at the drop of a dime if someone messes with one of her loved ones. I don’t know if she’ll be a good debater, but as my brother has already told me many times before, Dezi dear, reminds him a whole lot of me. And if she’s anything like my grandfather, she’ll succeed at anything and everything that she puts her mind to.

Old Oak Tree Show Me Your Strength and I’ll Show You My Courage

2010-03-13T13:50:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I decided to visit the old Angel Oak Tree on John’s Island and I found her just south of Charleston, South Carolina. To get to her, I eventually had to travel down the roughest dirt road I’ve ever been on. The road is unpaved and is filled with potholes, I swear a mile deep each. The journey to visit with Angel Oak is well worth it though. She’s estimated to be over 1,400 years old, one of the oldest organisms around and is the type of creature to have withstood the test of time. She’s weathered lightening strikes, and hurricanes, and yes even nearby earthquakes. She’s 65 feet tall and 25 feet and a half round. Her branches extend outward to welcome visitors and are so heavy and thick that some of them rest easily on the ground. She’s strong and her roots run deep. She symbolizes the children whom she greets everyday with open arms during park visiting hours. She represents Mother Earth and her love that will forever endure the test of time. She is a sight to see and a beauty to behold. She is the journey that is mine and yours and the victory over the storms that we face each and every day. Life can be uncertain at times, but at the end of the day our spirit remains. We are strong human beings and stronger more when we stand together as one.

Many of us are searching for our ancestral roots right now. Some of us have been searching through old census records for quite some time. Others may have been intrigued by the recent airing of Faces of America narrated by Henry Louis Gates on PBS and are taking a special interest in the possibilities of DNA testing. What will we find when we start digging deep and what does it matter at all to find blood relatives from all four corners of the world? Does knowing about those who have come before us really make us who we are today? And does anyone care about Mother Eve, the mother of us all who walked hand in hand with Mother Earth and gave birth to a race, the Human Race, of great people on the eastern shores of Africa. From Mother Eve, man took his first steps towards adventure and possibilities with woman by his side. Together we said goodbye to our birth right and conquered the world. But not Mother Earth and that is a good thing because she is the womb from where Eve sprung forth. Of the earth, I imagine Eve to have been a petite brown skinned creature with dark curly hair. She probably laughed a lot and enjoyed all the fruits and delights within her reach. She was insightful and intuitive and knew that most of her children would leave her to build great nations. She gave birth to children with fair light almost white skin and deep brown and black skin. She loved us, she loved us all and she let us go. She planted her feet on the grounded and extended her arms and sent us out on our way with her blessing.

Mother Eve knew that we would find our way back to her and each other one day. When you take a journey to the ancient Angel Tree, it’s like you are returning home to a place that you’ve known before. And the spirit of Mother Eve has journeyed across the stormy seas to see you again with open and extended arms to take you in her strong embrace so that you may go out into the world and continue to stand tall. Or she’s here to remind you that once before we were all tree people and were once as one with Mother Nature. Maybe James Cameron visualized it best in the epic film, Avatar. My heart broke when we humans used our big guns and machines to seek out and destroy Home Tree. Because although I was witnessing a great visual of science fiction, the reality of the story line is that we often do destroy what the earth has given us and that is what we do best.

When Eve sent us out to populate the world, I can’t imagine that in her wildest nightmares could she see what we would do with our greatest gifts. Even today as I type these words, our resilient ancient oak tree is in danger from local developers. And there is a battle brewing between those who want to protect and cherish her and those that want to build around her. Hopefully greed will not win in the end. It’s led us down some stormy paths, but as people from all around the world find themselves getting down to basics, maybe we’ll be strong enough to move past our own selfish ways, and find the courage to make good decisions and to know the difference between right and wrong. To embrace our brothers and sisters from all around the world and walk hand in hand toward the journey of the light and to lift each other up toward the sunshine of the earth. Just take a look at the old Angel Oak Tree. Her limbs are long and her roots are strong. She’s planted firmly on the ground. And just like me and just like you, she’s standing, and she’s conquering those storms through and through. Majestically, I am the Angel Oak tree and so are you.

I was only gone for a few days!

2010-02-09T19:00:00.000-05:00

My cat is traumatized. I dropped him off at the kennel for a few days, so that I could go to Charleston to see John Mayer and Michael Franti in concert. When I made my way back to the kennel today to pick up my little Jake, he was buried in his cage under a big pillow, hiding. The attendant said she put the pillow in his cage to make him feel better. And she suggested I bring him in more often, so that he could learn to be a bit more social.

Anyway, he's been meowing like crazy since we've been back, and has been asleep at my feet on and off all afternoon. During his brief periods of sleep, he's moaned and cried out and tossed and turned like he's having nightmares of me dropping him off again. He wakes when I get up to move about and he cries out and loudly meows at me. He is so spoiled. I thought he would have a good time. When I left him there, it was to a room full of other cats and kitties, including two ferrets. But I guess being in a room full of other feline creatures was a bit much for my little one!

Job Seeker?

2010-01-06T10:54:00.000-05:00

It’s January and it’s cold outside. Happy New Year everyone! I have so many plans and ideas, but the temperature is so frigid, that I can’t even think straight to put anything into motion. This is supposed to be the year, in which I let go and do things my way, because life is just too short not to. This is the year, in which I take my career to a whole nother level, and find a way to make a difference in the lives of those around me. This could be the year, in which I say good bye to the security of a nine to five desk job, of nine years, and follow through on a more rewarding experience.

It’s scary to say these thoughts out loud or let alone type them on a computer screen. It’s a frightening time for change and the current job market is nothing but volatile. The current unemployment rate now stands at ten percent and the headlines at Huffingtonpost.com read “Zero Net Job Creation Over Last Ten Years”. Meaning, if I’m looking to jump careers in search of new employment opportunities, the chances of me finding one now stands at slim to none.

But I remember when I didn’t think twice about going out and getting a new job. At fourteen, I served free lunch for Lexington’s Micro City Government, but felt too much drama unfolding under Director Ronald Berry and decided that one summer was enough for me. By fifteen, I found my high school niche serving fast food at the McDonald's on New Circle and Russell Cave Road, but that joint even got on my nerves for while and I ditched that for a few months, to try my hand at TCBY Yogurt. McDonald's paid more and was loads more fun, so I went back, and made my way through high school serving burgers and shakes. Picture below, is me on the left, without a uniform, hanging out with fellow McDonald's co-workers...

In college, I found a way to focus on the community through the YMCA, as an after school counselor, and then a summer camp counselor, and later a life guard, and a courtesy counter rep, and a Teen Leader director, and finally an Assistant Camp Director for the YMCA Urban Services department. Leaving the Y was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. The money wasn’t great, but the rewards were plenty.

When I graduated from college nearly thirteen years ago, emotionally I was on the run. I was willing to work anywhere and everywhere, just as long as it wasn’t in Kentucky. I spent the summer after my graduation with my paternal grandmother in Dayton, Ohio. During that summer, I worked at McDonald's, Toys “R” Us and for a Toyota Car dealership selling cars, although I know next to nothing about automobiles.

By that fall, I was in South Bend, Indiana, staying with my father, and I briefly worked at a McDonald's there. I also got into sales for Xerox copy machines and I was a substitute teacher for the South Bend School system. That job I loved. The kids were bad, but they were funny, and they used to leave all kinds of crazy notes and love letters on my desk.

I was in South Bend when I discovered an appreciation for the news. I took a position in the production department at WSJV, Fox 28, creating graphics and running studio camera, and I fell in love with broadcast journalism. I struck up a conversation with one of the senior reporters/ producers, who became my angel and agreed to let me shadow him. He taught me how to write for the newscast and sent me out on stories with a photographer to interview people and gather breaking news.

Eventually I made my way back to Lexington, and acquired a position in the production department for WKYT, channel 27. But my heart was in the newsroom, I wanted to be a news producer.

I did make it to the newsroom, and it was only a year and a half after I had graduated from college. Delivering information to the community that could make a difference in their daily life, felt very good to me. But the culture and environment and talent in the newsroom was at that time, draining. And I walked away from it, into a less stressful, less demanding, less rewarding, stable environment. And now nine years later, here I am. I’ve moved up and within the company I work for, and have relocated with them from Indianapolis to South Florida to Hilton Head, and still I am not satisfied.

I don’t know what this New Year is going to bring for me. The last time I was out in the job market, searching to do what I really wanted to do, I had sent out hundreds of hundreds of resumes before the senior news producer at WDEF in Chattanooga called me for an interview. I know I am not ready today to jump back in, to look for a new career. I don’t even know what I want to do next, but I may know tomorrow. I plan to take a few training courses or classes, to update my skill sets, and I plan to practice what I love to do, and eventually I will find my way into a better and more productive me, and into a more satisfying and rewarding life experience.

When It’s All Said And Done

2009-12-26T14:34:00.000-05:00

Life is unexpected. I don’t think anyone of us ever truly figures this thing called life out. I mean two people sleep together and make a baby and then you have another life force in to existence. And then depending on the circumstances, that life force has an adventure of many story lines, and then uses up its universal energy and poof it’s gone. And eventually forgotten, right? I mean who can you recall from 200 years ago? Even if you read about an individual in history books, that person’s memory has not lived on because all those who could remember are long gone too.

So what’s the point of all of this? And how is it that a person cannot exist, and then exist and then not exist again. Something from nothing. I think therefore I am, but one day I will stop processing thought. Which drives me mad, because I cherish this thing called life. I love who I am as an individual and I love and adore those people in my life who complete me; my 78-year-old paternal Grandmother, my mom, my dad, all of my brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and countless friends. Every night before I go to bed, I thank the Lord for all of my loved ones, including my crazy cat Jake. I’m so grateful to have so many wonderful people in my life.

I cannot fathom the thought of losing someone. And yet the day will come again, or I will have my final day next. Regardless it just doesn’t seem right to me. Every day I feel I am running out of time and I wonder why are we doing this. Why am I here? What am I suppose to accomplish? What is my purpose in this lifetime? I don’t know yet. I believe in Jesus Christ and that he died for my sins. I’m so grateful, because I have sinned a many. I also like to believe in reincarnation. That we’ve been here before and have been doing this over and over and over again. But what is the point of that? And what happens when we humans destroy this planet called Earth. Do we all fly away together in spirit form or orb away though the galaxy in search of another homeland to journey through. Were we original inhabitants of Mars and then crossed here when our time was up there? So many questions. Perhaps I ponder this moment because of my lack of fulfillment.

About six years ago, I decided to cut off all of my long relaxed hair. I wanted to go natural so that I could grow it back sans chemicals and straightners. Around the same time my mother’s mother, my Granny was diagnosed with cancer. It was a difficult time for everyone. Before she passed, I had a chance to visit with her at the hospital. She was weak, but still noticed the change with my hair. Granny said she liked my naturally curly do and that my new hair style reminded her of her momma. I was immediately intrigued because I had never before been awarded that compliment and I truly appreciated the source of it.

I don’t know much about Granny’s mother. Born in the early 1900’s, her name was Flora Jane Greene and my mom says that she worked hard all of her life. The daughter of a school teacher and a preacher, she was a supervisor over Housekeeping at the historic Phoenix Hotel in Lexington, KY. Mom says for a time when her parents were separated, Mom and Granny stayed with her. Every morning, before her shift, Flora Jane Greene would make pork chops and biscuits for her family for breakfast. When she wasn’t working or cooking for her loved ones, she lived a mysterious life. She believed her house was haunted and saw ghosts all the time. She could even read people’s fortunes. With a coffee cup, she would turn it upside down after you had drunk your coffee, and spin it around three times. She would lift the cup and tell you your future. She told my mother’s hers, when my mom was only six years old.

I have a photograph of Flora Jane Greene. In it she’s beautiful with full lips, high cheekbones and light eyes. Because the photograph is so old, it’s hard to tell if her skin is dark brown like mine or light skinned like my Granny’s. She’s outside somewhere, with grass under her feet and sitting down on a ledge of sort with a small leather handbag to the left of her, and an umbrella on her right. She’s holding something. Mom says it’s an apple, but to me it looks like a small bowl. She looks resigned to the forces of her life. But I wonder what her options really were back then, during those segregated days in America. What were her dreams? Did she ever dream big, or of traveling places that she knew she could never go. Her life regardless of how eventful must have been frustrating, set by limitations through the society of the time.

Life is so different today. So many more opportunities for everyone, so many more dreams to follow. For me, I go where ever I want to go. I do whatever I want to do. Nothing stands in my way, but me, myself and I. And yet I find myself not living up to my potential, and not following my heart’s desire and seeking my dreams. Maybe it’s time for things to change, for me to change. For me to do what’s in my best interest, because in the end, in the telling of tales, what will be my story? After this is all said and done, what do I really have to share of this life of mine? If I don’t have an impact, who will really care? And in the end, why are we really here?

Just Don’t Get Caught

2009-12-02T20:35:00.001-05:00

OK, so I’ve never been a huge fan of Tiger Woods. I mean, I appreciate the barriers he’s broken in the world of golf, but besides that, I’ve never been too excited about the man. I’ve never been attracted to him physically, probably because I’ve always felt that he wouldn’t be attracted to someone that looks like me, a short dark-skinned woman with naturally tight curly hair. Also, I’ve always thought he was corny and I never bought into his I’m perfect living the perfect life type of image that he’s always tried to portray and market to the American public. But I have to admit, just like most everyone else, I’ve been truly amused by Mr. Tiger man these past few days. When the story hit that his wife broke the windows of his Cadillac Escalade with one of his golf clubs, I was immediately intrigued. My first reaction was wow, Tiger Woods is married to some psycho chic that probably over reacted to something silly. Even as the story continued to unfold, first with reports of Mistress Rachel Uchitel and mentions of headlines in the National Enquirer, I still believed Tiger’s wife Elin overreacted, because Rachel adamantly denied the allegations of an affair. But when the news surfaced regarding Jaimee Grubbs and a two year fling with the golf superstar, I began to understand Elin’s desire to cause bodily harm to the man she loves. Especially after hearing the voicemail message…

“Hey it’s Tiger, do me a huge favor, my wife went through my phone, can you please take your name off your phone? Can you do this for me?”

WTF? How stupid can a man be? Did he want to get caught? And now there are reports of another woman, in Las Vegas that he reportedly has had a thing or two with. Seems to me, Tiger has been trying to be a player, but although he’s been playing the field, he really hasn’t been that good at it. Sending text messages to women about sexual acts and leaving intimate messages on voicemails, not a smart move Tiger. Real players don’t leave evidence behind. I remember back before the advent of cell phones, catching my ex- boyfriends by going through their pants pockets after a night of partying. If I found a number, then that’s how I would discover that said dude was cheating on me. Good players back in the day would not leave telephone numbers in pants pockets to get caught. Same concept should apply today. Even with today’s technology, men and women, if you’re going to play the field, do not leave a digital footprint as evidence that you are playing this game.

I’m Not Doing It Anymore

2009-11-25T15:11:00.001-05:00

All my life, I’ve been categorized as a minority and many times I’ve been asked to speak up on the behalf of all other minorities.

Growing up, I was one of three Black girls at St. Mary’s Catholic School, where in the fourth grade the teacher singled me out when Michael Jackson’s hair caught on fire, to ask me to explain to the kids in the class, why Black people put grease in their hair. In high school, I remember accepting a ride from a co-worker, who before she dropped me off at home one evening after work, had fifty million and one questions regarding why Blacks do this and why Blacks do that, and if we get tanned by the sun or blush when embarrassed (to my dismay, my medium brown cheeks turn red all the time when I encounter a guy that I find attractive, more so now in my late thirties than ever before).

In my current office environment, my office mate has bombarded me over and over with questions regarding the N-word and the hypocrisy of it. In addition, during our first year working together, OJ Simpson was a subject that she just couldn’t get past, although from day one, I made her aware that I’ve always thought he was guilty. Well, these are just a few examples of conversations that I’ve had thrown at me over the years, that have really gotten on my nerves. This morning though, I decided that I have had enough, and I’m not going to participate any more. It was pretty slow in the office today, due to the holiday. Around mid-morning, my office mate and I received a visit from the former GM of the developer we work for. He stopped by for a brief holiday hello. My office mate and this former GM named Steve, started talking about Whitney Houston’s performance on Dancing With The Stars last night. With that, my office mate decided to bring up how much Whitney Houston sweats while she’s onstage. I really wasn’t paying attention to the conversation; because I don’t really care too much for that show (my show is So You Think You Can Dance). But out of nowhere, Steve turns to me and says...

“I didn’t think Black people sweat.” I looked at him and said, “What?” And he said again, “I didn’t think Black people sweat.” Although I heard him clearly, one more time I said, “What?” He then re-worded his question and asked, “Do Black people sweat?” I looked at him with a blank stare, and replied, “I’m not going to answer that question.” “Why not?” He asked surprised. “Because I don’t want to,” I firmly stated, while focusing on his middle aged wrinkled eyes.

My office-mate interrupted us and changed the subject. I think she finally got it, and maybe even felt a little guilty, because in the past, she’s asked me plenty of stupid questions too. The last stupid question she asked me was last summer, in which I cut her off in mid sentence one day when I told her I just didn’t feel like discussing the N-word with her anymore (I hate the N-word, and I’ve never used it, I’ve tried to explain that to her. But still she wants to discuss why black folks continue to use it). I’m so tired of being uncomfortable around certain people. I’m not going to do it anymore. Most times people don’t hear what I have to say anyway, because their beliefs in their stereotypes cloud their judgments of what I have to offer. People will be people. And sometimes, some folks will never change. Black, white, red or purple. Living in a box is still living in a box.

Thinking of My Nieces

2009-11-10T00:59:00.000-05:00

Keela, Chinyere, Anaya, Deja, and Dezi

Last week after a lengthy conversion on the phone with my mother, my mother asked me if I could say something to my niece Chinyere, because she had something to tell me. So I said ok and waited for my six year old “look alike” to grab the phone.

“Aunt Teetee,” she began sweetly.

“Yes, Chinyere.” I answered.

“Aunt Teetee, I was talking to ValChosen and he said you a boy.” ValChosen is my three and a half year old nephew, and also Chinyere’s younger brother.

“Really!” I said with surprise, “And what did you say?”

“I said, that first of all, you’re Human, and second of all, you’re a girl.” She sounded so proud of herself.

“Well, thank you Chinyere, that was really nice of you.” I was really tickled here. A little later Chinyere handed the phone back to my Mom.

After I hung up from my Mother, I could not stop thinking about the brief conversation I had with my niece and how much she reminded me of me. About five years ago, I remember reading about the results of the Human Genome Project, which basically proved that all humans belong to one race, and that’s the human race. After discovering this online, I decided to share the results with a countless number of family members and friends, and just about anyone else who would listen to my spill that there’s no such thing as a white race, or a black race, or a Latino race of people. The whole concept of race is just a social construct. What we have are groups of people who have evolved over a certain period that may share certain physical traits due to their environment, as well as certain beliefs and traditions or cultures.

I wonder where Chinyere learned about the concept of being human? I definitely haven’t bored her with my rhetoric yet, because basically the child is too young. I can’t image that first graders are dipping into classification systems of biology yet. Nevertheless, she did pleasantly surprise me with her view of me.

I don’t have any children. I am 36-years old and will hit thirty-seven in about a month. I don’t think I’ll have any kids at this point, unless I adopt, and I am very open to that, if I have a committed male partner in my life to share that experience with. In the meantime, the joys in my life come from my many nieces and nephews. I’m so blessed to have them, let alone to even know them. They are the light of my world. They make me feel so special, and it makes me glad to think that even after I’m long and gone, a small part of me will continue to exist because I exist in them. I see myself in them all the time and my siblings say they see me in them as well.

The other day my brother in Orlando called to say hi. He is married with four kids. His youngest daughter Dezi is a fighter. She will fight anyone in a heart beat for messing with her baby brother, or anyone else in the family for that matter. Dezi is two. Actually two and a half. My brother Tommy said last weekend the family was at an outing at Chuck E. Cheese. Tommy said not too long after they had arrived, they noticed that there was another little girl there, about Dezi’s age, that was running around and pushing any little kid that got in her way. Dezi watched her intensely, waiting for her to make her fatal move. The little girl approached DJ, my brother’s 16-month old baby boy, and Dezi sat motionless. The little girl, not aware that she was about to hit the wrong target, pushed DJ, who promptly fell down from his unsteady standing position, and Dezi sprang forward from her seat and tackled the unsuspecting toddler. By the time Tommy and his wife Dee were able to reach Dezi, she had taken the little girl by the head and pounded her to the ground, “You don’t hit my brother, don’t hit my brother!” she yelled through the screams of those around.

I chuckled when my brother Tommy shared this story.

“You know she’s just like you.” My brother had said, “Except she’s angrier. I don’t know where she gets that.”

I don’t know where she gets that either, but growing up, I too would fight anyone if someone messed with my brother. My brother once claimed that I just liked to fight. Tommy says that often times I would pick a fight with his friends, on the pretense of taking up for him. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.

My 9-year old niece Keela is a fighter too, but her main target just happens to be boys. She doesn’t have any younger brothers to take up for, so she just fights for her self. Mom says that she’s already been kicked out of the after school program for the year for beating up two little boys. The first fight took place during the first week of school and the second fight took place during the second week of school, and going into the third week, Mom received a letter that Keela wasn’t allowed back. My Mom keeps Keela during the week, and she travels back home to her mother, my younger sister Titusleta on the weekends. To protect the kids in her school, my mother walks Keela to the school doors every morning and picks her up at the schools doors every afternoon. The school is just one block up the street. Of course I laugh when Mom tells me these Keela stories over the phone. Because although Keela has anger management issues (and is also on medication), she’s extremely smart. My sister tested her last year, and Keela has a very high IQ. With her medication she’s making honor roll and has been invited to participate in the school’s academic competition team. I’m so proud of her. She’s so pretty too. Tall and slim for her age, my dark skinned feisty niece is going to do ok. Confidence runs deep in her blood. She’ll be able to do anything she wants when she grows up. Actually I’m so excited about the future for all of my nieces. They all have so much going on for them.

My niece Anaya, who is Chinyere’s twin sister, has the gift of intuition. I recognized it in her when she was not yet two years old. Her mom, who is my sister Rana, and the twins lived with me in South Florida for a while. It was such a treat to share my life with my sister and her twin baby girls in that moment in time. Every day I would come home from work to find two bundles of joy waiting to dance the evening with me. They loved it when I turned on the radio and the three of us moved our feet and flapped our arms to whatever beat blaring over the airwaves. And they loved to explore my room or my purse whenever I wasn’t looking and not even bother to run and hide when caught. One day during their stay, I had to take a business trip to Indianapolis. My sister Rana and the twins were to drive me to the airport. That morning we awoke early to get ready for the trip. For some reason, although I had not communicated to the twins that I was going away, Anaya knew that something was wrong and she followed me from room to room until it was time for us to leave. My heart broke when at one point she stopped and put her tiny brown hand on my luggage and looked up at me with curious eyes. There was no way I could explain to her that I would be away for a week on business, but looking down on those almond eyes, I think she, although not yet two, knew.

When my brother married his wife a few years ago, his new stepdaughter and son were added to the fold of nieces and nephews. His 6-year old stepdaughter, my niece Deja, is the sweetest girl in the whole wide world. This curly haired niece loves to take you by the hand and share her world of toys to anyone happening in the door. She’s a bundle of energy and smart too. Like all of my brother’s small family, she’s bilingual, and according to my brother, she’s bringing home good grades too. She’s so adorable. I just know that my brother and his wife are going to be fighting to keep the teenage boys away once Deja gets of age.

When I think of my nieces I smile at the possibilities. The world is theirs to shape and I can’t wait to see what they make of it. I love them with all my heart.

My nieces, you and your brothers (my nephews) are everything to me. You are so beautiful and strong and I wish the best for you. Go out there now and conquer the world!

Along For The Ride

2009-09-29T16:42:00.000-04:00

I sat in the driveway looking up at my Mom standing on the front porch. Leaning against the backseat door of the driver’s side of my parents’ car, I quickly took off my shoes and shook them furiously. I had to get all the sand out. Dad had said; “Let’s go for a ride.” And my father, my younger brother and I ended up at Lakeview Park, making sand castles. Mom didn’t want us to track sand through the house, so we went through a vigorous shaking and brushing off routine for our passport in.

Years before that, I was along on a ride with my mother, really late one night taking the back roads home from Elyria to Lorain. It had been peaceful that night in the car, and really dark. Because of the still of the night, I was suddenly filled with a curious spirit, and I jumped up and asked my Mom…

“How do you spell God?”

“Capital G-O-D”, she kindly replied, before telling me to get back in my seat.

“Why capital G?” I asked. I was maybe five at the time.

“Because he is The Lord, and that’s how we honor him,” she said.

“Oh.” And I think my young mind understood. And with that explanation, I fell fast asleep in the backseat.

PBS is airing a documentary about our nation’s National Parks. In episode one of the six part series, I learned about a naturalist and explorer named John Muir. In 1867, Muir quit his job as an industrial engineer in Indianapolis and decided to walk from Indiana to Florida before catching a ship to fulfill his life’s destiny out West. This amazing guy walked over 1,000 miles through the wilderness as an explorer of God’s greatest creations. What intrigues me about Mr. Muir’s journey is that the beginning of his life’s adventures began on foot. Whereas most of my exciting moments on this journey of my life began with a hop in the car.

I’m so glad the Cash for Clunkers program is considered a success, and I hope the program continues to stimulate our domestic automobile industry. I just can’t imagine my life without a car. For me, it’s become a part of my American experience. Late one Fourth of July, on the way home from Grandma’s house, my father pulled off to the side of the road. The three of us kids were in the back seat, and we had no idea why Dad was stopping. We were out in the middle of nowhere it seemed. My Dad invited us to step outside to sit on the hood of the car and look up at the stars. The stars were pretty, but we had no idea what we were looking for. And as our eyes gazed up at the night sky, the sky lit up with explosions of red, blue, and green. We had stopped for fireworks on our way home, and boy what a treat.

From my first college road trip with friends to Cedar Point to endless drives on New Circle Road around Lexington to ease my heartbreak, my domestic automobiles have always been there for me. Before I graduated from the University of Kentucky, I spent my first two years of collage at the University of Louisville. I would hop on the road in a heartbeat to visit with family and friends back home in Lexington. My Dodge Aries was my vehicle that got me home my sophomore year after a bad winter storm basically shut down I-64 and most of central Kentucky. A drive that normally takes a little over an hour turned into basically what looked like a more than four hour suicide mission, as I just had to get home to see my then boyfriend, but I made it.

Many years later in my red Plymouth Neon with three of my sisters, along with my Mom and Granny and uncle and kids following in the minivan behind, we decided to stop at every Welcome Center as we crossed state lines from Chattanooga to Houston on our way down to the Jenkins Family Reunion. That was fun. I love Welcome Centers because they introduce you to the culture and traditions of the region that you are about to enter. I also love bridges. And I love to cross them. The bridge seemed endless one family vacation to South Padre Island and the many many bridges a few summers ago enticing, with sisters in tow on our way to Key West. Most of the time I am the main driver on these endless adventures. Four years ago, I tried to convince one of my sisters to share in the driving experience from Kentucky down to South Florida, but she was too terrified of the highway to handle the vehicle for more than ten minutes without cursing me out and having a major breakdown.

I’ve been to so many places, and have enjoyed so many trips via car. Most times now I hit the road alone in my Ford Focus. Lately it’s been to check out a Jason Mraz concert. I’ve been to three so far this year and I would like to squeeze in a fourth. I would be on the road in a heartbeat if he would come back to the eastern part of the United States. My long held dream though is to drive from the East Coast to the West Coast while visiting all of our National Monuments and Parks. Oh and I would have to hit the night clubs too, to dance across America every stop of the way. I’ve hit clubs so far in Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, Orlando, Atlanta, Chattanooga, Lexington, Louisville, Frankfort, Richmond, Cincinnati, Dayton, Cleveland, Indianapolis, South Bend, Chicago, Houston, Phoenix, Albuquerque, Baltimore and Washington, D.C. I didn’t go clubbin in New York, but I sure did have a good time. And I was too young to party in Los Angeles, but I enjoyed the visit with my Aunt Janis. I did hit the clubs in Acapulco, after flying in and catching a week long ride with a taxi cab driver named Victor. Met Victor the first night of our stay at The Mayan Palace, and he hung around for a week of sightseeing and good times. Thanks Victor, thank you so much for the ride! And thank you life for the many highs.

Why do we still use the N-word?

2009-09-27T16:13:00.000-04:00

So I really like the radio version of Jay-Z’s D.O.A., Death of Auto-Tune. And his and Alicia Keys' performance of Empire State of Mind at the VMA’s blew me away. I’m thinking of purchasing The Blueprint 3 CD. But what’s giving me pause is that when I listen to the album on his MySpace page, I just can’t get past all of his references to the N-word. I mean I thought we were finally growing past this destructive behavior. A few weeks ago I saw Jay-Z on Real Time with Bill Maher. A great interview there. I remember Jay-Z explained the difference in his music today versus his earlier recordings. His “experiences are broader”, and because of that he says his music has a “wider appeal”. He’s grown tremendously and it reflects that in his lyrics. Great for him. But I don’t understand why his music continues to be laced with the N-word. He says he’s the N-word and so is everyone else. I believe he is a lyrical genius, so I’m sure Jay-Z could get a little more creative when describing someone hardcore.

I remember staying with my father when I was about 13 or 14-years old and one day riding my bike down the street, minding my own business when out of nowhere, I heard a male voice shout down at me from a second story window…

“N*gger get off my street!”

I was so caught off guard by this unexpected display of hate that I rode my bike a little further, and then turned around and decided to head back home. I don’t think I rode my bike too much more after that. I didn’t feel comfortable in that neighborhood. My father moved there just a few years before, and it was a predominately white neighborhood. I don’t recall feeling my minority status any other time before that. Before my parents got a divorce and before Dad moved to Lima, Ohio and us down to Lexington, KY, I used to attend a private Catholic School called Saint Mary’s in Lorain, Ohio. From Kindergarten through 6th grade, I was one of three black girls in the entire school building. I didn’t have a problem with that at all. I don’t even think I noticed that I was one of three for all of my grade school years. But that day riding my bike down my father’s street in Lima, Ohio, I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb.

I hate the N-word. I don’t care who says it, but whenever I hear it, it makes me cringe. In the interview with Bill Maher, Jay-Z says he has evolved. I can’t wait till he moves a little further and gets past the N-word. I can’t wait till we all as a nation grow and see the power in that. What I mean is people from the streets can’t keep using that word to describe a homie or even a hater and then turn around in anger when a person of a different hue denounces them with that word. That’s hypocritical. It’s time for everyone to step up and grow up and as Spike Lee proclaimed in School Daze and Do The Right Thing… Wake Up!

Part 3 Nefertiti’s Ghost Stories

2009-09-27T16:09:00.000-04:00

Part 3

Nefertiti’s Ghost Stories

The Night after the Funeral

I awoke with a start and immediately my head started pounding to the sound of the screen door banging open and close on the front porch. I tried to shut it out and convince myself to sleep it off. I wasn’t ready to get up. But my head was throbbing and why was that screen door making so much noise? I had fallen asleep on my Mom’s love seat to the sound of laughter as my brothers and sisters revisited crazy memories of our beloved Granddad.

December 5th, he passed. One day before my 31st birthday. My Mom and her brothers had to make the emotional decision to let him go and to take him off life support. He just wasn’t coming back from that heart attack. The funeral was sad, just really sad. So many people depended on my Granddad for their well being, especially my mother. She could count on Granddad for everything. I remember when I was a junior in high school, I had to drop two of my sisters off at the elementary school because they missed their school bus. And because I basically cursed them out the entire ride to their school, they decided that they weren’t getting out of my car when I pulled up at the corner, up the street from their building.

“Get out, before you make me late too!” I demanded.

“No,” replied my 11-year-old sister Ranavalona. “Mom says drop us off at the school. We’re not getting out till you drive us to the front doors!” Then Rana looked at my eight year-old sister and said, “Tie, don’t move!” And Titusleta looked at Rana and then back at me and said,

“Yeah, we’re not getting out here!”

“Fine,” I resolved, “but I’m going to my school with or without you two.” And I drove off towards Bryan Station Senior High. It grew silent in my car. My sisters didn’t know what to say. Ten minutes later I pulled in to the parking lot of my high school.

“See ya,” I said as I slammed the car door and ran toward the school building. I headed straight for the bathroom. I really didn’t care if I was tardy. I only wanted to give them a hard time for getting on my nerves. I intended on waiting a few minutes and then heading back to the parking lot. But five minutes later, as I made to leave the bathroom, I heard my name blasted over the intercom...

“Nefertiti Jenkins please report to the principle’s office, Nefertiti Jenkins, please report to the principle’s office.”

I hastily made my way thinking, no way, but yes, as soon as I walked through the principle’s office door, there sat my two younger sisters crying their eyes out! The receptionist looked at me and asked if they were my sisters.

“Yes Ma’am.” I said.

“Well your sisters called your Mom and your Granddad is on line two waiting for you.” She pointed to a phone on a table across the room.

“Hello Granddad?” And out with a roar Granddad answered from the other end...

“Girl, I ought to come down there and beat your behind!”

Granddad did arrive at the school, not to give me a spanking, but to pick my sisters up. My Mom couldn’t leave her job, but as always Granddad stepped in. We weren’t the only ones who leaned heavily on my grandfather. Granddad was truly a pillar of the community. Everyone knew Clarence Campbell and no one messed with Clarence “Pops” Campbell. My Granddad had a reputation for being able to take care of things. One way or another the job always got done.

The night after the funeral I was exhausted. Not only had I driven down from Indianapolis the day before after work, but along the way I had stopped by Northern Kentucky University to pick up Titusleta and my other sister Onierita. Because they couldn’t afford to miss too many days of classes, we had already discussed getting up early the morning after the funeral so that I could drive them back to NKU, which is about two hours north of our home town of Lexington.

I don’t remember falling asleep. But after a few seconds of registering the sound of the screen door, I remembered where I was. I still wanted a few more minutes of sleep, but my head was just killing me. I slowly opened my eyes to check the time, and there sitting in the chair across from me with his arms folded and legs crossed, was my Granddad! He looked at me, shook his head and said,

“Girl, you need to get up!” I quickly closed my eyes, thinking ok, I’m still dreaming. But with that, the screen door started pounding louder and louder and the intensity of the wind howled at me for attention.

I sat up and checked my cell phone for the time. It was only four in the morning, but I decided to get up anyway. I needed to take something for my killer headache and plus I might as well get an early start and go ahead and take my sisters back to school. I turned on the living room lights, found my purse and took a couple of pain killers. I then opened the front room door. The porch light was on so I felt safe. Of course my overnight bag was still in the trunk because I had fallen asleep before I got a chance to bring it in. But when I made my way to my little red Neon parked in the driveway, I saw the door to the driver’s seat wide open and the trunk to my car popped open. Someone had broken into my car. I ran back through the living room to find my brother Thomas who had fallen asleep on a couch in the family room. He had driven up from Columbus, Georgia for the funeral. Tommy then ran back out to my car with me.

We discovered that who ever had broken in had actually snatched the dome light out to do his dirty work in the dark. He stole my portable CD player and most of my CD’s, as well as the jewelry out of the jewelry bag in the luggage case in the back trunk. This thief got me good. Granddad tried to warn me. I think he used the wind to scare off the intruder and bang the screen door open and shut. So although the family had laid him to rest, like always my Granddad’s spirit decided to stick around because we needed him.

Nefertiti
09/05/09

Part 2 Nefertiti’s Ghost Stories

2009-09-27T16:08:00.001-04:00

Part 2

Nefertiti’s Ghost Stories

After college, I was a news producer for a television station in Chattanooga,Tennessee. Although I worked in Chattanooga, I actually lived across state lines in the small town of Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia. When I initially took this entry-level position, I had perhaps two weeks to find a place to live. After scanning newspaper ads for apartment listings, I settled on a one bedroom unit at the Lakeshore Apartments. The units were small and rustic but nice and quiet. I kept to myself and my neighbors left me alone.

My hours were weird at the television station. After less than a year as a weekend news producer, I was promoted to morning show producer. Meaning, since we hit the air at five in the morning, my shift in the newsroom began around midnight. I needed plenty of time to organize the show, as well as pull stories and rewrite copy from the AP Wire. I hated leaving my apartment in the middle of the night. Often times the night sky was dark and eerie and singing cicadas unnerved me. I ran to my car many of nights and my paranoia usually followed me until I was safe in the newsroom twenty minutes later.

I think anytime a female is outside alone at night is a reason for concern. But for me, I always felt as if there was more to be frightened of in Fort Oglethorpe, GA. Something was out there. I could not pinpoint it, but I knew I was not welcomed. One night upon escaping in to the newsroom, I bumped into a reporter who was editing his piece on the KKK. He told me that the KKK was big in Fort Oglethorpe and they were aware that I worked for NEWS 12. Even with that information, I still felt as if there was something more. For those weekend nights in which I was able to sleep in, I made sure my Bible was tucked underneath me when my head hit the pillow. I know the Bible kept the spirits out, because I certainly felt them trying to get into my bedroom. They peered in on me from the hallway. They glared at me through the dark. Many eyes, many beings questioning my existence. This I felt, this I knew, and eventually I learned to fall asleep with the hall light on.

Many many years ago, a deadly battle took place not too far from where I lay my head. Known as the Battle of Chickamauga, more than 35,000 Union and Confederate soldiers lost their lives. It was the bloodiest battle of the Civil War and the bloodiest two days of American History. This bit of knowledge did not sink in to me until years later when I was far away and living in another city. I don’t know if the ghosts that wanted me gone were earthbound spirits still trapped in an endless struggle, or ghosts of another ilk jealous of my stay. I think sometimes that the dominate spirit was female, but I can’t remember for sure.

Nefertiti’s Ghost Stories

2009-09-27T16:05:00.001-04:00

Nefertiti’s Ghost Stories

Part 1

I graduated from the University of Kentucky in 1997 with a Bachelor of Arts in Advertising. My college years were full with friendship, campus parties, and late night cram sessions. Although I graduated from the University of Kentucky, I actually started my college years at the University of Louisville. Toward the end of my freshman year at U of L, I fell in love with a guy from back home. On the weekends I would hop on I-64 to rush back to Lexington to be with my new boyfriend. Often times we would spend the weekend together at his sister’s apartment. She would let us have the entire place to our selves. One morning, as he and I lay in each other's arms, I awoke to find a huge rattlesnake hissing and gliding over me. I immediately jumped up and started yelling.

“Brent, Brent, get up, there’s a snake in the bed!” I screamed.

“What,” he asked half dazed as his eyes adjusted to the early morning brightness.

“A snake, a snake in the bed, you have to get it.” Brent sat up and started patting the covers.

“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?” He asked.

“Yes, check underneath the bed!” He lifted the covers and peered underneath. He then started laughing...

“Nefertiti, you were just dreaming, come here.” And he grabbed me and held me. But even today I know that that snake did not come from a dream. Another time in the same bed, in the same apartment, but in the middle of the night as we lay sleeping next to each other, Brent opened his eyes to a red glow in the room. He looked toward the bedroom door and saw what he says was the devil standing tall in the doorway looking down at him. Brent says he blinked, and the devil laughed. Brent then grabbed me close and closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

Because of My Mother I am No Longer Afraid

2009-09-27T16:03:00.000-04:00

When I was a teenager we lived in a low-income apartment complex out in Winburn in Lexington, KY. I had many experiences there, some good (like the birth of my little sister Obadiah), and some bad, (like the theft of my 13-inch TV and my brand new stereo). Before Obadiah was born, my mother, brother and sisters Ranavalona, Titusleta, Onierita and I moved around quite a bit. After the divorce we lived like Gypsies. I had grown up in a great family oriented middle-income mixed neighborhood, and my whole world slowly started dissolving at the age of eight when my parents realized that they could no longer make their marriage work. By the age of twelve, my Mom and my siblings and I were on the road and heading south to be embraced by her parents and loads of kin.

Lexington was a brand new adventure for me. Everything seemed so big and pronounced in this city compared to the small lakeside community in which I had been raised. One night after all the lights had been turned off in our three bedroom apartment, and I had settled into the rhythm of a good night’s sleep, I found myself conscious of my self as I lay sleeping beneath me. I was rising slowly up out of my body. As I hovered overhead I became aware of a distinct sound. One that I wasn’t sure of. Many voices whispering and clicking. A language of communication in a tongue so fast, that I could not comprehend it. I became scared and began to internally question the foundation of my fear. As soon as I verbalized these thoughts in my mind, my spirit self decided to reunite with my body. It felt as if an elastic cord had been holding me to me, and when I began to consciously process thought that cord snapped and yanked me back to myself. Up until that point, I had always played the role of the brave confident oldest child, rarely crying out for Mommy or Daddy. But as soon as I felt the shock waves emanating from my chest from the pressure of entering back into my body so quickly, I knew what I had to do, and that was to scream out for Momma.

“Mom, Mom!” I cried. It had to have been well after midnight, but my mother came running and burst through the bedroom door.

“What is it, what is it,” she demanded. After I described my out of body experience she turned on the bedroom light and looked around. She asked me if I knew where my bible was. I told her I did. She then instructed me to get it and put it under my pillow. As long as I had my bible, then the Lord would protect me and I no longer had a need to be scared. I was fifteen then, and thirty-six now, and to this day, whenever I feel as if spirits are watching, trying to reach out to me or whenever I awake with a start from a painful out of body sensation, I slip my hand under my pillow and I am immediately comforted by the Lord’s presence there. Thank You Mom!

Nefertiti
08/29/09

Firestarter

2009-09-27T15:58:00.000-04:00

Life was an adventure waiting to be discovered, for me and my brother growing up in Lorain, Ohio. And summer time was ours to explore the elements of the world. So when I was six and my brother was five, we learned how to play with fire. Nine-year old Ricky Hodges from up the street was kind enough to share his secret with my brother by introducing him to a book of matches. My brother so excited about the possibilities, that he couldn’t wait to show me his new found discovery. Late one evening, before the streets lights blinked on, the three of us journeyed to that magic place of a backyard with a book of matches, a slice of cheese and a thick cube wooden box. Tommy calling me by my family nickname said,

“Tee, we got something to show you!”

And boy was I surprised when Ricky lit a match and dropped it into the box, and that slice of cheese began to melt, and a small glow of orange flames danced around it. Soon the cheese was nothing but a dark smudge with a cloud of smoke puffing up out of it.

Now back then, I was a huge fan of the cartoon Tom and Jerry. I was so captivated by those Tom and Jerry chase scenes that I would lean against the couch or stretch out on the living room floor, long after the show was over and try to analyze the black face characters that Tom always ended up being. Well after seeing that cheese melt in the backyard, a light bulb clicked on in my head.

“So that’s what happens on Tom and Jerry,” I thought.

I congratulated myself on figuring out those dark smoking scenes of my favorite cartoon. But I had to test my theory and I knew just what to do. I asked Ricky if I could have his book of matches, and oddly enough he said yes.

Later that evening after Ricky had gone home, and the night sky was painted black, I took my crayons and my sketch pad to the back of the house and into my bedroom. I was glad my Mom and just about everyone else had decided to wind down in the front room. First I drew a picture of Tom the cat. Then I colored him gray. I then took my book of matches and struck a match. Lightly I touched the paper fully expecting Tom to jump to life with a smoldering crown, instead flames leapt from the page in reach of me. Not able to stand the energy of the heat, I threw the burning Tom onto my bed and made a mad dash for the living room. Instead of running straight to Mom to inform her that my bed was on fire, I ran for the can of Pledge dusting spray that waived at me from the top of my parents floor model television. Back into the bedroom, I aimed the spray can for the flames. Now at this time, in the middle of the heat of the summer, my mother’s baby brother was down visiting us from Lexington, Kentucky. He just so happened to be coming out of the adjoining bathroom as I was aiming that can of Pledge for the flames. I sprayed and he yelled;

“Val (my mother’s name), look what TeeDee (another family nickname for me) has done now!”

But he really didn’t have to holler so loud because as he yelled, the smoke alarm went off, and my brand new newborn baby sister in the next room across the hall, started crying. Mom was in the bedroom in no time. She grabbed one of my pillows and started fighting the flames.

“Go get Kato, go get Kato!” She screamed to her brother, so that he could get my father who goes by the name Kato, though his given name is Thomas, and who was visiting with a neighbor across the street.

Me, I was just frozen with fear. I don’t think I was scared so much of the fact that I almost burned the house down, but more so I was terrified because my uncle was going to get my father, and I just couldn’t stand the thought of the beating that was about to come. I didn’t move. I watched my mother smother those flames as she yelled through the screeching of the fire alarm and the crying baby. I didn’t move when she ran out of the room and back in to the room with of bucket of water to drown the burnt mattress. I guess she wanted to make sure that the fire was really out. My Dad and my uncle came back. Dad went to the baby first and calmed her tears. He then stepped into the crime scene, my room, and asked if we were ok. He handed the baby to Mom, and invited me to take a walk with him. Well I had no choice, and I followed his lead out of the bedroom, down the hall and to the right, through the living room and out the door. It was a warm night that night. Fireflies danced around me as I followed my father down the steps of the front porch.

“Well I guess my spanking comes in the front yard tonight,” I thought.

But no, we didn’t stop. Down the driveway and to the left, I walked next to my father for a good while before he spoke to me.

“Where did you get the matches,” he asked, “and who taught you how to light them? Does Tommy know how to make a fire too?”

On and on the questions came. He finally asked me if I understood what could have happened to everyone if my uncle didn’t catch me when the fire started. I didn’t really understand yet, but I said I did. My Dad decided to lecture me anyway about the dangers of playing with fire and how scary it can be to lose someone you love. I think it finally sunk in the next day when I walked outside and saw the burnt mattress in the front of the yard, waiting for the garbage truck. Of course my two week punishment away from my playmates and stuck in the house helped me to realize, that yeah playing with fire really wasn’t fun. And oh, I think it finally hit me too... Tom and Jerry were cartoons and they weren’t real!

Nefertiti
July 22, 2009

A Call To Serve

2009-09-27T15:54:00.000-04:00

Because of what I do in my field, there is a great demand for my services. My phone at the office rings nine to five nonstop. On top of that, clients walk into my office everyday all day with great expectations. I educate over and over about the product that they’ve invested in. Many times the client comes to trust me and longs for a relationship. An ongoing partnership, in which I come to be the sole individual that they trust to turn to in regards to their investment. Never mind the toll free line that connects them to our call centers worldwide and the hundreds of knowledgeable agents waiting to help them. Every workday I shuffle through the chaos that has come to define my life. Who am I, if not for my job? This company that I’ve worked for for more than eight years has treated me extremely well. And besides what else do I have to offer the world?

Last month I received a summons for Jury Duty. Upon reviewing the notice, I immediately felt distraught with worry. I had just taken time off to visit for a few days with family. And immediately prior to that, I attended a mandatory company meeting in Orlando. To me it seems I’ve been out of the office quite a bit lately and my work load has been piling up. People who feel that they need to speak with me and only me have been leaving some crazy messages on my voicemail. And yeah it did kind of hurt my feelings when I returned a call to a client and was told that she was disappointed in me because it took too long for me to call her back. She didn’t seem to care about my mandatory business trip and my small vacation time with my family that led to nearly one hundred voicemails waiting for me once I returned.

So Jury Duty. Wow. How in the world would I manage the office after that? I didn’t even want to inform my office mate that I would be away again for who knew how many days due to the guilt I felt for leaving her. But I had no choice in the matter and she was very supportive. Plus, I promised to check my email as often as possible, just in case she needed me. I still was a little anxious about the possibility of being picked. As my mother stated just a few weeks before, I do tend to stand out in a crowd. It may be my hair. It may be my height. I was afraid that for what ever reason, if I sat in on a criminal trial, then I could somehow put my life in danger. Basically I was being paranoid. Which you know happens sometimes when you think too much of yourself.
So I reported for duty on a Monday and I was selected to serve. By that Thursday the trial was over and I was the better for it. Sometimes we tend to get trapped in our own little worries and universes and often fail to notice the tragedies and triumphs of the world around us. I’ve had to endure quite a bit in this lifetime and I’ve overcome many obstacles but never have I had to feel the deep painful sorrow of losing someone so close to me that they were my reason for being. I am the oldest of eight children. I have five sisters and two brothers. I helped my mother raise my siblings and I tend to think of them as my own. Last month I was in South Florida visiting with two of my sisters, proud of their accomplishments and who they have become. When it came time to leave them I felt sad. But once I hit the road and began my journey north on 95 the tears just kept coming. My heart ached so deep for leaving them, but I knew that they were fine without me. I just really wanted to stay with them longer because I find more of me when I am with them.

Serving on the trial that just wrapped up made me realize that as unfair as life can be, we have to always hold on to the moment. Nothing in this world is promised forever. Time is short for each and every one of us and fate does happen.

-Nefertiti
June 6, 2009

Chaos In The World

2009-09-27T15:52:00.000-04:00

Africa bleeds
Mexico weeps
Iraq dies
My 13-year old nephew
roams the streets
My mother stuck in a
house ridden with bullets.
Chaos In The World
Exploitation, Expectations...
needs never met,
dreams never conceived.
he gets on a bicycle and
rides down the street
off into the distance.
Will I see him again?
One lost soul. Who is
really his friend?
Chaos In The World
Will there one day be peace?
restless soul
unsettled mind
where do you go?

Nefertiti 5/25/09
1AM

A Moment in My Life

2009-09-27T15:50:00.000-04:00

Trapped in that moment in my life...
in which the universe stopped spinning,
and in response to my demand
peace did stand still.
and he held my hand,
and nothing else seemed to matter....
this was where i was meant to be.
but he gently squeezed my hand
and he let me go....
And time moved forward,
It's moving all too fast.

On Our Way Home

2009-09-27T15:25:00.000-04:00

We’ve been doing this for quite some time now, over and over again, this mission here on Earth. And we will keep coming back until the Creator deems that we’ve gotten it right. Then, LOL, we get to go back home. Home? Home is someplace far far far away. Beyond the Milky Way. We can’t get there on our own. The Creator brought us here and it’s up to him to take us back. When we arrived, the Earth was so beautiful and perfect, that it didn’t matter to us how long we stayed. Actually we didn’t ever want to leave. We were beautiful and everything was good. But we grew restless and wanted to explore. We wanted to know what more this world had to offer. So some of us made a pact to scatter and travel the land and seas. And we agreed to meet back up one day to share the tales of each discovery.

Some of us traveled to places that we now call Asia and Europe and now America. We left from Africa. East Africa was where we landed. Africa was our new home. The Creator gave us Africa, our utopia. But we grew restless and had to explore. No one imagined that we would forget each other. No one could conceive that we wouldn’t know our brothers. But that’s what happened. We just didn’t recognize each other. Our brothers and sisters that moved west were darker and our brothers and sisters that traveled east were lighter. But we are the same, we’ve just forgotten who we are. So we hurt each other. We’ve been very very mean through the ages. Slavery was us at our worst. War is just more of the same. Brother turning against brother. Sister denying sister.

In the year 2000, the results of the Humane Genome Project were released. Earthly science verified what some already knew. We are not different. We are one and the same, roaming this planet together. We all belong to one Human race. There’s no Black race, or White race or Hispanic or Asian race. Just Humans and we have lost our way. When the group made the pact in East Africa and decided to venture out and explore the world, we had every intention of reuniting with The Family to prepare for our final journey back to our home world. But everyone has been traveling and reincarnating for so long that we forgot. We forgot who we are and where we originated and why we are in this world. But slowly one by one, we are awakening. Not fully conscious, but our hands are reaching for the sky. We just can’t touch it yet.

Nefertiti
6/17/09

Here I Am

2009-09-27T15:23:00.000-04:00

I love reading blogs. I love to look into the minds of my universal family from around the world to see what's going on in their neighborhoods. I love to read stories of adventures and travel, and love and sorrow, all things which add to this human experience here on this planet.

We have so much in common now. For a while we drifted away from each other when different tribes migrated out of Africa eons ago and into unknown places around the world. We forgot each other for a long time, and then we fought and bought each other. Now we're coming together in love and peace and harmony. We're rediscovering what we have in common and falling in love with our human race all over again. Music is the tool that is moving our souls to one powerful beat. And the internet, the internet is the link that's brings us to the reality of how small this world of ours really is. I am grateful for this human experience here and now. With that said, I have blogs from my MySpace page that I want to share. So I'm going to get to work now on bringing them over.