Hello out there! I know that I have been missing in action to say the least. My last blog post was dated almost exactly a year ago. So much has happened. I have experienced some highs and some lows, but nevertheless I am here. Through it all, I have learned to count every day whether it’s filled with clouds or with sunshine as a blessing and an opportunity to leave your mark and make history.
The highlight of this year came when I had the opportunity to interview Nikole Hanna- Jones at the National Council for Social Studies. I am a huge admirer of her work and asked her some tough questions about the 1619 Project. It was very well received and at the end of our session she said, “She wanted to compliment me on my interviewing skills because she has participated in countless interviews that were always structured around the same old questions.” The picture below may not be the most flattering because I was trying hard to hold back my Kool aide smile!
The second high that I am currently riding comes off the fact that a piece that I wrote entitled “Why My Students Weren’t Surprised on January 6th” was featured in Social Studies Education 85(1).pp.8-10.
So far, I am getting some positive feedback and I am claiming this as my breakthrough into the literary world. This is my first publication in an education magazine but will certainly not be my last.
I have read a number of books since my last post; however, I wanted to begin 2021 by reviewing The Three Mothers: How the Mothers of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and James Baldwin Shaped a Nation by Anna Malaika Tubbs. I just received the book two days ago and I cannot put it down. I am halfway through it and my book pages are filled with notes and comments. The subject matter is personal to me for I am a mother to a beautiful 5-year- old son. I cannot wait to discuss this book in detail and am trying my best to restrain myself so that I can provide a complete review when I am finished.
Please be on the look out. A review will be up by the end of the week. Until then!
P.S- I wanted to give a special thank you to a friend who reads every post and constantly reminds me and will not rest unless I am always reaching for the stars. Thank you for your advice and invaluable direction.You know who you are 🙂
(My reading room will be my retreat during this pandemic.)
Like many of you out there, I am anxious and quite nervous about what we will face as a nation in the next couple of months. Now is the time to definitely gather what we need. By this time, hopefully you all got enough medicine and food to last for the next few weeks. Although I fully understand the severity of the situation, I have to be honest and admit that I felt extreme melancholy following the Smithsonian’s wise decision to close all of their museums. When the governor of Maryland implemented an executive order closing all of the gyms I just knew I was going to go crazy consumed with cabin fever. I was also reckoning with the fact that I was going to have to keep my five year old entertained for at least the next couple of weeks. Yet, these small hiccups are nothing compared to the many blessings that surround my situation. Thus far my family is healthy and I have a job that will still pay me while we are home.To help keep my mind in a zen state, I plan on spending the few quite minutes I will have in my reading room. It was the first room I personally renovated when we moved into our 100 year old house. As soon as I saw it, I loudly proclaimed it “Mine” and informed all that it would be mine despite any future additions that would one day be added to my family. .
This week’s book will keep me company in my reading room and help get my mind off of the uncertainty outside. It came highly recommended by my sister and close friend. They both had one sole complaint and that was that it eventually had to end. Where the Crawdad’s Sing by Delia Owens is a book about Kya, known to many as “The Marsh Girl.” She lives in the backwoods secluded swamps of North Carolina in the 1960’s. Although there are many wild tales running through the town as to how she came to live such a secluded life, in actuality, she was abandoned by every member of her family who was driven away by her abusive and alcoholic father. Despite all the odds and the constant evasion of the local truant and child and welfare officer, she with the help of the ecological wonders of the swamp raises herself. She lives a simplistic and meager life without electricity and running water. There are many times where she is unsure where her next meal will come from and depends upon a local African American gas station attendant for hand me down clothing, sometimes food, and fatherly comfort. Her life of solitude; however, is interrupted when she meets two young men who both are intrigued by her and seek her company to fill an inner yearning and emptiness that haunt them both. The book opens with the death of one of the suitors with Kya as the main suspect. The book jumps back through time as the readers work to unravel this coming of age, love, and tale of who done it.
I am half way through. The author’s careful depiction of life in Kya’s world has me once again homesick for Florida. I keep envisioning my rides through the Everglades, specifically Shark Valley. It is a 14 mile bike trail right through the Everglades where you come face to face with alligators. It’s really cool and worth a visit if you are ever in South Florida. Speak to you soon! Be safe and we will get through this 🙂
Sorry I have not published a post in a while, but school is back in session and a few major developments in my professional life have kept me pretty busy but for the good. Yet, no matter how busy I am, I always try to still make time to curl up even for just five minutes at a time with a good book. I was heartbroken when I heard the news of Toni Morrison’s passing . I loved her novels because they always whisked me away to another era in U.S. history and helped me get as close as I can bear to aspects of the Black American experience. The other day I was listening to an old NPR Fresh Air interview with Morrison where she read a passage from her last novel God Help the Child and the few lines she read were so intriguing that I immediately made a detour to the closest bookstore to pick up a copy. The novel begins with Sweetness explaining the shocker, horror, and shame she felt when her daughter Lula Ann was born. Both Sweetness and her husband Louis are exceptionally light skinned and most likely members of the Blue Vein Society. In the maternity ward, she momentarily contemplates smothering the baby rather that have her dark skin body and lips press against her breast to nurse. In the end, she decides to spare her life but not her feelings. She refrains from as much physical contact as she can with her daughter through the most pivotal years in a child’s development. She provides her with the financial necessities in life but fails to provide her any outward displays of affection and emotional intimacy. Her husband, still convinced that she cheated, leaves her in protest to having to raise a dark- skinned child.
Nevertheless, Lula Ann grows up to be gorgeous and successful. Her onyx skin becomes an “exotic” feature that helps her win lovers from all nationalities and opens doors for her in the cosmetic industry. It appears that she has triumphed in the end over the taunts about her skin hue from her peers and her mother’s emotional neglect. She has proven to everyone and herself that she can certainly find the physical intimacy her mother deprived her of from almost anyone she chooses. Yet, as you continue reading, you later realize that she is still the same little insecure , skinny, dark-skinned, knobbly kneed, girl of her past and, Lula Ann begins to panic when a love loss brings this insecurity to the emotional and physical forefront.
Although Lula Ann’s story is the focus of the book, all of the characters she encounters or pursues has their own story and each one is mired in a childhood pain or tragedy that has attached to them like a cancer and metastasized over the years into adulthood. I have to warn you that these tragedies are dark and unsettling but they were for me a constant reminder of the inability for any of us to ever free ourselves of our positive or negative childhood experiences. I was a little disappointed by the fact that with the exception of Sweetness’ story, the setting for the majority of God Help the Child takes place in modern day. Sweetness’ story was very compelling and left me with an insatiable desire to learn more about her, but maybe that was the point Morrison was trying to make. As a society we shine the light and focus on the perpetrators of crimes against children. We are obsessed with wanting to know why anyone could hurt or neglect children. Rarely do the children who are victimized get the opportunity to share their story and heal. We don’t care to know how they will cope into adulthood and the type of person they will become. Reading this novel left me like many of the characters also asking myself, ” Are my childhood experiences carrying me through life or am I carrying them?” If my childhood experiences are carrying me, “Are they tired, weary, and ready to rest?” Rest in peace Queen Morrison. Thank you for blessing us with your courage to tell the stories that no one else bothered to tell.
Early this fall, I got the news of a lifetime. I was awarded National History Teacher of the Year by the Gilderman Lehrman Institute! Words cannot express my gratitude.
The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History was founded in 1994 by Richard Gilder and Lewis E. Lehrman, visionaries and lifelong supporters of American history education. The Institute is the leading nonprofit organization dedicated to K–12 history education while also serving the general public. Its mission is to promote the knowledge and understanding of American history through educational programs and resources.
I am forever indebted to his institute. They are the main reason I currently reside in the DMV area. I first enrolled in one of their seminars 11 years ago when the late great historian Ira Berlin was giving a week long seminar on the history of the plantation society at the University of Maryland. They fully funded my room and board with stipend. The class was centered around the analysis and incorporation of primary sources and the use of historical sites when teaching history. We visited the original house where Frederick Douglass was born and the town up the street established by many of the emancipated slaves after the Civil War. We also visited Mt. Vernon, George Washington’s plantation and surveyed the slave quarters and burial site. I had visited the DMV area before, but I never saw it through the same lens as it was presented to me by the institute. I always realized that I was surrounded by history but to be able to walk among historical sites and landmarks stemming back hundreds of years particularly to the antebellum era made me want to relocate so that I could be immersed in it. I had also come to realize that I could and was obligated to incorporate trips to historical sites in my everyday lessons so that my students could experience the same reverence and appreciation. It made such an imprint on me that the following summer, I packed my bags and moved to the DMV. I have been here ever since.
In early October, I was presented the award by CNN correspondent John Avlon at a private ceremony at the Yale Club in New York City. I was charged with giving a speech which sent me into a panic. Surprisingly the speech went really well and in the end earned me a standing ovation with a few requests for its publication. Everyone at the Institute was so warm and sincere that I am unsure if there will ever be a future professional accomplishment that will be able to top this.
This entire experience has been both humbling and surreal. I am so grateful to the Gilder Lehrman Institute and I hope that I have made my ancestors proud 🙂
After I graduated from college, confidence exuded from ever pore of my body, and I believed that there was absolutely nothing I could not conquer. I thrived on competition and sought new challenges. Then at 30, I moved away from my small suburban pond into an urban ocean where for the first time I encountered more competition from people as qualified as myself. Although I was a little rattled, I simply readjusted and kept pushing with a continued since of invincibility. Then I got married and had my son at 35. My confidence wasn’t shaken this time, it collapsed. Being responsible for the well-being of another person completely dependent upon you in a city without any family is terrifying. Being a first time mother without a bank of parenting experiences to draw from for encouragement left me stumped and without direction. I constantly doubted all of my decisions. Writing a 30 page paper didn’t really help me when it came to sleep and potty training, or childhood asthma attacks. The responsibilities of teaching full time were added problems that left me periodically crying in a corner during my planning period. Although I maintained a convincing exterior in my power suites, heels and exemplary work reviews, underneath I had lost my luster and above all my confidence. I felt that at any moment everything would come tumbling down.
My confidence somewhat rebounded within the last two years; however, I continued to lament at the fact that the self-assured women I was in my 20’s and early 30’s had disappeared forever. For a time, I unsuccessfully and superficially searched for her until I read Welteroth’s More than Enough. I was slightly reluctant at first because I am almost a decade older than Welteroth and I thought that her advice or experiences would be out of reach for a proud member of Generation X.
I could not have been more wrong. I could relate to so many of her life lessons.She had aspirations of attending Stanford but settled for a state school to be close to her “First Love” who held little to no ambition and eventually flunked out. She was a chronic over achiever who worked hard to reach the level of success and notoriety she always wanted but along the way had to learn how to carve out her own space in places where she was the only African American woman in the room. When working alongside big names in the fashion and journalism industry, she had to learn to hold her head up and constantly remind herself that she was just as deserving of an opportunity to make a name for herself as her prep school, Ivy league, vacationing in the Hamptons counterparts. I was also inspired by her continued hustle and honesty in detailing events in her life that did not always go as planned.
There was one sentence that resonated with me the most. “Walk like you have the strength of your ancestors and community at your back.” It helped remind me of the blood that runs through my veins. Their struggle and sacrifice is my birthright to my spot in “the room.” Their DNA makes up every muscle fiber in my body and gives me strength to not just preserver but tear down mountains.
I realized that the person I was when I graduated college and before I became a mother never disappeared. She simply stopped dreaming. All of her dreams where centered on her son and her son only. I stopped believing in her. I believed in everything else except her. I believed in the abilities of others but not my own. I believed that others deserved more but not myself. I believed others deserved a seat at the table while I had to stand.
Welteroth’s courage to pursue new experiences and challenges reignited that spark I haven’t felt in years and had me looking in the mirror to remind myself to stand straight, keep my chin up, and walk like I have a right to a space in the room.
Reconstruction has always been an era in U.S. History that has intrigued me the most. For a period to have held the most promise for the United States to work towards living up to the principles and ideologies espoused by its early designers, it is also the darkest period in U.S. history which is given the least amount of time for analysis in most U.S. schools. I speak from experience, for it was the smallest chapter in my 11th grade U.S. History textbook and was conveniently skipped by my much esteemed U.S. History teacher who confidently told me that I wouldn’t amount to much 😉
Since I learned about it in college, I continue to devour any additional information I can obtain on the subject whether it’s held in a textbook, historical novel, film, or piece of art.
I was first introduced to Lalita Tamedy through Cane River, her first breakthrough novel published almost twenty years ago. She held a pretty successful career in corporate America but left it to pursue a literary career writing historical fiction. Cane River primarily was based upon a story of the different generations of the women in her family in antebellum Louisiana. This breakthrough novel had many of us, including myself, rummaging through my family’s old photographs and documents to reconstruct my own history. I started this blog decades after I first read it and I have to eventually write a review because it still remains my all time favorite book.
Red River picks up after Cane River in Louisiana during Reconstruction. Unlike Cane River, the men of her family are the primary subject of this story. The book begins when some of the men of Colfax decide to defend the local courthouse. Members of the Lost Cause have refused to acknowledge recent election results in which Freedmen were able to cast their ballot for the first time. The men of the town have decided to force open the doors of the courthouse and defend their newly elected sheriff who just so happens to be a carpetbagger with little to no roots in Louisiana. It is clear throughout the entire novel, that their willingness to risk their life is not on behalf of the new sheriff but for the defense of their rights as American citizens and as men, and their children’s dreams.
They wait in vain for reinforcements from the federal government and although they put up a valiant effort, are soon defeated after white supremacists from outside towns and parishes with weaponry used in the Civil War force the men to surrender. The author’s great great grandfather participated in defending the courthouse and was able to get out alive. However, that was not the case for most. Those who surrendered were systematically tortured and murdered. According to Tamedy, over 150 African American men were killed for simply asserting their rights as American citizens. Prominent historian Eric Foner labeled this day “one of the most bloodiest acts of carnage” in Reconstruction.
The first half of the book details the massacre and Tamdey’s ability to wisk you away to that night amid the same emotions that permeated the air in 1873 is noteworthy. I literally couldn’t put the book down and I loved that as I read I could feel the fear, resolve, helplessness, and hopefulness the men experienced at the court house. I also enjoyed her window into the emotions the women felt, for it reminds her readers that the defense of this courthouse was based on the courage of both the men and women of the town. Unfortunately, it took me a while to finish the second half where she detailed the life of her great grandfather’s children. Their fight to build a school and assume their positions as leaders in the community among stories of who married whom was hard to maintain my interests after the massacre and it felt at one point like the story was dragging.
However, I will say that this book is worth a read. It taught me the difference between a massacre and a riot. Although these men valiantly fought back, the level of unjust and unwarranted cruelty exemplified by the white supremacists of Louisiana can not be defined but as a massacre. It has led me to start reevaluating how I will refer to late 19th and 20th century race riots this coming school year. The sign below is the only marker that exists today where the newly freedmen of Colfax chose to sacrifice everything for their constitutional rights. Their story incenses me today when I hear Trump supporters attempt to define what patriotism looks like and who can only be labeled as true patriots. The “150 Negroes” who died in Colfax on Easter Sunday 1873 are the prototype of true patriots.
I grew up in a family where my parents constantly reminded me that the hue of my skin was not a curse but an honor that held stories of men and women who came before me and triumphed over unquantifiable obstacles. As a result, I largely escaped the thorns of colorism that still pierce so many people of the African diaspora today, and I will forever be grateful to my parents for that. However, growing up, there was one insecurity that I did fall victim: the issue of hair. Ever since I was a child, I had what so many people in the Black community would label as “bad hair.” My hair was ridiculously thick, dry, and tightly coiled. Not knowing what to do with my hair, my mother permed it when I was seven years old. I grew up being allergic to sweat and water and a slave to what many of us jokingly deem “the creamy crack.” Even with countless hours in a salon chair trying not to cry from the burning sensation on my scalp caused by the chemicals on Saturdays while I watched my non-black friends go to the beach , I was just grateful that I could get a comb through my hair .
And then the 90’s hit. I immersed myself in the neo-hippie movement. I would have traded my left kidney for Lisa Bonet’s locs. I also started seeing women with short afro’s and I fell in love. I fell in love with the beauty of their natural hair, but more importantly I fell in love with the freedom they enjoyed. They were free from chemicals, salon visits, and a fear of their hair reverting back to their natural state.
It was a long rode until I gathered the courage to chop of all of the chemicals. But when I did, I felt the most beautiful I had ever felt in my life. I have been natural for over 16 years and I have never once looked back. I have rocked short and long, black, brown, and auburn tresses.
A day does not go by where I am either stopped by strangers, my coworkers, or students and asked about the products I use or my regiment. I am still a tomboy and keep my regiment and products pretty simple. If there is any advice I would give to someone considering going or is currently natural it would be to deep condition on a weekly basis and find your hair type. I have low porosity which means my hair does not maintain moisture easily. I need the assistance of heat to penetrate my hair shaft. Deep conditioning under the dryer does wonders for my hair and assists with moisture retention. I also realized that my hair abhors proteins. As a result, the first thing I do when I consider trying any new product is to look at its ingredients. I run if I see any protein variant. I rarely straighten my hair, get regular trims, and eat a nutritious diet. Twists outs are my friends and I always sleep with a satin bonnet. My go to products are listed below.
Feel free to email me if you have any additional questions. A review of Lalita Tamedy’s Red River is coming soon.
Finding time to work out when you work full time can be stressful, but when you add the responsibilities of motherhood you find yourself working with even less viable time. I have worked out five days a week since I turned 18 for numerous reasons. First, I recently took author Gretchen Rubin’s personality quiz and realized that I am an “Upholder.” According to Rubin, Upholders are those individuals who rise to inner and outer expectations. Looking back, my dedication to working out makes sense. When I graduated from high school, the state of Florida had just implemented a new law that required all freshman college students to take a health and wellness class. Needless to say, it was the first real health class I had where I felt the professor really broke down the science between living a healthy life comprised of effective nutritional choices and purposeful exercise.
I quickly set my own inner expectations to live a healthy life and 22 years later have not looked back. I also love a routine and my gym is less than two miles from my job and home. Membership dues are quite reasonable and include extremely small classes with personal trainers. As soon as class ends for the day, I bolt out of the door, change sometimes in my car on the way to the gym, workout hard for 40 minutes, jump back in the car and dart towards my son’s daycare.
Finding time to run is a little more difficult because there are not any tracks or trails on the way to my son’s school that I am familiar with. The weekends are really the only times I can run and I am usually so tired and just want to sleep in. However,I regret not engaging in some type of physical training , because the deep sleep that I enjoy the nights that follow a hard workout during the week elude me on Saturdays and Sundays. Also, I absolutely hate running and I would like to feel like I accomplished some obstacle by getting myself on a track or trail on at least one of my days off.
This Saturday I tried a new strategy that worked. I woke up at 6:30 am which is about 45 minutes earlier than I normally would on a Saturday. I cooked breakfast while my son was still sleeping so when he woke up his food would already be waiting for him. My husband wakes up at the crack of dawn on his days off and was already headed out the door to run errands. Normally, I plan my Saturdays around everyone else but today I got suited up in my workout gear while he was out and met him at the door when he returned. Today I did not ask “If he would be free to watch our son so I can run.” Today I said, “I’m going running and will be back in X time.” Breakfast was cooked for everyone and he already ran his errands. Thus, there was no excuse for me not being able to go. Although the run was hard, the weather was exquisite and I had time to focus and distress. All it took was 45 minutes -a 15 minute drive back and forth to the track and a 30 minute run. Afterwards, we took our son to the local farmer’s market and then to see ” A Secret Life of Pets 2.” When we returned home and ate lunch, we all took a nap, but my nap was the deepest 1 hour sleep I have had in a while on a Saturday. Mommies suit up and set your time because mommies need to run too!! 🙂
Final Exams, teacher end of the year evaluations, and a community historic preservation project I am currently spearheading has me wishing lately that there were 48 hours to a day. As a result, I have not had time to read as much as I normally would but that is expected this time of the year and I know that rest and relaxation are only eleven days away! I did manage to squeeze in, Home, a novel last week by the queen Toni Morrison.
Home revolves around the story of Frank Money, a Korean War veteran and modern day African American Odysseus wandering through the South trying to find his way back home to Georgia following the war. However, unlike Odysseus, the only gods he encounters are the gods of the American South in the 1950s: Segregation, Poverty, and White Supremacy. I love Morrison’s subject matter and her ability to create characters and settings that remind me of places, family members, and experiences I have and have never been nor had. She is able to recount the African American experience in such vivid and emotional details with her choice of words and an uncanny ability to convey emotion that she always strikes a cord with me. I love her stories for their depth and development but I love them even more, because I feel that she is telling my story and my mother’s, father’s, grandmother’s, and great great grandfather’s story in this country. I feel the ability to appreciate and connect with her stories because the characters and their experiences flow through my very veins.
The story begins with Frank Money daring to return to Lotus, Georgia a place with few opportunities with the intent of finding his sister Cee who he heard was in grave trouble. Along the way, he is plagued with some pretty horrific flashbacks from his tour of duty in Korea that often curbs his ability to decipher reality. In the end, you finally get a better idea of what part of his flashbacks were rooted in true past events or fabricated to help him deal with his past sins. I also really enjoyed the tender but despondent chapters where Frank and Cee reminisce about about their relationship. Frank was Cee’s valiant protector and Cee’s innocence and naivete gave Frank’s life purpose even during childhood.
However, it was the women who come to Cee’s aide when she was horrifically violated in a incident that too closely mirrored the real actions of James Marion Simms, the “father of gynecology” that I loved the most in this story. Their determination, dedication, solidarity, and strength warmed my heart and made me pick up my phone to check on my 80 something year old aunt. Everyone with a female loved one from that era can find comfort and nostalgia in the way they called on the old remedies that would earn the ridicule of modern day doctors but were the only element of salvation poor African American women in the South could depend on to save or treat their children and spouses.
As you can see from the pictures above, I am currently trapped in a Gordon Parks vibe. However, looking at these photos from the 1950s really made me feel like I was in Lotus, Georgia while I followed Cee and Frank as they learned to come to terms with their past and become the masters of their own destinies and how they saw their own purpose in this world. Home forces to me to remember home and was definitely worth a read.
Today I took my African American History students to the National African American History Museum. My lesson plan was motivated by two quotes from Carter G. Woodson, the founder of Negro History Week which later evolved into Black History Month”…. to handicap a student by teaching him that his black face is a curse and that his struggle to change his condition is hopeless is the worst sort of lynching” and “The thought of the inferiority of the Negro is drilled into him in almost every class he enters and in almost every book he studies.” I wanted my students to better understand how access to artifacts and inclusive museum exhibits help people obtain a more complete understanding of history and their place in American History. Students were given a structured assignment which guided them through the museum but gave them the freedom to choose exhibits they found interesting to complete their project. After I got over the anxiety of taking 40 students out of the building on public transportation, made sure all of my students were set, I used my remaining time to explore the museum solo.
This is my sixth time visiting the museum , second time within the last three months. I was starving and didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast so I first sat down to order some shrimp and grits, my absolute favorite dish in their delicious cafeteria, and then ventured to see the “Slavery and Freedom” exhibit. I have been reflecting on three artifacts I saw ever since. I saw a concrete block used both in a slave auction in antebellum Virginia and as a stump for general Andrew Jackson and Senator Henry Clay to give speeches to adoring crowds. I also saw a crib built for an enslaved baby on a South Carolinian plantation and a 19th century sack with an embroidered message sewn by an enslaved woman named Ruth. The message explained that the sack which originally contained three tattered dresses and a handful of pecans was given to her 9 year old grandmother by her great grandmother just before she was sold away and never seen again. She sowed the story behind the sack on the front so she wouldn’t forget.
Since I have become a mother, there are very few and rare times in a day where I am allowed to forget that I am responsible for the well being of another human. I couldn’t help but imagine the anguish all three of these women experienced. Whether they were suffering from the feelings of being utterly helpless while their child was ripped from their bosom on the auction block in a room full of profit driven speculators, relentlessly praying their baby survive the haphazard conditions of the slave quarters with insufficient clothing and food, or hoping their child who is being sold away will somehow remember them despite knowing they will never see them again, all of these women and mothers suffered heartbreaks that should have crushed their very will to live. It really shook me to realize that in the end it didn’t, because I am here today and I realize that I am only here today because they did not give up or give in.
There is no lecture I could have given in class that would help my students understand the history of the people contained in this museum.I strongly believe that there is no other monument or museum in D.C. that can capture the complete history of America than the stories contained in this museum. If you are ever in the area, you should definitely pay a visit.
Don’t get me wrong. There are an equal number of exhibits that spread joy and bring smiles to your face. I almost completely got swept back in time with a permanent koolaide smile on my face in the Arts and Culture exhibits.