Black Girls Read Banned Books

https://brucefeiler.bulletin.com/it-s-banned-books-week-as-cases-skyrocket-5-things-you-can-do-to-help/

It’s Banned Books Week. As Cases Skyrocket, 5 Things You Can Do to Help Librarians Say the Rise in Challenges Are Not by Concerned Parents But by "Coordinated National Efforts"

https://www.npr.org/2022/09/24/1124771875/banned-books-week-independent-bookstores-atlanta-vintage-books

How independent bookstores help in the fight against book banning and why it matters An Atlanta store is one of hundreds of independent booksellers across the country celebrating the freedom to read as schools, universities and public libraries face attempts to ban or restrict books.

I remember when my babies were little, I would spend so much time daydreaming about all of the things I could do once they were grown up and moved out on their own. I never dreamt that I would be sitting here feeling…bereft.

Nowadays, I don’t have anyone asking me to do the things that I’m really good at like taking a big pot of water and seasoning it until it’s a yummy stew or laughing while the clouds go “Boom!”

It has been a long time since the silences have been so awkward. The questions have gotten harder and I am the only echo.

In my dreams I yell, “Help me! I’ve lost my babies!” My breasts are heavy and my womb still aches. “Give me my babies” I scream silently as I dig in the earth. “Give them to meeee…”

I throw my head back to beseech the gods, for surely, there’s mercy enough for my one request. A star falls…and another, and another, right into my hands. They let me play with them, like when my babies were little.

I’m not ready.💔

“I don’t care that they steal my ideas…
I care because they don’t have any of their own.” Nikola Tesla
# words the inceptions of dreams….

╰( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )つ──☆*:・ﾟ💵💰💵💰💵

Just like those who decided to testify at the Jan 6 hearings, he wants to public record of his attempt at getting on the right side of history. LMAO!
But seriously, I can’t think of any quality I admire more than someone’s willingness to stop and say, “I’m sorry. I was wrong.” But symbols without substance leaves the admission of one’s change of heart sounding like a “noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.”
Sooo, how is Creflo Dollar going to make amends for his multimillion dollar error?

Give it back?

I am a warrior because I have lived a life where I had to fight just to "be." I have wounds in various stages of healing and scars from battles I have won and lost. I have learned to see the beauty in my imperfections and power in my surrender to the One who created me. There are parts of my story that can be sung like a pristine descant over the medley of my life and conversely, there are others parts of the story still can only be told in low moooaannns and grooooaaans...BUT- as a result of, in spite of, and nevertheless, all of "the pieces that I am," have been gathered together to create my glorious Whole!
I am.

Peace and Blessings,
Lisa Muhammad

I am a writer. I tell stories about the world around me. My job is to articulate the nuances and the complexities of the human conditions that we exist in...or try to.

I remember when Alton Sterling was shot within seconds of encountering the police. I closed my eyes and sent my spirit to him. My heart started beating fast like I was right there, and I became afraid. I didn't think I could ever "un- see" that huge hole in Alton's chest, rhythmically pumping out life's force. I felt for a moment that I could even smell it on that hot summer day. It felt like I laid on that hot concert for a long time.

I remember sitting in the car next to Philando after he tried to reach for his wallet. I couldn't believe how quickly his life force slipped out of him. It felt like smoke curling through my fingers. Whoosh....gone. I stayed in that car for a long time too. Too long. I was sick for a while after that.

And then there was the time that those young people were slaughtered in that nightclub in Orlando. I felt like I was in that bathroom stall with that young man who was texting his mother, "He's coming. I'm afraid mama..." And as my spirit lingered in that bloody bathroom with all these dead babies at my feet, I wanted to stop writing. I didn't know how to do it properly. I got stuck in the crime scenes and didn't know how to get out. I got sick every single time.

I was trying to process last week's mass shooting in the grocery store and then all those babies were gunned down yesterday and I haven't been able to catch my breath. My entire body has been convulsed with pain. The tears...the tears won't stop. They pour out of me in my sleep. My back, my back hurts sooo bad today. But I know that my back pain can't even begin to compare to the pain of those mamas and daddies whose hearts were shredded and ripped out of their chests yesterday.

The air is so heavy today. And I know that I am a writer whether I want to be or not. I see life in stories. But the stories just get darker and heavier and deeper and wider and I get tired and very afraid as I try to navigate the murky, yucky waters that are swirling and rising around us. Cont in comment…

I am a writer. I tell stories about the world around me. My job is to articulate the nuances and the complexities of the human conditions that we exist in...or try to.

I remember when Alton Sterling was shot within seconds of encountering the police. I closed my eyes and sent my spirit to him. My heart started beating fast like I was right there, and I became afraid. I didn't think I could ever "un- see" that huge hole in Alton's chest, rhythmically pumping out life's force. I felt for a moment that I could even smell it on that hot summer day. It felt like I laid on that hot concert for a long time.

I remember sitting in the car next to Philando after he tried to reach for his wallet. I couldn't believe how quickly his life force slipped out of him. It felt like smoke curling through my fingers. Whoosh....gone. I stayed in that car for a long time too. Too long. I was sick for a while after that.

And then there was the time that those young people were slaughtered in that nightclub in Orlando. I felt like I was in that bathroom stall with that young man who was texting his mother, "He's coming. I'm afraid mama..." And as my spirit lingered in that bloody bathroom with all these dead babies at my feet, I wanted to stop writing. I didn't know how to do it properly. I got stuck in the crime scenes and didn't know how to get out. I got sick every single time.

I was trying to process last week's mass shooting in the grocery store and then all those babies were gunned down yesterday and I haven't been able to catch my breath. My entire body has been convulsed with pain. The tears...the tears won't stop. They pour out of me in my sleep. My back, my back hurts sooo bad today. But I know that my back pain can't even begin to compare to the pain of those mamas and daddies whose hearts were shredded and ripped out of their chests yesterday.

The air is so heavy today. And I know that I am a writer whether I want to be or not. I see life in stories. But the stories just get darker and heavier and deeper and wider and I get tired and very afraid as I try to navigate the murky, yucky waters that are swirling and rising around us. But once again, my own words come back to haunt me. I was the dummy-zealot who pledged to be a record-keeper of our stories. I knew that I would never leave my children houses and land but at the very least, I could leave them an accurate record of history, right?

The air is so heavy today.

Prom 2022

Returning to school has anchored my mind. It is rewiring my brain. All of my scattered brilliance is being gathered up and finely honed. And it feels amazing. Amazing like how you feel after completing a long, hard project that made you cry and confused you and confronted and challenged all of your bullsh*t and forced you to humbly return to the drawing board and ask for help to understand the directions.

Every day isn’t a good day for me as I learn how to put my mind through the paces of disciplined focus. I literally have to go up and wrangle my demons that tell me to make a scene and destroy everything. Or the one who tries to convince me that PERFECTION is the only acceptable standard. Or that sneaky little one that just stands there looking at me and whispering, “Nothing you do matters. Die.”

My embracing the work of managing my mental health has been a game changer, folks. I’m a brilliant woman who has survived some catastrophic situations that left me with the job of tending to my mortal wounds…digging out the infected places and then learning how to synthesize all of those experiences with my education and tell stories to others about how they too, can find a beautiful, purposeful life afterwards.
I am a hurt yet healing ❤️‍🩹 woman who is brilliant and full of potential to leave a footprint in this world.

Today, I’m this AND that instead of this OR that.

Written by William P. Muhammad

‘EXECUTED!’: Police killing in Grand Rapids, Mich., sparks protests, outrage ‘I thought I came to a safe land’Killing of Patrick Lyoya destroys family, outrages many who condemn police shooting as ex*****on by Naba’a Muhammad and William P. Muhammad The Final Call GRAND RAPIDS, Mich.—An immigrant family from Central Africa is in mourning after the killi...

Please, don’t go back to sleep...

In My Disquietude...
~•~
Contemplating the seemingly endless stretch of icy darkness that lies before me, I softly curse the plague that has gripped the entire continent in it’s frigid clutch for as many as nine moons now. I am taking stock of my depleted reserves and I am trying to gauge how much energy I have. I have lived just long enough and have been humbled enough to accept that there are times when I have to acknowledge that I don’t have the strength or feigned bravado to stop LIFE from happening when it has jumped the tracks and is bearing down on me at full speed... There used to be a time- long ago in my girlish days, that I fancied myself to be strong and brave and with plenty of brashness to boot. But now is not then. I laugh quietly at the folly of my youth. There were so many times that I didn’t understand, much less even consider, the perilous, precarious predicaments I found myself in. But this is not that. “Stop it now!” I admonish myself. “There’s certainly no time for your silly wordplay.”

It's getting dark now and so cold. I probably should be gathering sticks and twigs to build a fire before the dark gets darker still....

But first, I am going to close my eyes and say a prayer...

~An excerpt from, “The Book of Ruby...”

꧁Wᴀᴋᴀɴᴅᴀ Fᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ꧂

https://youtu.be/9IOpECoetTI

7 Black Americans Express Their Rage In The 1960s As my subscribers know, I have been collecting meaningful documentary material for most of my career. In the late 1980s, I produced a television series on th...

https://youtu.be/v_dKjtzpyLQ

The Criterion (live simulcast) The Honorable Minister Louis Farrakhan addresses the world

I am a writer. The reason that I have lived to see another birthday is because I learned how to sit down at my computer and bleed it all out...

I remember writing about the mass shooting at the Orlando nightclub. My writing self left my physical self and went directly to that bathroom stall where that young man was texting, “Here he comes. I’m afraid. I love you.” to his mother seconds before he was killed. A part of me never left that bathroom stall...

Then, not long after, I watched Alton Sterling get shot point blank mere minutes after the police arrived. Again, my writing self went there. I laid on that hot asphalt next to Alton and watched the rhythmic pumping of his blood pour out of his chest. I smelled it. It didn’t take very long for his life to spew out of his chest. A part of me is still laying there in that blood...

Then... I was getting ready for work one morning and I turned the news on. I watched as Philando told the officer that he was reaching for his wallet...I watched his body being riddled with bullets in front of his little girl in the backseat. His partner reflexively and instinctively knew to say, “Yes, officer. My hands are on the steering wheel, officer. You didn’t have to kill him, officer...” My writing self was right there. I literally saw the look of shock drain from Philando’s eyes until I knew he was gone. He was trying to get his wallet, as requested and within 86 seconds, he lay dead, shorn in the eye of one who only cared to steal, kill, and destroy. I got stuck there for a long time. Even after Philando had been removed, I didn’t know how to extricate myself from that bloody, sticky seat...

I can honestly tell you that I can’t remember when Eric Garner’s murder was exactly but I remember laying on that sidewalk next to him as he said, “I can’t breathe” until he too was gone from us. He said it eleven times.

Now, I am laying there next to George Floyd. Again, I witnessed the life draining from his eyes because of that horrid, white knee in his neck. I can’t lay here much longer...

It took a long time for me to go gather up the pieces of me that got stuck in those bloody, brutal places. Yes...a long time indeed. It took even longer for me to stop see red targets on the backs of my black son and nephews. I knew that I couldn’t raise my children in fear nor should I train them up in my red hot hatred for what happens to black boys and men that look like them.

Psychology 101 taught me that we teach people how to treat us. If this is true then my logical mind tells me that only WE can stop this diabolical bloodthirst that continues to take beautiful black lives. So then...no, I will not participate in holding up signs or holding white hands while yelling insane bullsh*t like, “We forgive them!” Or, “We loooove everybody!” 🤔 Huh uh. Nope. I do not. Not today and not ever. F*ck those black hearted men and women that intentionally destroy my beloved people. They can pray for their damned selves.

But...we must begin to harness all of our rage If we wish to live and to prosper. We have to learn how to take the hurt and fear and love for our children and empathy for those who suffer like us and the sadness that threatens to consume us at the end of the day...and gather all of these things together until they are focused and brilliant like laser beams! We can take the energy that is produced from the swell of our hearts and redirect it to our darker hued babies as we allow Love's momentum to push and pull us to TEACH our children just a little bit more today than we did yesterday, why their existence is significant and adored. Instead of allowing our frenzied emotions that have been conditioned to "tilt with windmills...,” we can learn to discern and quickly identify where the real threats and attacks on our race lie and fortify ourselves and each other with the nutrients and nourishment of Self-Love and Acceptance...

As Spartan mother’s used to tell their sons, “Come back with your shield - or on it" (Plutarch, Mor.241)

Yours in this human manifestation...
❤️✊🏾♥️

https://www.floridatoday.com/story/news/2020/02/24/zora-neale-hurston-literary-hero-fame-florida/4566091002/

Zora Neale Hurston died alone in 1960. 15 years later, her literary work was discovered and she was called 'A Genius of the South' Zora Neale Hurston's work didn't have the literary appreciation it now has until more than 15 years after her death in 1960.

OliviaGrace did it better...❤️

https://www.becauseofthemwecan.com/blogs/culture/former-nfl-star-martellus-bennett-publishes-book-that-encourages-black-boys-to-dream-beyond-the-stereotypes

Former NFL Star Martellus Bennett Publishes Book that Encourages Black Boys to Dream Beyond the Stereotypes Photo: Natasha Moustache/Getty Images Former NFL tight end Martellus Bennett is on a mission to inspire young Black boys to dream beyond the narrative they see of themselves in media. Following the shooting deaths of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling more than two years ago, Bennett penned a poem....

"I don't wanna spit bars Ms Ofay!!"
or
“I think I should be talking to my parents about that Ms Ofay...”
and
“I paid too much money for this text book not to use it, Ms Ofay.”
lastly
“So do you even know what a dangling participle is Ms Ofay?”
🤣😭🤣😭🤣😭🤣😭🤣😭😡

https://youtu.be/rEuWdEvcOF8

Woke Teacher, White Savior | We The Internet TV The Big Test is just 30 days away, and these students haven't even started to study. No teacher can get through to them, and they seem destined to fail. But ...

later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?

it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.
💔

Night Lights...
~•~
I open my window late at night, so I may draw down the soft glow of starry lights.

Soft, familiar friends dancing in the dark, they gather and spill over my window sill,

They well and swell and bathe me in lambent light. I bask, I abide, I cry, I commune...therein will I delight.

🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑

Taken out of myth, legend, Hollywood spin, folklore... this woman's true story takes my breath away. As I study the facts about the Underground Railroad, I come to more questions. What makes a "leader?" Is it something divine and other-worldly? Was she so brain damaged that she was just "crazy" enough to accomplish the epic feats that she did? Or was she just in position-ready, willing, and able to accept the assignments from the Forces far greater than she: Freedom Truth Love Justice?

Had it not been her, who? Was Martin Luther King one of the greatest leaders of all time or did he just happen upon a moment in history that was inevitable-with or without him?

Please don't be so eager to accept narratives about who we are and our history. That's just plain lazy. Do the work of knowing our history so we are not so quick to throw money at a movie that is full of untruths.

Remember:

Forbidden Fruit is a collection of fascinating, largely untold stories of ordinary men and women who took extraor dinary measures, risking life and limb to be together. It¹s the story of couples who faced mobs, bloodhounds, bounty hunters, and bullets to defy the system that allowed slave masters to breed and sell people like cattle. Some broke the taboo against in*******al marriage, putting their lives in the most severe peril.

In one remarkable story, a Georgia couple who fled slavery wearing multiple disguises sailed for England with bounty hunters and federal troops on their trail. A fugitive slave from Virginia spent seventeen arduous years searching for his wife. A Missouri slave fell in love with his white Mormon neighbor and escaped to Canada to be with her, putting pepper in his shoes to throw dogs off the scent at night and hiding in trees by day.
Betty DeRamus gleaned these amazing stories from descendants of runaway slave couples, unpublished memoirs, Civil War records, books, magazines, and dozens of previously untapped sources.

Beautifully and compassionately written, this important book reveals a chapter of American history that is shameful but is about triumph as well as torture, achievement as well as degradation, and indomitable love as well as hate.

More self love, my beloveds...