When Poverty Rules…and rules

These two reports are worth reading/watching together. Start with the Cato Institute’s senior fellow Michael Tanner’s  talk about his new book on Building an Inclusive Economy.  The video is relatively short at 26:45.   Then, go on to the New York Times article by Ashley Southhall and Nikita Stewart on Jazmine Headley’s arrest.

1. https://www.cato.org/multimedia/events/catoconnects-building-inclusive-economy

 

2.

 

MT days 6-10

My friend Melissa has been doing a 30 days of Thanks journey in which  she shares her reflections on her life.  It is with her permission that I have created this blog post.  Her writing is powerful.  Be prepared to cry, laugh, be confused, get frustrated, and be caught up in deep hopefulness.  And, she gives suggestions on where to direct your financial activism.

Welcome to MELISSA’S THANKS

Day 6: Gift of Song

Happy Sixth Day of Thanks Everyone!

I’m going to let you in on a secret. Move really, really close so that I can whisper it to you. My back up career choice was to be a background singer. I love to sing until my heart is content! I’m not just one of those sing in the shower people that pretend they have a microphone in their hand and let the acoustics of the bathroom create a false reality that they are good. I’m that person who sings and praises my way through the morning and the evening, through the good times and the bad times, and even through the makeups and breakups of relationships. I’m also sure I’ll be that person who sings as long as I have breath in my body.

I give honor and thanks for the gift of song, today, because it has forever impacted and changed my life. I have been singing in choirs and chorales just about all my life. And there is nothing like a song that can speak to the core of your soul by telling your life’s story! There are songs that tell of your joy, reveal your pain, speak of your need for liberation, cry for justice, and make you want to make babies (you know that’s the truth!).  I know as you read this, your favorite song or songs are being brought to your memory.

So, you are probably asking by now, why is the gift of song so important to her and how has it impacted her life. Well here is the story…

After my freshman year of college (which is many, many moons ago now), I had the opportunity to participate in a summer medical enrichment program at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland, Ohio. During that time, Case Western was piloting a music therapy program for several of their pediatric patients and researching the impact music was having on the ability of these young patients to heal better/faster or respond to treatment. As I was on my rounds with the physician and music therapist, I saw the miracle and bribery of music and how the children responded better to treatment when they knew their reward was music and the gift of song.  They were totally captivated by the music; even the evils that had been working in those children prior to our visit managed to be placated by the music. I remember thinking to myself: I’m going to figure out a way to use music and my ability to sing in my future practice.  Little did I know that I would use music, my voice and the few scales that I could play on the piano to change another child’s life ten years later.

For those of you who know me, you know or know of my mini-me, Ms. Delilah Christina, my daughter. When she was a little over three, she completely stopped speaking.  My perfect, typically, developing child went aphasic and no one knew why or how.  My mother called and told me, “After she got that shot, she hasn’t spoken anymore, she is just staring at me when I say something.” Many of the doctors thought she may have had a stroke and ran all kinds of imaging test, hearing test, and every other test to find out what may have occurred. Shortly after she went aphasic, she started to develop all kinds of sensory issues, cognitive delays and a host of affectations that were very pronounced.

Since Lilah has always been a musical child, listening to symphonies, opera, jazz, rhythm and blues and gospel from the headphones wrapped around my belly when she was in there, I chose to do what I have always done (sing), use the tools that I learned in every choir I had joined and the instruction at Case Western to teach my baby how to speak again. That Christmas, we started a new tradition; Delilah received the first of many musical instruments (a keyboard), and we got to work.  I played scales and taught her how to vocalize vowel sounds. Once she mastered vowels, we added consonants to the vowels until she could sing a whole scale (ma, me, mi, mo, mu).  Luckily, she is musically inclined and has perfect pitch because it made her a quick study. Within a few months time, I would make up songs with catchy melodies so that she could learn words. We had a song for everything, even to say Good night!  It was funny and interesting at the same time that she would sing a word or a sentence but not speak it. (Until this moment, she will sing whole songs but will only speak three to four word phrases.)  Her teachers thought it was the most interesting thing that she would not understand them or carry out a command unless they put the command into a song. A song made her brain’s cognitive switch turn on.  We continue to implement music in her everyday life to help her learn new words, sing her way out of sickness or despair, and put a smile on her face.

At every emergency room visit, due to one of her seizures,or at home, we would sing and praise her back to health. It was even in one of those hospital visits that a song “Oceans” drew a lonely, bad-behaving, young lady, (Kamora Lee) to us who has been my goddaughter and her god sister for the past three years. The “word” she spoke when she started speaking again wasn’t even a word, it was a song. She sang the song “Happy Birthday to Lilah” with Dora the Explorer. Unlimited tears were flowing from my face that day when I heard her voice again for the first time. And as you all know, she absolutely loves birthdays and people singing the happy birthday song to her in every language on her day.  (If you missed singing and submitting your happy birthday song for her sixteenth birthday yesterday, you still have time because we celebrate for the whole month. We’ll be waiting.) On her birthday, we listen to the songs throughout the day. But the exciting crescendo moment is when, right before she goes to bed, we listen to all the happy birthday songs in every language or form (our elder whistles her happy birthday song every year) that come in and she feels the love everyone has for her and she remembers the significance of that song to her. It is one of the happiest moments of her life and puts the biggest smile on her face as she goes off to the lala land of sleep.

Now, Delilah sings to her own beat (even more than I do). She has been learning to play the piano and is getting really good at it. (One day maybe she will be the background singer or headliner that I dreamed of becoming!)

With my complete thanks for music and the gift of song, I want to highlight an amazing organization—Upbeat NYC.  This nonprofit gives the gift of music for free to my child and children in the South Bronx.  They take students from the age of four years old and teach them to play just about every instrument (the cello, the piano, violin, trumpet, drums). They have an awesome orchestra and jazz band. They hold recitals and concerts for the neighborhood where the children can shine musically. They don’t currently have a home but are using one of the local churches to teach the students instruments. (Hopefully once we get the H.E.Arts Center, which you will learn more about in a later reflection, they will have a permanent home.) Please give a financial donation to UpBeat NYC (https://upbeatnyc.org/) so that they can continue to expand their programming and give the gift of music to our children. If you or anyone you know has any working, unused instruments, consider donating them to UpBeat for a child to have an instrument on which to practice. Feel free to donate sheet music and Hal Leonard music books as well. They totally deserve all of the resources that you can give them. And if you are feeling even more generous, along with your gift to UpBeat NYC you can sponsor Delilah’s next musical instrument since her birthday and Christmas are rapidly approaching, so that she can become this amazing musician with every instrument she has.

Love ya!

Have a great Day of Thanks!

 

Day 7: Sound Mind

Happy Seventh Day of Thanks Everyone!

 After all that I have been through, I’m praising God and giving thanks that my mind is still intact.

 If you have been reading the reflections since the first day in our journey of thanks, you know that my life has not been an easy walk in the park and that somehow I have always inherited the longer, harsher, narrower path in life. (I used to think I was Job incarnate and wondered when the double for my trouble part of the story was coming!)

On Nov 8th, I was waiting for what I call NYC’s forsaken bus (the Bx19) to get to work. There was a mentally ill homeless man, waiting for the same bus as well. He had tons of soiled sheets and bags of clothes stacked on a wheelchair. He was flinging mucus from his nostrils onto the sidewalk, spitting, and shouting obscenities from his mouth. He had a hygiene mask hanging from his chin.  The prospective passengers were all watching, in wonder, to see just how the gentleman was going to manage to get on the bus with his load.

When the bus came, two women were laughing as he struggled to get on the bus. My regular bus driver (a very cheerful and pleasant gentleman) helped him to get settled in his seat. But the driver got angry when the man started yelling at him and the soiled sheets dropped and fell on his head. Several people started to get off the bus when the men was settled in his seat because he had an unpleasant stench that burned and saturated the hairs in our nostrils.

I watched the mentally ill man, empathizing, and thinking, that could have been me. I have had several seasons in my life where I felt as if I was walking on a real thin tight rope, trying to hold on to every ounce of sanity that I had left. During those times, I had to talk myself “down from the ledge” of mental breakdowns.

One month after I had my daughter, I had to return to medical school, without her, to finish that school year. I had a month’s worth of academic work to catch up on plus final exams.  I missed my daughter like crazy and hated the fact that I had to leave her with someone who I didn’t trust enough to take care of her and love her the way I would. Before going back to school, each day I debated with myself and struggled to decide whether I should leave medical school in Cuba to start all over in the US just to be with her. But under the direction of the Holy Spirit, I was told to go back to school and to trust that she would be okay. But, while in school, I worried and thought about her day and night. I also kept all of my bags packed in the corner near my bed just in case I decided to change my mind and go home.

On top of that stress, I had a physiology teacher who was determined to fail me (that is another reflection for another day) because I was the one chosen in my group to relay the message that her teaching style and skills were extremely lackluster and caused the students much confusion. (Of course, the group chose me and left me out to dry. Cowards!!!!) I also had some female students in my delegation in the medical school who were purely evil and would send me all kinds of hateful messages and do some of the meanest things to me while I was in that sensitive state—one day someone left me a group anonymous card on my bed telling me that I was an awful mother because I left my child and quoted bible scripture to tell me.

Every night, I cried with my med school books in hand studying. I got to a place where I caught up on and submitted all the work I had to make up; I took and passed all of my exams and had just one left–physiology.  But, that same physiology teacher wouldn’t let me sit for my first physiology final exam “el ordinario” because I had missed too much class, taking the 3 ½ weeks off to deliver my daughter at home in the states.

In my medical school, if you couldn’t take or didn’t pass your first final exam, you ha a second chance to take it (el extraordinario) a week after the original exam.  If you fail the extraordinario, you forfeited your summer vacation and had to take the “mundial” exam in August. There were no more chances after the mundial; you had to repeat the year or you were terminated from school.  

I automatically had to go to the extraordinario for this class. When I took the exam I felt pretty good about it. Our exam was composed of seven sections; I had to pass 5 sections of the seven to pass the exam. Do you know that demon-possessed lady had the nerve to fail me even though I passed the test?!!! Receiving a two (“2”) grade is failing with an F. When I saw a 2 by my name for the exam grade, I marched to her office and asked if I could go over my test so that I could find out why I failed. I got fives (100% on four sections of the test) and she gave me a “2.5” grade on the last three sections of the test. I asked her (in the nicest voice that I could) what did the 2.5 mean and why did she give me that grade instead of a 2. Then I asked her for the answers to those sections. Lo and behold, I got the right answer in those three sections too.  She said that although I had the answers correct, she decided to fail me because I had not thoroughly explained the answers in the depth like I did for the first four. She had a huge smirk on her face and started laughing and said since you didn’t give me “5” point material for those sections, I thought you deserved to fail.” (What do you when do when something like this happens and she, being the head of the entire physiology department, knows that no one on her staff will defy her or make her accountable for her actions?)

In that moment, I saw red and felt rage bolt through my body and had to hurry to leave her office because I was about to commit homicide with my bare hands. This lady could not have known how close to death she was or that I cried every night to see and hold my baby again, and with her malicious intent to fail me, she was revoking my right to see and be with Lilah for the summer . I would now have to stay in Cuba to study for and take another physiology exam in August. I remember my head feeling like it was going to explode and a sharp pain shooting through and burning my heart.  

I left the school campus to check my email at the nearest hotel so that I could process what was happening and to calm down. On my way back to the school, while I was on the crowded 420 bus, my eyesight started to fade. The colors and people I saw around me faded into a blurry grey then went completely black. I couldn’t see anything and I got so nervous. I had to follow the voices and feel my way off the bus to the front gate of the campus. When I felt the pillar at the front gate of the campus entrance, I sat down near the steps of the entrance of the door and told the female security guard that I had loss my sight while I was on the bus and couldn’t see anything. Tears were pouring down my face because I didn’t know what was happening to me or why. The security guard asked me if I had taken any drugs, drank, or had undergone any trauma. When I said “no” to each question, she got nervous and called the ambulance to come pick me up and take me to the school’s clinic. Since the same doctor had followed me for my prenatal care, when he heard that something happened to me, he rushed to my side to make sure it had nothing to do post delivery complications. After the doctor did his history, he told me that he wanted me to stay in the hospital to relax for the night. I sat in the hospital for several hours before I got my sight back. It was during that quiet moment, I decided that I had had enough and was packing all of my stuff and going home. Overwhelming stress is no joke! All of that mental stress was manifesting as biological symptomology.

Once my eyesight came back, I begged the doctor to let me go to my dorm room to sleep. But, I knew that I was going to my room to pack my things. I was having a real crisis of faith and angry at God too. I shouted at God, “you told me to come back to this place and I obeyed you and you let this happen to me! You let that evil woman do this to me! I have served you all my life and have done everything you have asked me to do! You better do something about this and prove to me that you are real or I am done with believing in you forever! I’m done!”

Have any of you had a moment like that with God, where after going through so many trials and tribulations, every belief that you have ever had about your religious faith lay in the balance? It becomes a life or death situation and God is on your judgment seat and you are asking with everything in your soul, “are you real or not?” and want answers now. I was at that moment and, although my mind was on the verge of completely shutting down, I was still fighting to hold on to it.

After my tyrant rants and packing my things and command that God prove himself to me, it was 3 am in the morning.  I decided that I would go and call my mother to ask her if she could loan me the money and buy me a ticket to come home. As I walked down the stairs to go outside, the dorm’s receptionist told me that I should stay in because there were some really dangerous winds outside at the time.  I told her that I had an emergency phone call to make and that I would be careful. She was right (and I should have listened) but I was on a mission to get out of that place. The sky was a grayish color that I had never seen before and the winds were pushing my 175 pound frame around like I was a feather. As chaotic as that wind was, I managed to walk the half mile to the phones and call my mother. When she answered the phone and I told her that I needed a ticket because I wanted to come home, she told me that it was 3 in the morning, to call her back in the morning when I got some sleep, and hung up the phone on me.

Walking the half mile back to my room, I saw the sky put on a theatrical performance that I had never seen before. The lightning was flashing and crackling in the grey sky; the winds were still tossing me as if I was a paper weight, and I was seething with anger at God.

I got back to my dorm and fell to sleep until I received a knock at the door at 10:30 am.  One of my country mates said that my physiology teacher had requested to see me in her office. I did not want to see that lady because I knew that I couldn’t muster up an ounce of professionalism or kindness to address her. I was beyond disgusted and everything from verbal and nonverbal communication would reflect that. So, I ignored her initial request. She sent another person to tell me to come to her office immediately.

I got dressed and went to her office. I didn’t extend her any courtesies and asked, “What do you want?” She looked at me and knew that I was not in the mood to play any games with her so I asked her again, “what do you want?”

She began, “last night the strangest thing happened to me.” I gave her a look as if to say, “do I look like I care about what happened to you last night.” Since she knew I was angry at her and justified in my anger, she spoke soft and patiently and continued her story.

“I was in bed sleeping, and a voice told me to get up and grade your paper again.  Since I had no intention to do that, I stayed in my bed. The voice got progressively louder each time it told me to get up and grade your paper correctly.  Since I wouldn’t do it, the voice got so loud that it drowned out everything to the point that my head was in excruciating pain from the sound of the voice and then I felt a huge push that completely knocked me out of the bed. And the voice said, I said to get up and grade that paper correctly. I got up from the floor and went to sit at my desk. I still didn’t want to correct your paper. The voice said, “grade it properly now.”  I still had to cover my ears from the loudness of the voice but said “okay!”

In the most humble voice, she told me “I graded your paper again. Since you did get the answers to those last sections correct, I gave you the proper grades for them. This morning, I resubmitted your score to the academic office and you have officially passed your physiology exam.” I asked her two follow-up questions; at what time did she have to re-grade my paper. She said, “It was a little after three in the morning.”  I looked at her and said, “so, you had a chance encounter with “a voice”, who was protecting me from you, that knocked you out of bed too? Who do you think that was?” I was slightly mocking the known atheist now.  “Perhaps that was the God that you claim you don’t believe in.”  She said I can’t explain it, “but there was a voice and it made me re-grade the paper.” Before leaving her office, I said “God is real! And you and I both just discovered that fact for ourselves.”

I can’t even begin to tell you how that moment created a shift in my entire life. The Creator, God of the Universe stepped in and came to my rescue, when I was at my lowest moment at that 3 am hour, ready to give up on Him, my faith, my purpose, and shut down my mind completely. God also had this woman tell me this story (I can’t imagine how humbling that had to be for her to have to look completely crazy in front of me) so that I would never forget that in the midst of that grey sky, those flashes of light and that heavy wind, He was speaking in a loud, clear voice doing his best work to save me, defend me and keep me.

So today and every day, I give thanks for having a sound mind because I remember how close I was to losing it. When I am mentally fatigued and overwhelmed, I remember how God defended me so that I could keep my sanity, which means He intentionally gave me this mind to function for a purpose. So, I quiet my spirit to receive the intentional peace, love and sound mind that comes in and from God.  

What do you do to keep your mind sound? How do you make it through some of the most overwhelmingly stressful times in your life? Today, as we give thanks for sound mind, think about the many ways that you can quiet your spirit and keep your mind healthy. Implement a life plan that involve positive outlets and supports that are unique to and for you that you can refer to when you are in those low places. (For me, this includes meditation on Bible scriptures, prayer, singing, participating with my support groups, celebrating myself at least once a month.) Some of the supports can and should include seeking professional help from a counselor or a trusted pastor with capabilities in deliverance.  Don’t be afraid to tell someone that you are feeling down or at a low point so that they can help or connect you to the resources that you need, if they cannot. Today, we highlight a great organization, the National Alliance on Mental Illness (https://www.naminycmetro.org/) that helps individuals and families affected by mental illness to build better lives.  Please consider volunteering your time, giving financially, or even checking out one of their support groups and events that are available to all.

Love ya,

Have a great day of thanks!

 

Day 8: Friendship

Happy Eighth Day of Thanks!

 

I give thanks for and to all my besties who teach me how important it is to have love, support, encouragement, and good ole fashion laughs and fun! They have forever raised my standards in how I choose my friendships and have truly taught me that “A friend sticks closer than a brother.”

I have been beyond blessed to have a ride-or-die, loyal, faithful, soul sister, bestie for over 20 plus years. (And she ain’t going nowhere!!!!) My life has been incredibly enriched because she is in it.  She is my go to for just about everything. And I couldn’t even begin to imagine my life without her in it. She means so much to me that my daughter is even her name sake (Christ in her!). We have been through every up and down you can possibly think of; we have outlasted distance as we’ve lived in other countries and states, communicating at least once or twice a week by email, sharing our experiences. (I was so happy a few years ago when she moved 45 minutes to an hour away from me. Yaay!) We have financially supported each other as we were both broke college and medical students who lived off of ramen noodles and prayers. We have encouraged each other to press through the many disappointments of life as we’ve witnessed dreams deferred, denied and delayed. We have celebrated each other’s every victory, knowing that it was each of our personal victory too. We have travelled long distances to show up to each other’s graduations, ceremonies, and events, knowing that the day would not be perfect without the bestie there.

We sang together in gospel choirs, danced together in talent shows and other performances (where we kicked butt), and enjoyed concerts (Joe was awesome!), plays, and puppet shows together. We’ve shown each other the dances (Brown skin), songs, and comedy skits that we created that the outside world would never see. She even played the role of Bonquisha for a skit that I created for my analytic chemistry class in college and played the heck out of the character!!! (I still chuckle to this day!) We’ve exchanged clothes and shoes (‘cause she is always fly!).  We’ve had stimulating, intellectual discourse and debate on just about every topic. We have stayed on the phone for hours until one or both of us have fallen asleep on each other. When I moved back to the US, she introduced me to one of my favorite artist, Lizz Wright (Girl, I surrender! Whew! LOL) That concert in Philly was out of this world! She has always dropped an encouraging word or scripture into my spirit at the right time. We each have done those late night and mid-morning intercessory prayers for solutions to health, financial, and family crisis in our lives. We are so connected that we each know when something is great or wrong with the other without even speaking.  

She has checked me when my attitude was out of control, realigned and set the standard for my moral compass when I was in deep, eye-brow raising nonsense, and changed so much of my perception about how I viewed life’s circumstances. She’s seen me cry through the many challenges of life and parenthood.  When Delilah and I were homeless, she and my other 20+ year bestie were the only people who offered us a place to stay. Faced with decisions about who would care for Delilah in the event of my death or incapacity, she agreed to care and be responsible for my daughter when I asked her if she was willing to do it.  A few times, without us ever speaking, I’d get a deposit of money into my bank account, when the funds were way too close to empty and I was worried about how I was going to get Lilah her food or pay a bill. Sorry in advance to our future husbands (if they exist), but we already made the decision years ago that there would be a permanent room or guest house in our places for each of our families to stay. When you marry one of us, you are marrying the other’s whole family too! 

When we were younger, everyone thought she was the more refined, polished one of the two of us (which is definitely and totally true!).  However, if she heard someone talk about me or if someone did something to me, there was a whole other side to her that would get straight “gangsta” (for real ya’ll!). She’d be ready to come for you to protect me, her bestie. And as for me, don’t even think about messing with my friend unless you want to encounter a good tongue lashing and a beat down! I mean that. She has always loved me, unconditionally, through every good thing or mistake I have ever made, and lovingly, lets me know that she will be here for me no matter what.

One of my besties’ biggest flaws, though, is remembering birthdays, which are very important to me. A few years in a row, she got the side eye for it.  So one year, she made sure that she put it in every calendar and wrote me an ode for my birthday, using one of our favorite Stevie Wonder songs. Come on now, you know that’s love! She did all that work and used Stevie too (just because she knew how much it meant to me).

My bestie is one of the most intelligent, beautiful, awe-inspiring, and talented persons I know! (For all you wonderful men out there, she is single. But, you must have your act together because she does not play!) The first 20 + plus years of our journey together has been incredible. She is a God send to me and sets the standard for ALL my friendships. (If you are not like this, now you know why we are not my friend.)  I look forward to the day that we are both in our 90s, seeing our great grandchildren, still rocking fashionable outfits and our heels, reminiscing and singing (or should I say harmonizing) to some Fred Hammond. (You know we are! LOL!)

As we give thanks for and celebrate friendship, tell your besties just how amazing they are and just how much they mean to you. (Don’t take them for granted!)  Today, we highlight an organization, Friend to Friend America (https://friendtofriendamerica.org/), which recruits and matches volunteers to visit (one-to-one) with elderly and disabled persons living in nursing, mind assisted living, retirement, and adult family homes for the purpose of forming friendships.  Please consider volunteering your time with this organization or for the price of a cup of coffee ($5) donate to help their cause to give seniors and uniquely-abled persons the opportunity to have friends.

Love ya,

Have a great day of thanks!

Day 9: Wisdom

Happy Ninth Day of Thanks!

I am so grateful for wisdom! It has allowed me to set necessary boundaries in relationships, avoid the consequences of making foolish decisions, which create irreversible damage in my life and to “let go.”

Earlier in the year, I read this incredible, mind-blowing, life changing book called “If you want to walk on water, you have to get out of the Boat” by John Ortberg. It is a must read for everyone. But, I have to warn you. Read it when you are ready to do some real clean up in your life. While I was reading the book, I committed to answering at least one of the questions posed by the book each day. (Not at all an easy task!)  There was nothing superficial about any of the questions and sometimes it took me days to scour my soul. One day I came to the question: “what is your most painful limitation?”

I started to think about all my limitations (and there are many) to figure out if they were actually “painful” or detrimental to me in a life or death kind of way.  My mind started perusing the usual list of suspects: sometimes procrastination, lack of wanting to do domestic work, being a shopaholic, hoarding, lacking in more self-care.  None of them are that detrimental or painful, I thought to myself. As I searched myself deeper and thought longer (it took two days), I finally had a eureka moment and I had to sit with the painful blow of my limitation. “I have a hard time letting go.” Not as much with things but with relationships and people. It has always been a very hard thing for me to do. Most times God has to step in the middle of things, with his stern, loud voice and say, “LET HIM/HER/IT GO!” or “MOVE ON!” It’s usually pretty hardcore because I have never wanted to feel like I am giving up on someone or something.

 As I reflected on this question more and reminisced on the many deadbeat relationships or friendships I’ve had, I realized how much pain I’ve put myself through, tolerating people’s selfishness or holding on to something that just was not meant to be. I slept with men that I had no business sleeping with. I had boyfriends and friends who loved me the way they imagined love to be but not how I needed. I had a mom who continually told me that I’d never be anything, manipulated me, and took me through emotional rollercoasters that left me feeling worst than the scum of the earth. I had a biological father who rejected me to my face. I had friends who used my kindness to get what they needed only to leave when they got it or when they thought they would never need me again. I had work relationships where I was a superwoman and got used until I was completely dried up. I completely shake my head to all of the craziness I put myself through because of my lack of boundaries, because of listening to what someone else thought I should be doing,and because I was scared to let go.

 I am happy to report that I am not that person any more. I am so much wiser now in how I choose my friendships and relationships. I can’t say that it is still not hard for me to let go anymore. That would be completely lying and falsifying facts. But, when things get one-sided or there is no mutual benefit in a relationship, I loosen up the reigns and tell the other party (parties) know that since I can’t be in a relationship by myself, it is time for me to say good-bye. In most situations, I’m less quick to pour out all of me without little in return. One of my new mottos is: “stop investing into thing and people who don’t invest into you! Always make sure there is some kind of a return on your investment.”

 I have spent the last few years getting rid of unhealthy relationships and implementing necessary boundaries. For those people who you can’t necessarily get rid of, I’ve set healthy boundaries that they cannot upset or cross. And when they cross them, our relationship shuts down until they can get back on track. No if ands or buts.

 In the midst of ridding myself of bad and unhealthy relationships and setting boundaries to establish new and healthy ones, I’ve learned about what I need to feel loved and cared for by others. I also take the time I need to shut out all of the “outside” noise and hear myself think and process situations for myself. I do not rush into situations anymore, without a thorough analysis of knowing what I will be getting myself into. I’ve learned to be content where I am and not thinking I should have or be doing what someone else thinks I should have or be doing.

Several years ago, I learned that my twin love languages (Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman) were quality time and physical touch (I love hugs!!!) So, I don’t just accept anything from anyone anymore. If I can be mindful enough to fill someone’s love tank, surely they can take the time to fill mine too. Now, in ALL relationships, I establish and require what I need to feel loved. And I’m unapologetic about it. For those who can’t handle the requirements, I politely say “good-bye” and wish them a happy and incredible life (without me!).

 I’m still a work in progress and this is still new (even after a few years of implementing it) because every person and situation has been different. But, I remain adamant about having people respect my boundaries and my ability to feel loved and respected in any given situation. I’ve welcomed some new people in my life who join the already great people who are here based on our mutual respect and love. And as I have been working on eliminating this “painful” limitation from my life, it has kick-started the need for me to start working on some of the other ones I mentioned as well. (Pray for me!)

Today as we give thanks for wisdom, I am highlighting a virtual, international, nonprofit organization called One to One Women Coaching Women (https://onetoonewomen.org/), which provides 26 week of confidential, intensive, pro-bono life coaching skills to women and veterans emerging from whatever challenging circumstances. Sometimes, we all need a little boost/help in getting our lives back on track and getting rid of old unhealthy patterns of how we do/did things. Please pass along the information to all the woman who you know could use the service and donate to help them expand their realm of help. Since most men often don’t talk about or seek outside help for some of their issues, I am suggesting that you pick up a book called He Motions by T.D. Jakes.  It has been a great resources to many of them to whom I have gifted it.

Love ya,

Have a great day of Thanks!

Day 10: Mentorship

Happy Tenth Day of Thanks! (And Happy Thanksgiving or as most of my people say Happy Anti-Imperialist Day)

Today we give thanks and celebrate mentors and mentorship.  Where would we be without mentors and the people who showed up for us? I would surely be lost because all of my mentors literally became my moms and dads. And because they all did such a great job mentoring (parenting) me, I pour out, show up for and do the same for all those I consider my “children” too.

I had the privilege of attending a private, Methodist rooted, international boarding school in Kingston, Pennsylvania at the age of thirteen for high school. It was by far one of the most unforgettable, eye-opening, wonderful experiences in my life.  (I would have definitely sent Lilah there too if she were able to go!) The high school had a mixture of day and boarding students from all walks of life, but was dominated by students from really wealthy families locally and internationally.

My mom (Ms.T) is an old-fashioned Polish woman who taught photography and was the dorm mother in the woman’s dorm for more than twenty years.  She fancied arguing with the girls in our dorm about behaving like young ladies. (I still hear her now in her thick Polish accent, “You must be a young lady!) Although she seemed tough and real strict to most of the girls in our dorm, she had the warmest heart, wanted the best for us, and loved us so much.  During my high school years, my home life was in crisis mode and purely dysfunctional. Because my mom, who was a single-parent, wasn’t working at the time, I had taken on several babysitting jobs with a few of the families on our campus to support my basic needs, while in school. I got paid monthly from the families since the teachers got paid monthly.  But, sometimes in that long stretch of waiting for my pay, I wouldn’t have enough money to wash my clothes in the washing machines or buy some of the basic hygienic necessities.  So when everyone would be completely asleep, I’d sneak to the bathroom after “lights out” with my loads of laundry and hand wash all my clothes.

One day, while I was washing my clothes Ms. T caught me. When she asked me why I was handwashing my clothes in the middle of the night, I had to admit to her that I had absolutely no money until I got paid at the end of the month. She looked me dead in the eyes (she was not letting me escape telling her my whole truth) and asked me why I didn’t tell her or the other dorm mothers my situation.  I started to cry and tell her that I was too embarrassed and ashamed. She told me to put my dirty dry clothes back in the laundry bags and the wet clothes in the bucket and to follow her down to the basement where the laundry machines were. She said, “if you had told us that you needed to wash clothes, you could have come down to wash your clothes for free. We have the keys for the machines.” She created a safe, loving space while she helped me wash my clothes and began to probe more into my family life and what was happening.  With no judgement and much love, she hugged me and let me pour out my troubles.

From that day, she told me to come by her apartment every Saturday morning.  She would check in with me to let me talk out all my problems and frustrations (I had my own pull-out couch to lay on as well!) It was on those Saturdays that she created one of the best and warmest home environments I would ever know.  She taught me how to create and make the best cakes (any and every flavor) and other baked goods from scratch.  We would make different polish and European cuisines and try out some American dishes too. Those moments are where I developed my love for cooking and baking. Until this day, for me, home is the nostalgia of smelling baked goods or food emanating from an apartment or house. Ms. T didn’t stop her lessons there, though. She would talk to me about character building, instill in me the need for academic excellence, show me how to sit up straight (like a lady!), walk in heels, sew by hand, put on make-up, teach me about photography and counsel me about healthy male-female dynamics and relationships. She gave me all the things that my mom didn’t and couldn’t during that time in my life.  It devastated me to know that I was graduating and would have to leave her.  We both cried so hard on my graduation day. Almost thirty years later, we still keep in touch and talk by skype. She knows my Lilah and is happy that all the things she taught me are being passed down to my daughter.  When I renew Lilah’s passport, we will be taking a trip to Poland in the near future to see her.
Also during my high school years, I met one of my friends for life (Bonz!) and her family. Her mother and father became my mother and father and we had the wildest, funniest, and greatest times as a family unit. (I still chuckle to myself at some of our adventures.) They even came to visit me in New York and took us all to see Bring In the Noise, Bring in Da Funk.  My dad, a five foot Jewish, Einstein-looking, doctor, would always puzzle people when he introduced his six foot black daughter, Missy, along with my other siblings.  He came to all our basketball games, took me to my Franklin & Marshall college visit, because he was determined to get one of his daughters to go to his alma mater, and encouraged me to be the doctor that I wanted to be, just like he was. (In the medical field of nephrology, his private practice made great breakthroughs for that region of Pennsylvania.) He was an amazing dad and mentor to me!

My mom, who was a sassy Italian woman, loved to cook and was very artistic. (She drew and designed her own dream house that my dad built for her! Until this day, my dream kitchen has the same island and trinkets in it.) She was one of those superwomen–she worked as a nurse, held her husband and family down, and still found time to do all these other amazing things. (I asked her recently, “mom, how did you manage to make parenting look so easy?” She sucked her teeth to that one.) She not only showed me how to cook and dream for a great future, she showed me how to have a healthy, open mother-daughter relationship. That was invaluable and I am so grateful that my daughter reaps the benefits of those lessons. Of our family, I was the no nonsense big sister, and therefore the lookout and protector –my sister could not go on any outings or long distance trips to see boyfriends without my accompaniment. (Dad was not cool with the boyfriend business!) I also know that no matter what color families are of how much money we have or don’t have, we struggle with the same issues and are all dysfunctional in our own right. 

Mom and dad also came to my rescue financially. When they found out I wasn’t go to my senior prom because I didn’t have enough money to buy both a graduation and prom dress and pay all the associated fees for these events, they stepped in and made sure that I looked like a princess and celebrated me. Mom took me shopping for my prom and graduation and made sure that I had all I needed and even showed me the required table etiquette. The entire family came to my graduation and shouted as loud as my biological family as I took almost 98% of the awards at the ceremony. They, just as Ms. T, were in all of my family photos. After moving on to college and medical school, dad always checked on me and wanted to know where I was and what I was doing. Dad passed away this summer. Before he died, he made sure that my sister called me to tell me what was happening and to make sure I was there to sit Shiva with them. I remember all the life lessons that he taught me and hope that I am still making him proud.

My other mothers and mentors I meant in medical school–interestingly enough they are both pastors. One has her own house church in Cuba and taught me everything about being one of those old mothers of the church who had a direct connection to God and could pray down an answer from heaven. Fasting and intercessory prayer are a lifestyle for her and she would slay the kingdom of darkness and doesn’t play when it comes to being holy before God. She taught me everything about and equipped me for ministry and planting a church. My other mother is a world changer in the field of maternal infant health and dares, every day, to save black and brown babies and shows me how to do the same.   She is a God send and has been my life line on more occasions than I can count.  She is a doula, is a wife, moves mountains and is a strong advocate for the “right way” to do maternal-infant and public health on several continents in many nations. She even convinced some people to build her a clinic (our H.E.Arts center is coming too) to take care of the women and children to whom her nonprofit catered.  I want to be just like her when I grow up and she pours into me to do just that!

My last mother and mentor is a brilliant SHERO who was the first Puerto Rican woman in the Bronx to have her own construction company and build many great projects in the Bronx.  With her four-foot something frame and doctorate of economics, she can dance circles around any administrative task and turn any business upside down and inside out for the better.  When I say she is intelligent, creative, has a gift for business and administration, that numbers and strategies come so easily to her and that she makes the best cranberry sauce in this side of the world (where is my thanksgiving cranberry sauce, mom?), it’s an understatement. I have had the privilege to be her understudy on so many occasions and she has opened so many doors for great opportunities that have blessed me. She teaches me her business savvy, about her naturally occurring talents and shows me how to be a great mom and grandma.  I love her so much and want to be just like her too.

I have so many more mentors and so many more stories but I’ll rest there. 

I know that I am not alone. There have been people (mentors) who showed up for you and invested in your life in significant ways, which has impacted who you are and have become. And just as they did for you, you are now obligated, required, and mandated to do the same for someone else. Most of you do not have to go very far–Pookie and them live right across the hall!  There are children in your schools, in your churches, in your neighborhoods who need you to show them that you are invested in them and willing to take the time to love on them, even when they are not excelling. Today we highlight the organization, MENTOR, (MENTOR promotes, advocates and is a resource for mentoring) that is a great resource for connecting youth to quality mentors to impact and change their lives.  Please consider donating your time and your resources to help expand their work and reach the lives of young people.

Love ya,

Have a great day of thanks! Happy Thanksgiving!

Next installment, days 11 – 15.

MT days 1-5

My friend Melissa has been doing a 30 days of Thanks journey in which  she shares her reflections on her life.  It is with her permission that I have created this blog post.  Her writing is powerful.  Be prepared to cry, laugh, be confused, get frustrated, and be caught up in deep hopefulness.  And, she gives suggestions on where to direct your financial activism.

Welcome to MELLISSA’S THANKS:

Day 1: Thanks for the Breath of Life

Happy First Day of Thanks!

Today we give honor, tribute, and Thanks for the Breath of Life and the Air that we breathe.

Have you ever really thought about breathing or the air that we breathe and how important it is to us? Have you thought about what all has to happen for our lungs to undergo the processes of inspiration and expiration? (It’s okay if I am the only weird one by professional design.)  Because breathing is such an involuntary act or process, meaning that we don’t have to tell or remind ourselves to do it, you and I have probably had more moments in our lives where we have undervalued just how amazingly precious this gift is.

But, for those of us who have or are dealing with respiratory ailments, who care for sick loved ones, or have dealt with death, we have had chance encounters with the air that we breathe and the process of breathing that humbles us greatly.  My daughter has had catamenial seizures (hormone/menstrual-induced seizures) since she hit puberty at 7 ½ years old. The area of her brain specifically affected in her seizure state is called the temporoparietal operculum. This region of the brain is responsible for parts and  functions of the body that include the larynx, vocal cords, facial muscles, salivation, and some of the muscles crucial for the respiration process.  The seizures in this region usually also occur in one’s sleep.   Many times when Lilah has a seizure, with each menstrual cycle, no matter the duration, part of her air supply is cut off.  Over the past eight years, I’ve seen Lilah have close encounters with death because there was no possibility of her getting air into her lungs during a seizure.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how devastating those experiences were; they left me shook up for weeks at a time.  However, each time Delilah reached the post-ictal stage of her seizure and I knew she was going to be okay; I thanked God for letting her breathe another moment in time. But, I also thought of the other children who didn’t make it through their seizure and prayed for their grieving families. (There were two children in Lilah’s school who died last year due to seizures in their sleep.)  Often, I think of and pray for the children and adults who have chronic asthma, COPD, chronic bronchitis and heart disease which keep them consistently in and out of the hospital and begging for a chance to breathe their next breaths.  Expanding my thought process and concern on a more global scale, I even think and pray for of all of the urban communities, like mine, who suffer through the worst air pollution and air quality that make it even more difficult for us to breathe and enjoy a healthy quality of life.

Every day, before I start my day, my regimen consist of taking five (5) real deep breaths, holding it in for a few seconds, and then letting the air out of my lungs slowly. You should try it, if you have never done so.  It’s refreshing, revitalizing and healing. Afterwards, I thank God for another opportunity to breathe another breath and surrender myself to God’s plan for my day.

Sometimes, the environments and world in which we live can be such a tough place. The good thing is that we can all care a little more about the suffering of other people and do our part to make our environments better. So today, as we give thanks for breathing and the air that we breathe. Take time to do a simple act of give back.  If you are a smoker, think of cutting down or quitting to not affect someone (ie. your children, family members, neighbors) who is passively breathing in the pollution.  In my community of the South Bronx, there is a community green space, Maria Sola, on 134th Street & Lincoln Avenue Bronx NY 1044, that always needs volunteers to plant trees and daffodils, build ponds, and keep the grounds tidy. Come out and help! If you can’t help in our green space, find your local community garden and invest your time and donate there. If you are one of those put your money where your mouth is kind of people, like I am, you may go a little further and donate to a great organization like American Forests, at Home – American Forests who do amazing work to restore forests. No amount of money is too small. Their 2018 goal was to plant three million trees. Now that is what I call great a vision to provide folk with a great opportunity to breathe some clean, quality air.

Have a Great Day of Thanks!

Day 2:  Thanks for Shelter

Happy Second Day of Thanks

A few years ago, I was living during one of the best and worst of times in my life. My daughter and I became homeless and had to live within the NYC shelter system. (Although I did not know or understand the purpose of why I had to be there at the time, in retrospect, it was absolutely necessary for my character, vocational development, and God’s purpose to be fulfilled.) It was the first time that I had seen poverty rear its ugly head and understood why and how cycles of poverty were perpetuated within generations of a family.  Our shelter in Harlem had some of the most deplorable conditions of black mold, asbestos, lead-based paint and hazardous materials, which directly affected the health and well being of the clients and their children, especially the asthmatics. My first room there was mice infested because there were so many uncovered holes in the walls and floors.  We barely got sleep the first week, because “Jimmy and his cousins” decided that they would use our SRO (single room occupancy) as a playroom when the lights went out. A significant portion of the room’s ceiling had fallen and was never replaced.  They covered it with a false ceiling that would fall when there was flooding from the room above. In the summers, there was an overwhelmingly, exhausting heat because the old building had no air conditioners. In the winter, when the boiler broke, we had no water and some rooms, were extremely frozen because there were no working electrical radiators to provide heat.

One of the young girls living in the shelter kept getting bit by the cockroaches that infested her room, which was converted from a hallway closet and had no bathroom in it. Because she was allergic, her body had whelps all over it.  When her dad, an undocumented immigrant, begged for a change of rooms, he was threatened with deportation from his case worker. The manager of our hotel was a working “junkie” and gang leader who was also the drug dealer and supplier for our shelter’s residents. There were a few drug raids, one which occurred during our second week in the shelter, which involved all but two apartments on the second floor section of the shelter where Lilah and I lived. I remember asking God to always keep Delilah from seeing and experiencing anything negative while we lived in that place. Thank God those prayers were answered! She missed every drug raid, every falling ceiling, every room reconstruction, and the clearing of our room from the mold. (My friend has a jar that she puts money in for her son’s future therapy. I’m sure that I’m going to need a trust fund for the experiences Lilah did have in that place!!! LOL!)

With these existing horrible conditions, can anyone explain how the Department of Homeless services allowed this shelter to pass inspection each time? How was it possible that this shelter, like many others pimping off someone’s poverty, made $2133 per month for each room to house a family in those conditions? Market rate value for many two and three bedroom apartments in the city didn’t even cost that kind of money during the time. So, why couldn’t families in shelters have access to real apartments and affordable housing if the city was willing to pay a slumlord for them to live in a dump? (Shaking My Head!!!!!)

Living in a shelter was where I learned, for the first time, that all the statistics about starving and impoverished children were actually true.  And I was enraged!!!!!  (I fight to the death for a child!) It was where my roots as a social activist/organizer came to a full circle and I became more involved with and deeply entrenched in the issues that affected the families living in that shelter.  I would teach the families how to advocate for better living conditions in their spaces and write letters for the families whose head of households were illiterate.  I’d cook and make sure there was food and formula for some of the mothers by connecting them with a pantry who could supplement food when their food stamps ran out. Many of the families, with neonates, would get turned off of welfare and have no formula for their children.  I arranged a Thanksgiving dinner for the families in the shelter. I’d always bring back several copies of housing applications and resources for the families and the case workers to give to their clients. I connected with a local church to supply toys for all the children in the shelter during several Christmases, even after we moved out. I arranged a hair and make-up day for the mothers within the shelter during Mother’s Day weekend, which increased the morale of all the woman who participated, incredibly.  The caseworkers (except one) and staff loved me because I was basically an addition to their team.

I learned that so many myths about people who lived in shelters were untrue.  You are required to have a job while living in a shelter–no one free loads! The city/state forces you to get on welfare to live in the shelter system.  Although I did not want to be on welfare, I had to get on welfare to live there.  Can you believe that I received $15 per month of food stamps for my daughter and I to eat? If I didn’t have a job, could I have ever survived on that? Most people who know my daughter, knows she can eat that for snack!

As terrible as it was to live in that shelter and experience the horrific day to day of poverty, I had a clear understanding that my situation was different than most of the families there because that place was just a pit stop for me.  I don’t even want to  imagine what it would be like for the shelter system to be a forever station for me.  But, unfortunately, it is just that for many of the families who are there.  The bright light of hope in my eyes still managed to have a flicker and stay lit, while it had completely left many of the eyes I encountered in that shelter daily. Let’s just say that the manager, the caseworker who hated me, and the assistant commissioner of the department of homeless services were tired of me and wanted me out of the shelter much sooner than later, when I got done wreaking havoc.  I reported the shelter to HPD so many times; each time the agents came to inspect the apartments, they fined the landlord over $10,000 per room for the atrocities they found in each room  and gave him a strict deadline of when all the repairs had to be complete.  Of course, I taught all the residents how to do the same reporting. I was told by staff that the manager had a meeting with them and told them to find every possible way to get me an infraction and kicked out. But, when God has you covered, “No weapon formed against you will ever prosper!”

Delilah and I finally got our own place to live (our current domain) as an early Christmas present in December of that year (by accident). My caseworker got an anonymous call from an assistant administrator who worked at DHS one day, saying that she couldn’t reveal who she was but God had told her to call my caseworker to  inform me that I had an interview the next day for my current apartment.  She said that there was a plot by her boss to “punish me” for all I had done in the shelter that I was in. Although I got interviews for several apartments earlier (and woul have been accepted), they purposely didn’t call me to let me know. Thus, I couldn’t move out of the shelter and stayed much longer than I had to. This lady said she was told to warn us so that I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to live in my new apartment in a new building in a great location, which would be perfect for my family.  The rest is history (almost!)

The lessons I have learned from the shelter were invaluable.  Not only did I know that everyone, no matter who they are, should have access to a decent place to call home; I learned that with some real political will they could have access to a decent place to call home. If I didn’t learn anything else, I learned that I am a survivor who keeps my joy in all circumstances!!! (I survived my own hell on earth experience!) What killed and destroyed others, emotionally and mentally, gave me the strength and determination to keep pressing towards the mark. I also learned that no one can or should be defined by his or her situation. (People will try to keep you in your past if you let them!)

I love, appreciate, and treasure my apartment. Although it doesn’t always look like it and could definitely use some cleaning and much more organization (don’t even think about judging me!)– I am always looking for volunteers to do this work—It’s ours and a really decent place to call home. Delilah and I have peace of mind. After seven years, we have never had to share it with vermin and “jimmy and his cousin” have never laid foot in it. (Thank God for angels that secure the place!)

During my time in the shelter, I was working with a group called “The Poverty Initiative,” at Union Theological Seminary (Kairos Center) which works on global projects to eradicate poverty in the world. I became published with one of my poems being selected in a book created by the Poverty Initiative called “Out of the Depths: Poetry of Poverty, Courage and Resilience.” I sold a few copies of the book to donate the proceeds back to the Poverty Initiative. I still have a few copies if anyone wants to buy them. All proceeds will go to the Poverty Initiative which is housed by Kairos the Center for Religions, Rights and Social Justice (https://kairoscenter.org/poverty-initiative/). I also worked with and became acquainted with a great organization called Picture the Homeless (http://picturethehomeless.org/) and began to advocate more for the homeless and children because I realized how they were truly the voiceless in our society.

Today as I give thanks for shelter, I ask that you remember that there are millions of people who you pass on the streets, in the trains and in subways who don’t have it and are longing for a hot meal, clean clothes, a nice bath, a bed to lay their heads and a hope for a better tomorrow. Help in the small ways you can! A smile, an encouraging word, and some change go a long way, but advocating to change policy with elected officials to clean up the shelter system and provide affordable housing for families that need it is the lasting change that we need to see.

Love ya,

Have a great day of Thanks!

Melissa

Day 3: Divine Provision

Happy Third Day of Thanks Everyone!

Today I’m so grateful to God for Divine Provision

Have you ever had a moment where you remember where you were a few years ago and (for my church folk) you wonder how you got over? And you know that it is only by the grace of God that you made it. Whew! I’ve been there more than enough times to count.

While I was in medical school for six years, a relative ran my credit card up to more than $50,000 without me knowing it.  A week before my graduation, I got a call from a debt collector, who was given my international phone number by the person who ran up the debt, telling me that I owed them over fifty-thousand dollars and they wanted their money. My initial reaction was total shock. Then rage began to set in because I was beyond pissed.  I told the bill collector that I had no idea what he was talking about, how that tab was created and who incurred the debt because I had been living out of the country for several years. He began to explain to me that unless I was ready to bring up criminal charges on the person, I was going to be responsible for the debt.  I was just finishing school and about to graduate in a week; I had no job or money to pay a cent of the debt so I kindly explained to the gentleman that I would handle the matter when I got home, and pay the company when I got a job.

Since I decided not to press criminal charges, I was responsible for paying that debt. If you have ever been in debt, you know about the endless, harassing calls debt collectors make to your home, your job, and your cell phone. Each time, I would tell them, I don’t have a job yet but when I get one you will be the first to know and you will start to receive your money.  I finally got a job and, after extracting the money for my tithes and offering, rent, and food, the credit card company would get lump sums of money to tackle that $50,000 debt. I didn’t do any extra activities that required me to spend money; I made my lunch at home and maintained a strict budget to pay as much of the debt back on a monthly basis.

After several months of paying that large sum of money, I had a nice long conversation with God during my prayer time and mentioned all my grievances. I couldn’t get a place to live because my credit was shot.  I spent so much money trying to pay back the debt that my daughter and I could not enjoy any leisurely time together.  I let him know how unjust I thought it was that I was paying back someone else’s debt. I also gave him back God’s word. Every sentence I used started like this: “You said in your word…” and after I began to belt out every promise that gave me access to justice and divine intervention as God’s child, to have my name and the debt cleared.

A few days after my grievance prayer, I was in church and the pastor was asking for a special offering for the new building the church was about to build. As I was sitting there, the Holy Spirit (for those of you who are not believers and are interested to know more about the Holy Spirit, we can talk offline later) told me to give $500 for the offering. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I pouted to myself, “Lord, why would you be telling me to give that much in this offering, when you know I need that money to pay these debt collectors so they can stop harassing me!” because I sure didn’t have the courage to ask or say it out loud. I am a firm believer that “obedience is better than sacrifice” and that when God tells me to do something, no matter how outrageous it seems, I better do it. So, I chalked up the money for the offering.  Little did I know that God was making a miracle with my faith to trust Him at what the Word of God says.

Two days later, in my Morning Prayer and Bible reading time, the Holy Spirit began to speak to me and lead me to the passage of scripture in Exodus 14:13.  When I read the words, they leaped off the page and connected with the core of my soul. I just knew that there was a release with that scripture passage.  I got ready and walked the twenty five minutes to my job.  Ten minutes after I opened my office door, I got a call from the debt collecting agency. He said, “Good morning Ms. Barber, I am calling to see if you want to cancel your debt with us today.” I got so excited because that was the release that I felt in my spirit that same morning.  I told the debt collector, “Yes, sir! God told me this morning that I wouldn’t see this Egyptian after today. I want to settle this debt today for $5000.” Of course, he thought I was insane and said that my settlement price was way too low. I told him to go talk to his boss, representing me as a Child of God, and tell him that my daddy said that I wasn’t going to see this debt after today. He put me on hold for 30 min and I begin to pray(those move mountains faith prayers). When he came back, he told me that his boss said he would settle for ten thousand plus dollars. I told him that he didn’t hear me well and to go back to his boss and tell him that my father, God in Heaven, told me that the debt was getting settled today and that we had to settle for $5000. When he went back this time for another 20 minutes, I was praying those bulls-eye, fire prayers. The debt collector came back and said, “I’m sorry ma’am but my boss said that he is willing to settle for $7,550 and no less because you are asking him to settle for less than 1% of your debt, which is unheard of.  I have been working for this Jewish man for 26 years and he has never done that before.” I told the representative once more, “Go back to your Jewish boss and tell him that my father in heaven said that we must settle this matter today because according to Exodus 14:13, I wasn’t going to see this debt/problem/Egyptian after today.” The representative got very scared and asked me to please not send him back to his boss because he was sure that this last bother would also get him fired. I told him, “listen to me. You will not get fired.  Do you know who my father, God, is? You are representing me, his daughter, and since he already told me in his word that we were settling this debt today, don’t worry! God will have you covered. Now go back to your boss and tell him that we are going to settle for $5000 today so that I will not have to see this Egyptian anymore.” He went back to his boss and I prayed. He came back 5 minutes later and said, “I have no idea what you did but this is unheard of! My boss said, “who is this lady? Give her what she wants already! I can’t take it. My chest is about to explode and I can’t take it anymore!” And we settled the debt for $5000 that very day. And I never had to deal with that debt collector ever again after that day. (Never mess with a praying woman!!!!!)

I thanked the gentleman profusely for being patient with me and told him that if he was ever in NY that I would take him to lunch or dinner.  Since he was still completely bewildered and awe struck by all that just happened and my faith and trust in God, I told him that if he didn’t know Jesus the Christ, he should get to know Him. I told him about Jesus and salvation and said that he had just witnessed and experienced a perfect example of how my God defended his children. (I look back at that moment now and know that Mr. Gregory must have thought I was insane and had lots of nerve almost putting his job in jeopardy.) God heard my prayer and answered it.

So do you trust God at His words? How much do you trust him? Are you in need of a miracle? Are you willing to step out on faith to receive it? Has God told you to give something of yourself that seems incredibly outrageous to your normal mind? Then give it and watch God bless you in return. Obedience is always better than sacrifice.

That experience happened years ago and it made me a firmer believer in what God does for his children. Some disagree on paying tithes and giving an offering to the church, and it is your right to believe what you want.  But, I do it, standing on the promises of Malachi 3:10 and have seen God tremendously bless me and my family with his divine provision, through people, over and over again when everything should show lack.

I have been visiting a church that I have seen do the work of Jesus Christ (feed the hungry, help the poor and widows, heal the sick and set the captives free) and where I believe is great ground to sow money into since they are doing the work of Jesus. I am highlighting the ministry of Pastor Ed Citronelli of World Healing International Church in Yonkers, NY. (http://whichurchny.com/)However, if you know of a church/mosque/synogogue  that is doing the work of Jesus, I encourage you to sow into that ministry as well. If you are in need of a miracle, deliverance and you have tried everything else and it has failed. Try Jesus!  Jesus works and is always the best remedy.

Love ya,

Have a Great Day of Thanks!

Day 4: Thanks for Unconditional Love

Happy Fourth Day of Thanks!

I can remember from the time I was about nine years old my aunt Phyllis, in her NYC drawl, saying to me “Melissa, never marry or settle for a man who doesn’t treat you like your uncle Freddie treats me!” I would always observe her and my uncle’s relationship and marriage so that I knew to what I was supposed to be comparing mine. And if I’m being totally honest, what she said and what I saw stuck to me and is so ingrained in my mind and heart that it’s as if she branded those words on my brain. I’m probably still single and afraid (more like terrified!) of commitment because of her words and the demonstration of their marriage. Once you know something you can’t un-know it.  And I’m not (nor will I ever be) willing to settle for less than what I know is possible.

My uncle Freddie worshipped the ground my aunt walked on. He worked hard and brought his entire check home; he cooked, cleaned, and washed laundry. My aunt never had to lift a finger. As I was growing up, I would hear his words to her: “all you have to do is sit there and be your pretty self for me!” He took her on vacations. They talked and laughed together; made decisions together and functioned as one. They were the kind of couple you made fun of because they would even wear matching outfits from time to time. They were such an impenetrable unit and their love was so strong. My uncle loved her dirty draws (as we say). For more than thirty years, I thought my aunt had a fairytale husband and a fairytale marriage and to a certain extent she did. What I didn’t know, and found out from my uncle after her death, is that to have that kind of unconditional love, it cost her so much. But, she was willing to sacrifice everything for it.

My aunt was raised a devout Catholic and firmly believed in the no sex before marriage rule. (I’m so glad she did because, ultimately, her belief saved her life.) She worked in a hospital at the time and one of the elderly patients who loved my aunt and thought she was so cute told her since he couldn’t date her, he wanted to introduce her to his grandson, my uncle Freddie. She met my uncle about 10 years after her first husband died and they hit it off really well. They traditionally courted for several years until he finally popped the question and asked her to marry him.

After getting the necessary blood work done in preparation for the marriage licenses and the wedding ceremony, they discovered that my uncle had HIV. He told my aunt that they couldn’t go through with the marriage because he couldn’t live with the idea of her getting sick or infected because of him. With tears in his eyes, my uncle said to me, “Melissa, she loved me so much. You know what she said to me? ‘I don’t care what that test says. You are my husband; I love you and we’ll get through this together.’ She never left me. She never cheated on me. She really, really loved me.” And never telling a soul about my Uncle Freddie’s condition, she married him and for the next thirty five years of their lives, loved, honored, protected, nurtured and cherished him.

She never thought that her ability to care for him would be cut short but, my aunt was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She prayed and willed herself better to love and take care of her husband; she survived a 28 hour Whipple surgery and lived through 8 years in remission after her first diagnosis. When her cancer came back the second time around, it came back with a vengeance.  After a year and one half of treatment, the doctors said nothing could be done and sent her home to die. I put together a team of naturalist and we came up with a plan to keep the cancer at bay for as long as we could and we did for about 5 more months. My aunt, on her hospice bed at home, would ask for Freddie so that she could hold his hand in the stillness and warmth of the makeshift room environment and fall to sleep in his arms. They would talk, laugh and make promises to each other even then.

As she got closer to her death and the sequelas of the multiple strokes set in, I started to notice that things were not right with my uncle Freddie. I had spent so much time focusing on my aunt’s care that, although I noticed he didn’t look well, I chalked it up to the stress level of knowing that the love of his life was leaving him. When I started noticing other signs and symptoms, I asked both of them what was going on with him. He barked at me and told me to mind my “damn business.” She stayed quiet but I reminded her that I was a well trained physician who would wait for her to tell me the truth, even though I already knew what the deal was.

A week later as she was in the hospice bed at the hospital, she confessed to me “he has the cancer” and begged me to promise that I would care for my uncle Freddie for her when she was gone. I couldn’t say no to her. She was one of my best friends and took care of me as if I were her own daughter since I was a small child. She was also the matriarch of our family.

After arranging all the details of my aunts funeral and her estate, and the day after burying her, my focus had to completely shift to caring for my uncle Freddie. My uncle had wasted away to almost nothing and could barely sit through the repass of my aunt’s funeral because he was so weak. The day after her funeral, he finally confessed to me that he had AIDS and asked me to promise that I wouldn’t tell the rest of our family. He was still struggling deeply with the shame, stigma, and embarrassment of his condition. I encouraged him to tell his biological children and eventually he did. [He begged his daughter to keep it a secret but she didn’t and it caused havoc in my family for several weeks. My entire family wanted to know if he infected my aunt with the HIV virus and if that was the real reason she died. To some I even had to show her health records to prove that she was never infected.] My uncle  said that his condition got as bad as it did because he couldn’t afford the medications any more. Although there were free programs for him to receive the medication, because he struggled with the stigma of HIV and didn’t want anyone to know his status, he never applied for the programs and set out to pay for the medicines himself.

Within the next 8 months, I became his only caregiver, his health and financial proxy, his round the clock nurse, social worker, pastor, and his confidant. It was the most chaotic time in my life because I had to balance every minute of time to make everything fit. I had my full time job, parenthood (Lilah is another full time job), caring for Uncle Freddie (another full time job) and was trying to grieve the loss of my aunt.

Uncle Freddie became really difficult to deal with and didn’t want anyone else to care for him but me, which was almost impossible. Most people would get distant because his wound smelled like rotting, putrid flesh and he would curse everyone out. I was the only one who had the patience to tolerate him, did the wound care effectively and made a promise to stay. All his tantrums and meanness was because he was so ashamed of the depth and smell of the wounds the Karposi sarcoma left on his entire legs and groin area.

When he could no longer stay home and I had to put him in the nursing home, I would dedicate my entire Saturdays to him and some weekdays that didn’t interfere with Lilah’s schedule, making sure he had everything he needed. On the Saturdays that I couldn’t come he wouldn’t eat and be so depressed, just to get me there. It was on our Saturday encounters that we prayed, read scripture, talked about his transition and my aunt. He would tell me stories of their entire love affair from beginning to end. By the time he was finished, we’d both be covered in tears.

My mind was blown by how much they loved each other and how much my aunt sacrificed to love him and stay with him. She was so courageous and defined for me a new level of unconditional love.  I always wonder if I would or could have done what she did. She was willing to uphold the covenant of marriage and the vows that she made before she even spoke them, because they were already sealed in her heart. And even on her deathbed, like Jesus, she was leaving the person she loved into the hands of someone she knew would completely care for him the exact way she would if she were still alive. She embodied I Corinnthians 13:4-8: Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogantor rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.Love never ends.

That is love! And she loved him.

I always think about how her gift of love came in such an unconventional package. If she had discarded the gift because of the packaging, she would have never experienced thirty five years of the best, awe striking, unconditional love that God had for her. Do you or have you or will you and I throw away a valuable gift that encloses love in it because the packaging is not what we expect it to be? I know so many people who do.

Today as we celebrate and give thanks for the gift of unconditional love, if you are married, celebrate your love for your spouse. Perhaps, you want to experience “A Love Affair: the Ultimate Date Night Experience” when my team and I have our next event.  If you are not married, celebrate the unconditional love you have for your friends, relatives and children. For me, I have loved and am very grateful to have loved. But, my earthly unconditional love thus far has only been for my baby girl, Delilah Christina Barber. In the attachment of today’s email, I have enclosed the poem, Black Love Unconditional, which I wrote for my aunt and uncle, and read with Freddie’s permission at his funeral. In his death, he wanted everyone to know that he finally got over his fears of people knowing his status, just how much my aunt loved him and how grateful he was for all her love. Enjoy it and help me continue the celebration of their love.

Today, I am also highlighting these great organizations The Alliance for Positive Change (http://alliance.nyc/) and ACRIA(www.acria.org )that care for and provide education to patients with HIV and AIDS. Acria is one of the leading organizations, internationally, that has brought the first-ever activist, community-based approach to the study of new treatments for HIV.  Please find it in your heart to volunteer your services to these NYC based organization and give financial donation to them. ACRIA also has a shop of artwork that is sold to raise money for the educational programs and research that they do.

Love Ya,

Have a great day of thanks!

Day 5: Positive Identity 

Happy Fifth Day of Thanks Everyone!

Aside note: Over the course of the next 25 days, you will see me share stories about my wonderful daughter, Delilah Christina. Not only am i a very proud parent and single mom, but it is through her and my experiences with her that I have been molded into a better person in so many way. She has taught me to gauge my parenting skills, how to listen and communicate more effectively, how to boldly advocate for the oppressed, how to have incredible resilience and strength, as well as how to love unconditionally.  Today, she turns 16 years old! (Make sure that you all send her a birthday shout out in every language you know, to fulfill our annual tradition of receiving the happy birthday song in every language possible on her day.  Birthdays are our absolute favorite time!!!!!

In my reflection today, I give thanks for Identity, particularly a strong, positive, affirming identity.

When I was in med school, I lived with some beautiful dark-skinned Nigerian women. During a group conversation, one of the young ladies, mentioned that she didn’t think she was beautiful because, unlike her mother and sisters, she wasn’t endowed with light-skinned features to pass for white or long straight hair.  Hearing her and so many woman with her similar features down-grade their beauty based on the darker hue of their skin concerned me, because I was raising a beautiful dark-skinned child whose sense of self I didn’t want to be warped in that way.  From that moment, I knew that I would be working overtime as a parent to make sure that my daughter, Delilah Christina, saw beauty in all that she was created to be.  The take away mantra/life lesson for Delilah is: “You need to know and define for yourself who you are and whose you are so that no one (not even me!) will dare to do it for you.” Coupled with that ideology, I’ve always taught her that neither the labels of “Autism” or “Epilepsy” will create barriers to limit her from conquering the world or any other thing she sets out to do. (I’m sure it must sometimes “suck” to have a mom like me because there are never any excuses tolerated or acceptable!)

I’ve watched the evolution of my child, who is now 16 today. (OMG! I still can’t believe I have a sixteen year old). And in spite of this world and its non equal opportunity for women, Blacks, and the disabled, I am really amazed and awestruck at how intelligent, beautiful, independent, fierce, expressive and unique she is.  She knows it too, but not in a vain or conceited way.  So today, I thought I’d highlight being thankful for strong, positive identity, giving a shout out to Girl power,  and take you through the evolution of Lilah’s expression of identity so that you can see just what I mean for yourself.

While Delilah was in sixth grade, I re-wrote her Black History Month curriculum, providing all of the literature for her teacher and the six girls in her class, with the intention of exploring themes to:

  1. reinforce and affirm, positive racial identity, “blackness” and beauty
  2. highlight black women (inventors, activist, scientist, healers) who have made significant contributions to American History
  3. feature the role children and young adults had in the Civil Rights movements
  4. Convey Resistance and Social Activism as part of African American History

One of the books her class was to read that addressed Racial Identity & the diversity of African American colors and hair textures was “The Color of Us.” It was an awesome book that the 6 girls in the class absolutely loved.  One of the activities was to reread the book and draw a portrait of themselves.  That night I asked Lilah to draw a portrait of herself. Of course, it doesn’t help that I am a doctor, a social scientist, and black conscious, because I tend to scrutinize children a little more than the average folk. Although it was a fun exercise for her, I was evaluating mentally how she identifies herself in the context of what she really looks like and if she was aware of her surroundings and capturing everything in her environment when she drew the portrait. I was jumping for joy (and screaming in my head “That’s my baby!”) when I saw that she  drew herself as a beautiful, big-lipped, big-nosed, hipped, dred-locked, happy, BLACK child who rocked her activist t-shirt (ENOUGH!) to stop the blockade against CUBA (see attachments). I told you all that my baby is fierce! In that moment, I knew that I could go ahead and pat myself on the back. She knew exactly who she was and showed up in that portrait as her authentic self. (Go ‘head, Lilah!) Don’t you wish all our young girls could be and feel like that all the time?

Let’s fast forward to thirteen years old when she came home and told me that she wanted her hair cut.  I was devastated that my baby didn’t want the dredlocks that had been growing on her head for seven years anymore. She kept secretly cutting pieces of her dredlocks because she was too scared to tell me that she didn’t want them anymore.  When she realized that I would wait a day or two to fix the bald spot she created (Yes, I’m that mom who makes you live with the consequences and wear your decision, no matter how crazy it looks!), she mustered the courage to say, “Mommy, cut hair!” I responded, “Finally! You don’t have to sneak to do anything! You can always tell me what’s on your mind and what you want!” I told her that we’d start small with a cute afro since we didn’t know what kind of head shape was lurking under all that hair. (I was way more vain about it than she was.)

We did two weeks of the afro, when she decided to tell me, “Mommy, cut more!” She wanted a clean-shaven head. In my mind, I thought she had lost her. But, she was determined to get the look she wanted, especially for her graduation coming a few days later. Lilah and I trusted one of our best friends, who is really family, to give her the cut. I never saw a bigger smile on her face as the day she got that first hair cut.  It was a major moment of her expressing her creative idea of what beauty for her would look like. [This was before the blockbuster Black Panther movie too.] And she looked absolutely stunning! I’m not saying that because I’m biased and her mom. See for yourself! The cut suited her perfectly. She rocks her clean shave and usually doesn’t let me go passed an inch of growth.

At fifteen, Ms. Diva (another name for Delilah now) comes home and says, “mommy, want hair.”  My response was “okay. We’ll grow it out.” It grew to an inch and she started flipping out in her teenage way saying, “Mommy, cut!”  I respond, “Didn’t you just say that you wanted hair? Make up your mind!”  She comes home two days later and says, “Mommy, want wig!” I said, “Oh! That’s what you meant!” Although that was a very “interesting” request, I was so proud of her because she had gone through all the trouble to notice and find out what a wig was and then learn the word to come home and ask me for one. Since I don’t have the first clue about wigs, I asked my cousin where to go and how I should shop for one.  We went to a store and they wouldn’t let us try on more than two wigs, which would not work for Lilah’s curiosity. I ended up purchasing some cheap wigs online for her to explore. (Comical adventure! See pics) Some looked like a hot mess! There was one that she decided to work with and make it look like she wanted. This child used my most expensive shampoos, products and grease to turn this wig into her own master piece. I even had to get mannequins for the wig to sit on! I was floored when she was done; that wig’s ‘do was cute but in my head I was thinking, did you really have to use my good stuff?

Most of you who know Delilah know that she is also diva-licious with fashion too. Clothes and accessories have always been her thing. (I think she inherited that from my aunt Phyllis.) My auntie always told her to look cute, rocking some earrings, and nice clothes. And ninety percent of the time she does just that! If you only knew of some of the battles in the morning to get dressed because she didn’t want to wear something I had chosen or the countless times I had to run back to my apartment, as we were rushing to her school bus, just to get the pair of earrings she left in the house. (SMH!) I also think she got the clean shave from my aunt too, whose final hairstyle was exactly the same during her fight with pancreatic cancer.

These years of creative expression have been an adventure, but I am definitely a PROUD MOMMY!!!!!! From the moment I welcomed her into the world at 4:16 pm on November 17, 2002 and committed to cherish, love, and protect her, I’ve been trying my best to be the best mom she could ever possibly have. And today, I say that I am beyond grateful for my daughter (she is so lovable and amazing!) showing me how important it is to have her own voice and a strong, positive, affirming identity.

Today as we give thanks, take some time to reflect on who you are and evaluate if you are showing up in every situation as your authentic self.  Additionally, make sure that you are doing everything you can to empower and mentor young girls. Affirm their intelligence and beauty every chance you get because this world is very cruel to them. On a larger scale, please consider giving financial support to one or all of these organizations: The Uniquely-Abled Girl Scout Troop, started by Ms. Irene Watson, empowers young girls with who are differently-abled to learn leadership, character development, and social skills through the Girl Scouts model. You can send a check or money order to Irene Watson  with UMG1151 noted in the memo field and send it to 825 Gerard Avenue, Apartment 6C, Bronx, NY 10451. Irene has done wonders for Delilah’s and these young girl’s confidence and self esteem; Delilah will leave me for her Ms. ReRe in a hot second. Please do not forget this amazing woman and all the work she does for young girls with disabilities. (She is currently in the process of setting up a paypal for the troop so if this old fashion payment system deters you from giving, talk to me and I can arrange another payment system to get Ms. Watson your donation.) She will give you a tax deductible receipt. Gyrl Wonder (About), started by Tola Lawal, engages girls through their four pillars of Self Care, Self Image, Empowerment and Development. BLACK GIRLS ROCK! (Donate) started by Beverly Bond, is dedicated to enlightening girls through leadership (BLACKGIRLS LEAD Conference), education (SATURDAY ENRICHMENT Institute and GIRLS ROCK TECH) and positive identity development.  (See: https://www.gyrlwonder.org/ and https://blackgirlsrock.com/)

Love ya,

Have a Great Day of Thanks!

Next installment, days 6 – 10.

 

Melissa’s Thanks

My friend Melissa has been doing a 30 days of Thanks journey in which  she shares her reflections  on her life.  It is with her permission that I have created this blog post.  Her writing is powerful.  Be prepared to cry, laugh, be confused, get frustrated, and be caught up in deep hopefulness.  Melissa wrote the following preface before beginning her sharing:

If you are receiving this email, i have decided to include you in my journey for the next 30 days of giving thanks for anything and everything for which I am grateful.

During this time, I will be sharing reflections, short stories and anecdotes about my “interesting” life experiences associated to the theme of my thanks. I realize that some of my sharing will expose me at my core and make me considerably vulnerable to your thoughts, opinions, and attitudes. However, I am willing to do that. If my experiences bless you enough to deal with and confront yourselves and your issues and set you free from the bondage of suffering in silence, then we are right on track to doing some great things together. 

My hope is to bless and inspire you to be thankful as well. But, ultimately my goal is for you and I to put that gratefulness into action. Each day, i’ll try to highlight great people and organizations that are doing the work to make our world a better place. Consider giving your time and/or financial contributions. No gift is too small or too large! Stretch yourself and don’t be selfish with your time, your love or your affection. Someone else needs you! Give what is in your heart knowing that the blessing is in your giving and will always come back to you (pressed down, shaken together and running over).

If you know someone who you think would benefit from the journey as well, please share these reflections with them too. I can’t wait to hear about and see what you have all done over the next 30 days an how you have grown!

Love Melissa.”

What follows is Melissa’s  thirty day journey.  For ease I will post her emails in 5-day segments, without edits.  The only thing I have omitted are photos.  

First installment, days 1 – 5.

 

 

 

 

 

Performing Poverty

Performing Poverty 2In recent years I have become particularly captivated by the ways in which bodies are crafted into performances of poverty and need in urban spaces. In particular, over the past three years I have witnessed an escalation in the presence of persons in performance of homelessness and beggary in three cities to which I am a frequent long-term traveler. Leeds, United Kingdom, Leuven, Belgium, and New York City, United States each have their own type of nuanced performance template, yet there are some similar artifacts common to performances of poverty, homelessness, and beggary. These cities are transnational spaces of dynamic global mobility in which the arts, education, and business interact most dynamically in performances poverty and need. The staple artifacts of these performances are: 1 – the strategically placed pieces of cardboard (as signs, seats, and shelter), 2 – the cup/receptacle, for the collection of the money (often loose change) offered by passersbys, and 3 – the human body. It is to this latter artifact that my attention is mesmerizingly drawn. In these performances, the bodies of the human subjects are intentionally sculpted into living symbols of dread, anguish, and desolation. Physically positioned such that pedestrians are compelled to gaze downward upon them, in part out of necessity to avoid any unfortunate collision that would bring the pedestrian violently, but only momentarily, into the lowered world of concrete, cardboard, and disenfranchised bodies, these bodies are making profound inscriptions on the global urban landscapes. As appalling as it is that economies and social systems in privileged western spaces are experiencing decided levels of failure on several critical fronts to secure the provision of the most basics of human needs (food, shelter, and clothing), the twenty-first century performance culture has brought about intriguing and creative stagings of what I have come to call the art of performing poverty.

They (the they who are the have-nots) are everywhere, uptown, downtown, east side, west side, midtown, the business district, the arts district, the commercial district. They (the have-nots who are visible) are of all ages: young, old (some are children with their guardians), middle aged, ageless. They were almost every one: Black American and/or British, white American and/or British, Latino/a, European, Gypsy, Middle Eastern, Eastern European, East Asian, Southeast Asian and varying mixings. They were gendered, male, female, (and I suppose transgendered), all are sexed.

The cardboard signs with thick black marker writing revealed that: She was pregnant for the first time and homeless, he had lost his mother and only needed money to get to her funeral in Ohio, she would her dog fed first, he just wanted bus fare, she needed money for food, he need money for his daughter, she was just trying to get to the next county, his mother was just diagnosed with cancer, they had been burned out of their home, they had lost their apartment when they lost their jobs, he just need enough find a place to sleep for the night.

The palm of her hands are in a traditional Christian prayer pose and her forearms squeezed together, her forehead rests on her thumbs, her head is positioned downwards and her eyes appear closed, she is on her knees on a piece of cardboard. She is still. Frozen in time and spaces. He is on his hands and knees with his forehead pressed against the cardboard which is on the concrete street beneath him; his body is folded over and one hand cupped at the side of his head. He is captured in a place where time has stood still.

Human bodies in the art of performing poverty make productive use to urban landscapes, producing stillness and pause in the midst of bustling somatic ecology of the urban global.  This results in the necessary creative tension and critique essential for igniting social accountability, reflection, and of course, productive audience guilt.

IMG_20160225_133839

She tucked her head under the brim of her baseball cap so her face and eyes could not be seen, but she could on occasion peer out.  Next to her was a dog (one of those small ones)black and copper cuddled inside a sweater (or maybe it was a small throw), which sat on top of a piece of cardboard.  The cardboard providing insulation against the cold February concrete of NYC winter.  She too sat on a piece of cardboard, with a cardboard sign in front of her: ‘Hungry’.  (I believe the ‘cold, homeless, and not particularly having a blast out here’ are implied.  As she sat she read a book. It was difficult to see which book.  Her pale white fingers covers what evidence of a title would have been possible from the angle with which I stood.   

Before, or while, placing two dollars in quarters in her cup, I asked ‘may I take a picture of you?  Not your face but arrangement here’.  Without hesitation, she said ‘no, but thank you for asking, most people just take without my permission.’  And I could hear the sense of deep violation in her voice, and see it in her demeanor as her shoulders curled forward and her chest receded inside her frame.

At and earlier point in the day, I asked the young man above if I could take his picture.  He said ‘sure’.  His bold unapologetic demeanor, along with his well packaged belongings may indicate that he has not been at this way of life for very long.