Deda's Kitchen: faith. politics. education. recipes.

Bloomberg Wins, We Lose

drisslouise — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 18:55:25 +0000

Top three things I would do with one million dollars per day:

Pay off all my student loan debt, plus all my homies’ debt, plus all their homies’ debt.
Fund twelve deserving artists (including myself) for a year of creative output and responsible play in the world.
I sure wouldn’t go to an African nation or Haiti to build a well or open a school – but I would provide the funds for local, native, grassroots organizers doing important work to do whatever they felt their nation most needed.

Or, if I was Mike Bloomberg, I could buy my way into a third term as NYC’s mayor in the most expensive, privately funded election in history. Bloomberg outspent his opponent Bill Thompson 14 to 1. He had the support of one of Harlem’s most influential churches behind him (after providing them with a very generous donation). Spending 90 million of your 17 billion fortune (and one million per day during the last days of the election) for executive power over one of the world’s most influential cities is chump change. Thing is, while Bloomberg has the money to burn in manicured fistfuls, the citizens of NYC (both legal and non – a real thing in these five boroughs) don’t. His win with 51% of the vote (to Thompson’s 46%) signals that folks understand that Bloomberg’s riches don’t equate to our own pockets holding the same weight.

As unimpressed as I am, this story isn’t exactly news: the bottom line usually comes down to who owns the fattest stack of dollar bills. The NY Times reports that those who make more than 200,000 annually are among Bloomberg’s base of supporters. I don’t imagine that many people pulling in that kind of money would be interested in voting for the Bed-Stuy native and former borough presiden t.

People question the strength of Thompson as an opponent. Can’t lie – I wasn’t impressed with his offense approach in the first debate: instead of highlighting his work as a Brooklyn native and NYC educator, he focused on Bloomberg’s faults. We already know Bloomberg’s faults – we been knowing them for the past 8 years. Thompson should’ve used that time to allow us to get to know him. I’m just saddened by the missed opportunity for new energy that is not regulated by big business to run New York. But maybe I’m just idealistic. If Thompson had an extra 90 million to burn, he probably would’ve bought his election too.

White collar criminals and commerce steadily creeping in to all sectors tells me that the only rule with money is that there are no rules. Bloomberg says he won’t go for a fourth term in office. He’s already re-written the rule books once…bet you 90 million he changes his mind.

Movies That Move: Seven Pounds

drisslouise — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 14:00:45 +0000

In New York/Chicago/LA/Toronto/Vancouver/North American, you hit the ground running. Actually it’s a knee-cracking dead sprint. It still feels like the pavement is lifting up its skirt and running five paces quicker than you. Blackberry in one hand, bodega/Starbucks coffee in the other, umbrella/newspaper wedged in your moist armpit and laptop bag further loaded down with textbooks/briefing papers/job applications on your back/shoulder/pulled behind you, all you can do is watch the sidewalk run to the finish line as the contents of your day begin to hold all the weight of a tumor. You think of beaches of sweating sand and warm beds in the country and wonder why you are killing yourself to navigate piled garbage bags split like busted spleens with their contents vomited all over the sidewalk, or catcalls and sneering, dusty mouths every time you leave your apartment in something above the knee, or bosses who ignore your judgment while extracting every last grain from your body until you feel like you are losing hold of your DNA.

All the while you are trying to date. Make friends. Keep the ones you have. Look pretty. Look handsome. Network. Write the great American novel in between shifts. Perform at the Met. Dance for Ailey. Be fly. Remember to call home. Remember to visit your sick aunt. Remember to eat. Remember to feed your goldfish because the last one died. Remember to forget that you are broke. Be sensational company. Be informed. Pretend not to be jealous of your friend’s promotion or your roommate’s book deal. But you’re not jealous: it feels more like a beaker of acid overturned in your stomach. You can deal with this as long as you remember to keep one loafer/sneaker/stiletto in front of the other and forget to look at the sky.

Because of all this, you like your entertainment entertaining. Hard. Fast. Pretty pictures and surround sound. If you are cultured, no pyrotechnics or Michael Mann-ish dialogue, but you still need a brisk pace and a minimum amount of processing. The synopsis of your life is confusing enough – more twists and turns and ambiguity than you need. You are here in this theater to submerge for 90 minutes and to forget about chasing sidewalks.

I had to pause and think about where we have gotten to in our culture for a film like Seven Pounds to get filleted at the box office and in its reviews. Before watching this film I had already come across friends and critics alike describing it as boring, confusing, dumb, unbelievable, manipulative and pretentious. I wonder if this is because we’ve evolved to develop the attention spans of six-week-old puppies. There is, no doubt, a manipulative vein to the type of emotion the film works to evoke from its audience – but please show me the movie that doesn’t do that. I appreciate three things: 1. A big budget black actor who isn’t afraid to do a film that doesn’t involve wearing a dress and wig, going to prison, watching things blow up or singing; 2. a unique storyline that forces me to pay attention; and 3. a film with enough space for my brain to pull up a chair and watch along with me. Seven Pounds had all three so I’ve got no complaints. L. and I thought the story was beautiful, sad, hopeful and of course heartbreaking – but not even because of the ending. Will Smith is such a dope actor to me and I saw his character’s pain played out on his face throughout the film. Rosario Dawson was beautiful and authentic. I already dig Woody Harrelson so he easily won me over, and I love Michael Ealy in a role completely different from one I’ve seen him in before. So what’s the problem, my little soul has to ask. I don’t know if it was the allusions to Shakespeare or Will Smith in an uncombed afro that turned people off, but living in Brooklyn and chasing sidewalks every day, I know I can appreciate a film that forces me to pause. We’re so busy trying to think that we forget to think – I think. L. and I loved the story, the acting, the shots of Cali and the way it make us head to Wikipedia immediately after watching. Seven Pounds isn’t going to be everyone’s cup of java, but there is something in it to be appreciated. So can we slow down? Can we breath? Can we remember to feed our goldfish? I’m a little worried about us out there, tripping over sidewalks.

Education is Free – But Grades Will Cost You a Pretty Penny: Critical Race Theory Session 2

drisslouise — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 08:15:00 +0000

Last night was part two of the three part film and discussion series I am co-facilitating at NYU on Critical Race Theory. Our turnout was smaller than what we had two weeks ago, but given this nasty little cold snap that has forced me to pull out my down coat and gloves a full month before I had any intention of acknowledging winter, I was impressed with the turnout. Shoot, had I not had to moderate I would’ve been nicely curled up pon di bed with book in one hand and a cup of something steaming in the other. I was glad to see many participants from the first session return: that lets me know that we are at least doing a thing or two right. Robert Taranishi who teaches in the Higher Education department opened the session with a lecture on critical race theory in relation to Asian American and Pacific Islander communities. I appreciated the opportunity to bring a discussion on race in America out of the black/white dichotomy. In recent years we hear more about a racial “spectrum”: everything that lies on the line in between black and white, from Native American, to Latin@ American, to Asian American, then white. This still places black and white as the grounding identities for a discussion on race. One participant raised the perspective that there are white people – and then there’s everyone else. So what does the spectrum look like in this case?

I watched the film for the night’s discussion earlier in the day and knew that it would lead to a potentially intense and emotional debate. Race: The Power of an Illusion tells the history of race and racialized discrimination in the US over three parts. Part 2, titled “The Story We Tell” landed on my soul in a different way than the first part. “The Story We Tell” covers the rise of the United States as a major power and the most prosperous nation in the world – and how this prominence was built off the bent backs and trampled land of people of color. Covering slavery, The Trail of Tears, The Louisiana Purchase, the war against Mexico (and the subsequent theft of a third of Mexico’s land – which we never hear about in the “illegal immigrant” conversation), and the annexation of the Philippines, the film left me caught somewhere in the intersection of exhaustion, frustration, determination and anger. The film delves into how all these events were qualified by a carefully orchestrated belief of white supremacy and civility that became ingrained into the nation’s framework through political leaders, scientific research, and sociological investigation. Even in our contemporary culture and art these beliefs remain ingrained in many ways. Rudyard Kipling, of Disney’s beloved “The Jungle Book” gets in on the act. His poem “White Man’s Burden” published in 1899 was basically a rallying cry for colonization of the brown-skinned savagery that populated the “far corners” of the earth. An ad for Pears’ Soap from this period promised to lighten up the darkest of darkies. The images and cartoons featured in the film that were created during this period perpetuated these ideas of dark skin equating idiocy, underdevelopment and savagery while whiteness was equated with benevolence, intellect and a sense of duty. And the film did lead to an intense conversation, which I appreciated. I opened the session with the following question from the study guide provided for the film: Is there an inevitable trade-off where one group gains privilege at the expense of another or can reversing racial inequality benefit all people, including white people who have traditionally benefited from racism? That was the only question we were able to get to.

One brother immediately delved into a point about a form of neo-separatism (my language, not his: he didn’t feel that his vision constituted segregation): people of color should have their own informal societal structure in place separate from the one created by the holders of power who look nothing like us. The room was divided around this point. Some agreed, others felt that this would just continue to perpetuate racism in society. One participant, a white teacher who has actively contributed her thoughts and analysis in both sessions, asked the brother who made this point of separatism what he would suggest for white people like herself: those who reject the current structure we live beneath and want to work to eradicate it. He said something that led to a few mental gasps in the room (the vantage point of moderator gives a pretty dope bird’s-eye-view of people’s facial expressions): he believed that progressive white people need to focus on educating other whites instead of coming into black communities and working with youth and adults. He backed this up with an interesting metaphor from Malcolm X: if you walk into a store in the midst of a robbery at gunpoint, you shouldn’t turn to the man who has the gun pointed at him and ask if he’s ok. Instead, you should wrestle the gun out of the triggerman’s grip. So in other words, progressive white folk need to be wrestling the loaded gun out of White America’s hands. From here, we took it to education and the need to re-write textbooks in order for the truth to be told. This led to another point from the same man: higher education requires a foundation of knowledge that is euro-centric at its very core. Any one can self-educate (here he cited MLK Jr, Brother Malcolm and JA Rogers), but if you want the expensive ass grades and subsequent degree, you have no choice but to acquiesce to the white power structure.

There were no easy answers to anything that was broached in our two-hour session. We’ve been dealing with race for 400 years so our 6 hours of discussion can’t hold a candle to that – but a roomful of people of different ethnicities, cultures and classes engaged in discussion about the topic gives my soul a slice of hope. The grassroots level is no joke.

Check for the third and final part, October 30, 5- 7pm, NYU Silver Center room 401.

Critical Race Theory

drisslouise — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 01:35:50 +0000

I’m in the midst of co-facilitating a three-part symposium on Critical Race Theory at NYU. Each session has been using the film Race: The Power of an Illusion as the central thread for discussion and dialogue. I walked in to our first session with some trepidation and self-doubt: the first part of the film deals with the idea of race as a societal fabrication, one that is not rooted in any biological truth or substance. I felt that I would be speaking to an audience who already was coming to these sessions with a nuanced understanding of this idea. As far as I was concerned, not a soul still existed who believed that race was rooted in some biological legitimacy. I was surprised and a little dismayed to learn how wrong I was. Ideas on race ran the gamut in our audience. Being submerged in an academic environment can lead to a touch of cultural myopia: you lose awareness of the spectrum of beliefs and ideas out there in the world. The range of thoughts and beliefs during the discussion was delicious. We weren’t all on point with one another, but I loved having my own thoughts challenged as well. I’m hoping that these discussions will help bend and challenge my own framework. I’m already feeling some baby changes. In the meantime, here’s a few selections from the reading list straight off our syllabus:

Derrick Bell: Faces At The Bottom of the Well
Nicholas Wade: Why Humans and Their Fur Parted Ways
Race: The Power of an Illusion
WEB Dubois: The Souls of Black Folk
Crenshaw, K. W., Gotanda, N., Peller, G., & Thomas, K. (Eds.). (1995). Critical race theory: The key writings that formed the movement. New York: The New Press.
Omi M. and Winant, H. (1994). Racial Formation in the United States from the 1960s
to the 1990s, 2nd ed. New York: Routledge.

Uncategorized and Unsolicited Thoughts on Food

drisslouise — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 03:46:10 +0000

Who puts the word “kitchen” in the name of her blog and includes nothing about food in its content? The recipe section of my home on the web has been woefully neglected, leading to one empty-ass cyber pantry. My issue has been matching my lust for food with my ability to write about it. Hard to convey what I feel about jerked salmon and pineapple/sweet pea rice in a blog post. My rusty literary skills haven’t caught up with my taste buds yet. But I’ve been having too many meals surrounded with conversations, love, friendship and politics to remain justified in my lack of foodie posts. In the past two months, I’ve made roti and ackee and salt fish in Jamaica; learned how to make nut meat, nori and about half a dozen different smoothies after surviving an 11 day raw food fast with my favorite food expert; and reconnected with girlfriends over a homecooked meal of mango salmon, mac and cheese, collards, cornbread, and mixed berry crumble with ice cream. All of this is topped off with the close of my birthday weekend, which I happily ate my way through: a fabulous meal and heart-hugging service at the Ghandi Café in the West Village; 2 homecooked frittatas; 2 slices of vegan chocolate cheesecake from Red Bamboo, and the cherry on top: trekking up to The Bronx on the 4 train for Ghanaian food, which I have been craving like a mug ever since my last trip to Ghana in Spring 2008. Needless to say, I am one satiated, round-bellied woman this Sunday night, and I can happily say that most of what has entered my body was either homecooked or good for me. The connecting power of food is no joke. Not just in the conversations, first dates and business meetings that happen over brunches and Friday night appetizers, but a lil deeper than that: food maps the migratory paths that our ancestors took and connects us over those distances: it’s no coincidence that okra in New Orleans and Jamaica is okro stew in Ghana and Nigeria. As different as our foods are, there are constant and consistent commonalities to be found in the staples of our diets. So as I limp along on the path towards becoming a full-fledged foodie, this post is a quick mental jumpstart to get my fingers and mind writing about what I am fueling myself with. After all, everything is political, including lunch.

a trains and access

drisslouise — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 03:47:19 +0000

I usually don’t favor self-nepotism when it comes to professors assigning their own books on the course syllabus, but my faculty advisor/professor Gary Anderson has us reading his latest book on Advocacy Education, and I recommend it to anyone interested in learning the truth about corporatization and education. Advocacy Leadership: Toward A Post-Secondary Agenda in Education, deals with the business and profit of the US education system today and school reform. And it’s helping me make sense of my own path as well. Last spring, while wading through the second semester of my graduate degree, I worked part time as a college advisor at an alternative transfer high school in Bed Stuy, My students were 17 – 21 years old but many of them were in the ninth grade credit-wise. All had come from other schools in the NY school system, and my school was somewhat of a last educational stop for them. During this time I was also working as Co-Facilitator for an undergraduate course in social identity issues at the private university where I study. My students in this course all came from middle to upper middle class suburban households across the US. On Fridays I pulled double duty at both jobs: 5 hours in Bed Stuy, then hopping on the uptown-bound A to teach at my university. Fridays were always the most depressing and illuminating day of my week. To work with two groups of students, roughly the same age, but so different in terms of academic development, thinking skills and cognitive analysis highlighted for me everything wrong with the state of US education. All I had to do was cross one bridge to see opportunities grow and access broaden. Going back home, I saw the same process happening in reverse. My students in Bed Stuy were just as bright as my students in Manhattan – the difference is in the access and opportunity. And the fact that we are beginning with a playing field that is not equal in any sense of the word. Reading Gary’s book is at least serving to help me make sense of the whys of this system: things remain the way they are because the existing structures benefit from the lack of access that others face. Understanding isn’t half the battle – no doubt, it’s miles more complicated than that – but it gives us a little bit of ammunition.

The Love That Space Demands…

drisslouise — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 21:40:24 +0000

I had a fabulous birthday with two artists that I love: Ntozake Shange’s reading at The New School followed by Jaguar Wright’s show at SOB’s with Indian food as the bridge made me a happy birthday girl indeed. As a long time fan of these women the opportunity to see both on my birthday felt like God’s present to me. Heading home last night, both events had me thinking of the importance and impact of remixing and reforming language into patterns and cadences that make sense for you and your experience: An excerpt was read from Ntozake’s Spell #7, where she addresses the critics who have vilified the way she deconstructs the English language. In the intro Ntozake writes about her need to destroy the language down to its very marrow in order to construct something that speaks to her identity. Jaguar’s show continued in this frame of thought: homegirl freestyled, retooled her own lyrics on the spot, sang from a space beneath her gut that I am unfamiliar with and infused her show with an honesty that music fans are rarely exposed to – at least not from the artists who make weekly appearances on Billboard.

Mixed in with this bravery I couldn’t help but think about the lack of space that women all too often have to experience and work through pain, illness and frustration. Ms. Ntozake was a true diva last night, resplendent in backless green floral that exposed a tattooed garden in full bloom on her sepia skin, complete with a plunging neckline, and silver eyebrow and lip rings. She was beautiful and brave and I felt honored to be in her midst. That said, the fragility of her body and voice reminded me that in all that regality and reverence sits a flesh and blood woman, privy to the limitations of the human body. The stroke she survived in 2004 showed its effects through the cane she uses to walk with and her slightly slurred speech. She was also occasionally forgetful (I mean, leading a life as full as hers requires that some memories have to get buried or fall to the wayside in order to make room for others). As she spoke of mental illness in Black communities, divided homes, and abuse, I thought of the room necessary for her own healing. Same with Jaguar: Ms. Wright’s voice is one of the most stunning vocal instruments I have heard…but she was angry, frustrated and bitter about the absence of her band. She was clear onstage that her perfectionism prevented her from performing in a real way without her band. I wasn’t mad at her for it either: I appreciated her honesty to the core and was in awe of the fact that her vocals could still illicit shivers from my body in the midst of her lack of engagement. The frustration of both women – Ntozake being unable to completely convey the meaning in her own words and Jaguar feeling unable to give her best without her band – reminded me to be kind to myself this year. To give myself the space demanded for heartache and disappointment and frustration and anger. And love to. Because what emanated from each women was a love for and commitment to her art, and love for those of us in the room there to celebrate her creation. Along with love, our bodies and spirits demand space. The struggle comes in allowing yourself to respect that demand.

for colored girls…

drisslouise — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 13:13:00 +0000

For Colored Girls…

I can’t think of a better way to celebrate my birthday than attending Ntozake Shange’s reading and signing at the New School tonight. I wasn’t even a thought yet when For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf first made its debut in 1975 and made so many Black women across the US feel like they were been seen for the first time. The fact that it was one of our own telling this story, crafting the ugliness of our lives into poetry and beauty, gave it a different kind of impact. This verse from the lady in brown never fails to give me chills:

i can’t hear anythin
but maddening screams
& the soft strains of death
& you promised me
you promised me…
somebody/anybody
sing a black girl’s song
bring her out
to know herself
to know you
but sing her rhythms
carin/struggle/hard times
sing her song of life
she’s been dead so long
closed in silence so long
she doesn’t know the sound
of her own voice
her infinite beauty
she’s half-notes scattered
without rhythm/ no tune
sing her sighs
sing the song of her possibilities
sing a righteous gospel
let her be born
let her be born
& handled warmly.

Many a colored girl/woman/elder/mentor have come and gone in my 29 years. I have loved these women hard, hated them, fought them, dismissed them and been dismissed. From the ones who stayed up all night with me while I cried to the ones who caused the tears, I realize in this moment that I haven’t forgotten any of them, whether they left me scars or smiles. Now that I’m kind a gettin’ grown, I catch myself thinking about the young women who are brand new to the growing pans. If there is any reason for my own generation to get our ish correct, it’s to give these younger women some positive ammunition to work with. I come across girls who crave mentorship, guidance and care in their lives – but never lecturing or the impression that they can’t handle themselves. After all, a lot of them are mamas themselves, or caretakers, or the legal guardian of someone else’s life at the age of 18…or the not-so-legal guardian at 15,16…real ish that takes me back to Ntozake’s words.

So hug a colored girl today, and then hug yourself ☺. We got too much violence in our lives to be subjecting one another to more of the same.

drisslouise

Ntozke Shange Reading at The New School

drisslouise — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 13:11:52 +0000

The New School | University Events | Cave Canem Legacy Conversation: Ntozake Shange

Shared via AddThis

Daggering

drisslouise — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 14:19:52 +0000

My cousin’s lady J., like many Jamaicans, has no patience for popular dancehall music and culture. The lyrics and dances that go along with the pulsing riddims make her “heart hurt”, as she puts it, for her 10-year old daughter. Youtube allows nothing to remain indoors so for many people clips from events like Passa Passa and Dirty Fridaze have made dances like daggering and the hot wuk synonymous for Jamaican culture as a whole. As a longtime lover of dancehall, I struggle with its current climate. I love the riddims but can’t get next to the lyrics or p-popping dances. Like hip hop, dancehall was born from poor youth in the ghettos. Like hip hop, there’s serious push back against the misogyny, sexuality and homophobia in much of its content. I love the creativity of the fashion, language and movement that came from that struggle. I love the fierceness of a dancehall queen. But “daggering”, a dance move that is nuttin more than dry frenetic humping, crossed a line for me. Where does dancehall take it from here? Check this preview clip for the film Man/Ooman: