( No such thing as "distraction" ...rather just..) The Art of Attention...

J. Krishanamurti is the author of  the most important book on education that I've read to date: "Education and the Significance of Life." This video is a happy reminder that this current detour of  mine from the work i should be doing (!) to youtube videos and onto this blog post is not really  a distraction all! ...yet it compliments, fills, and feeds the moment that it sits within...this video was also a (much needed) refreshing reminder that learning is about the present attention of the child (that includes the child within ourselves), and learning  is never NOT happening...always what is happening is just the opportunity to surrender rigidity...and enjoy the moment... to embrace the space we are given--- that our child is given-- to be momentarily captured by what we love...

A Sufi Story: Presence

I was taught when selecting stories for our children, to be sure to seek out stories that will teach them to think and see beyond a single dimension. The Sufi's are great for  making the mind swish around in new cognitive pools in order grasp meaning. Below is one of my favorites.

Presence

The Smith Family--on Parenting

A Quick Story
(Moral: always,there's another way.)

Phone rings. "Hello?" my sister.
"I just want you to know that i just spanked your nephew's hand."
"i'm hanging up."
"no..... listen."
(My nephew is my child born through my sister-- and my views on hitting children, especially him. are clearly known.)
"did u not hear me say earlier that i'm already not feeling well?"
"So. ...listen."
silence.
"i told him AGAIN Xavier--EAT YOUR FOOD!"
(which is a major event 3 times a day in the house...unless it's french fries.lol)
he responds,
'Mama, You eat YOUR food.'"
(Xavier is 6, and coming into full command of his voice and rights...which i do think is healthy development. (auntie to the max.)
My sister continues.
" So, i grabbed his hand and popped it!
.... He looks at it, looks at me, and just looks confused. he then says...
'..But Mama, ...it didn't hurt.'"
long pause.
...
"So then...." she continued,
"...We had a contest to see who could finish their food the fastest!" ~

On Children-Kahlil Gibran



On Children
~Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

A journal entry from a few years ago


An interesting situation just took place on my ride home on the A-train. The key players in the drama were: The black mother as the abused abuser, her child(ren) as the symbol of perpetuated illness, The Marylyn mansion looking white man as the freedom fighter, and I? Well, …I played the coward.

roll it.
Woman on the train has been engrossed in her headphones as her children entertain themselves. Girl child, maybe age 3, boy child around the age of 5. Sesame street is coming to New York and all of the colorful characters are the front page of the newspaper that the 3 year old holds. As the three year old contently names each character, the 5 year old wants to see as well. The youngest child begins an interesting wail of “Stoooooooooop” each time the young man attempted to look. I immediately thought it was an peculiar cry, as it was less to communicate with him and more to sound off an alert.

Meanwhile, a couple gets on. The are both dressed in shades of black and gray, combat boots, scraps of fabric ripped and hanging from their bodies. Piercings and Safety pins everywhere. Thick black eyeliner looks as tho it was from yesterday and has smudged during sleep. Hair is died jet black with some streaks of green fading away. She has what appears to be an over sized staple in her face. Hair is matted in places from being un combed; it too is black. These type of characters used to make me turn my up my nose and wrinkle my face in quiet judgment of their pitifully lost souls. Today however, the sight of them brought a smile to my face. I simply thought “do your thang!” What really made me pay particular attention to the couple was that they were clearly so in love with one another. He affectionately kissed her forehead as she snuggle in a little closer to him just to be closer…. I smiled thinking, although they may in their verbalized beliefs of “God” or anything Divine deny it. ( Which too is judgment because I don’t know what they believe in our deny, because I don’t known them, but nonetheless) God/Creator/Heavens and so forth is LOVE. In their bonding they get it. Together they embody the very thing they (may) deny.

Back on my side of the train, right next to me, the mom continues to zone out with her music and her child continues alert everyone of her cause. After a while the mom shouts “You see she don’t want you to look at it so stop!!” The 5yr old tries to express that he just wants to see it too, and begins to cry. The mom now shouts “Are you a little girl!? Well then stop crying!" Ouch! my spirit is so disturbed. ' …she doesn’t even realize the sickness of her words' I quietly think to myself.

I tried not to make direct eye contact. For a moment it looked as though the situation has been resolved as the little boy tried to split the paper with his sister. That didn’t work, and the mom was back in it again. I tried quickly to think of some loving way to resolve the situation for the two young ones, but the idea didn’t come before the mom's--- SMACK.

I look away.



More tears come. The mom screams “Stop before I give you something to cry about.” As I’m looking away, the “satanic looking” man, is gawking with eyes wide open. Then he says to the mom " You can’t be serious.” The mom ignores him as he repeats it louder. I brace myself, thinking, “oh shit, here we go.”
The mom continues shouting at her crying son. "You want me to take my belt off?" The man is outraged and says “For what!? Are you serious… For that!!" And with a ludicrous grin on his face say “ Geese, Those are some pretty sorry parenting skills you got there lady.”

I’m still waiting for the cuss out. She continues to threaten to grab her belt. And the man, now talking directly to the child, shakes his head in bold defiance of the mom, and says “no, she won’t. no she won’t man. Don’t worry you’ll grow up soon. You’ll be outta this soon kid.”

As the train approaches the next stop the mom tells the children to come on. I looked up at her and was surprised to see the smile on her face or to hear the laugh in her voice as she says “yes, I will…” She then turns to me(Black woman clearly proud of her blackness. her assumed ally), and with enthusiasm, says “ Cause Sis, that’s how WE do it, ain’t it?”

I…looked back at her before she exited the train and said. “ No, that not how I do it or how I ever will. Because whooping our children is a sick act the we’ve inherited and carried on. You only beat them because you were beaten. And being hit has never felt good. And in addition to it teaching our children violence since that’s what we’re inflicting upon them, it only teaches them betrayal from the person they should be able to trust the most on this planet. Now, don’t get me wrong, Sis. I don’t equate lack of violence to lack of discipline. But,there are others ways Sis for us to discipline and teach our children besides violating their spirits. Please stop laying your hands on these babies unless it’s a touch of love. I know it’s how we were raised, but it is abuse---the deepest form possible. It distorts the soul.”

But the reality is, that's just what I wished I would have said. In reality, when she asked me the question, I … just… looked…. away. She then turned to the "Sister" on the other side of her and said “Ain't that right, Sis?” And with a great vigor, a praise-full-church-nodding-head, and almost a clap of the hands that sister spoke and said....“That's riiight!”

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

BROOKLYN EDUCATOR & AUTHOR-ILLUSTRATOR  OPENS LIVE ART GALLERY

NEW YORK CITY, February 25, 2010--Nehprii Amenii, author and illustrator of "Memories of the Little Elephant," (www.NehpriiAmenii.com) an all ages picture book that has initiated a movement to retell the history of African people, announces the opening of her very own MLE Art Gallery & Community Space based upon the book.

Located in State Renaissance Court at 200 Schermerhorn Street in downtown Brooklyn, MLE Art Gallery & Community Space is made possible by the Downtown Brooklyn Partnership’s YOUR ART HERE   program, granting selected artists gallery space in un-leased commercial property.  Nehprii Amenii, An educator at Harlem’s Future Leaders Institute since 2007,  has brought her debut title, self- illustrated,  independently published and distributed work to a live-working gallery allowing the community to view and join in on the process of the turning the book into pop-up window experience.  

"I’ve always been inspired by bringing art directly to the people—the power of parades and public art. It’s a gentle way of imposing meaning directly onto the minds of all who ‘by chance’ pass by.  And who doesn’t love the imaginative window displays of Bloomingdale's and Sak's?" says Amenii, "But, what I’m most grateful for is the opportunity to share the creative process with the community to witness art as healing, even before a finished product…to witness enthusiastic community join in, totally unexpected." 

MLE Art Gallery & Community Space is fully alive, with several scheduled interactive arts & crafts activities, school group tours, dialogues, workshops, and performances for the entire family, all starting off with a production by Naima Penniman paying homage to Haiti in view of its recent tragedy, which happens to be where "Memories of the Little Elephant" was first released in 2008. All events are scheduled to last through March 14. After which the exhibit will be immediately available for  travel and installation.

For more information, contact Nehprii Amenii at the MLE ART Gallery & CommunitySpace at 718-924-8779, or at KhunumProductions@gmail.com.

"Ode to all the Little Dark Skinned Girls who Cry in the Mirror"

( will edit below later---but this is straight off of my heart)

I've seen this many times, but haven't watched it for a while. While recently showing it to a friend, I was reminded of the process of sending "Memories of the Little Elephant to Print. I sent off my file. My printer sent me back a beautiful 1st proof--- everything perfect and vivid!---except one thing---all of my BROWN characters...were now... red--reddish brown. I remember being little, and learning about that fanciful mystical far away land of Egypt... it seemed like a magically creative place--that had      n o t h i n g     to do with Africa in my mind...and definitely nothing to do with me. I was sure.  After all, I would think, ' those people weren't even really black---they were more "red" colored'. When I traveled to Kemet (ancient Egypt) I was able to see first hand image after image after image, painting after painting, sculpture after sculpture of people whose coloring was unmistakably BROWN--DARK BROWN-- almost black...not muddied red and not yellowed,  but  those who looked identical in facial structure and hue to my soil pigmented Mississippi family.--UN APOLOGETICALLY NEGRO,  before that word was born. It dawned on me so clearly then, that every IMAGE we ever look at, is an IMAGE that has been SELECTED to be photographed, selected to be reprinted, selected for advertisement, selected for propaganda.

Sitting and looking at my first proof, and remembering my innocent dismissal of my heritage, it also dawned on me that out of thousands of images to choose from..that I seemed to have always laid eyes on the same ones... think about it, haven't you?

Now at full volume, exasperated over too many failed attempts of trying to say it in a more sophisticated way:
"The problem is-- I sent you a book full of BROWN people--and now all of them are RED!" I had to escalate my complaint all the way up the the printing companies CEO, print and admin team, a phone conference with china-- as they still attempted to "educate" (placate! was all I could hear) me on printing technicalities.    " Uh, Ms. Amenii, yes, yes, we understand, but that is  just they way the color has to appear...it is simply due color separation and print  process."

... perhaps, or rather, I am certain, if I  didn't have such an investment or care---love--and pain in my heart for the issues expressed in this video above, I would have accepted the explanation...as harmless. And not pushed for the FOUR additional attempts, and proofs just to get to an acceptable and unquestionable shade of brown.

I am what is affectionately referred to in the south as "pecan tan"... from a mother who is the color of an almonds center, and a father who is the shade of the images of the Pharaohs I saw painted on everlasting stone. (Made to believe prior that that shade of tree bark, dirt, dusky brown didn't exist in ancient days.)I know where the color of pecans and almonds come from. And, I was clear from the beginning that Abii would be the color my south Sudanese family who are still keeping up the fight for the final wall of African identity to not be penetrated (Never believe the war is about religion). Abii, still came out lighter than her painted raw umber complexion, but at least she is closer to the shade of my father than to the shade of  memories of Georgia's red mud.  Most importantly, I was clear that a little brown girl, would see her self, and all of the bright colors, and in a regal white dress... and see only BEAUTY.

(And though we've never uttered it...and though it feels like a  taboo to speak on to this day...  I do remember standing with you, in the school bathroom mirror at 9 years old--my best friend. --I remember when you cried wishing you weren't so ugly with skin so dark, and lips so big. I pray this post doesn't offend. And though my path --this "crusade for my people" caused our riff... that day you cried...i have not forgotten... and I cry now as I type.... you should know...it  has motivated my movements. (so sick of it.) Ode to all the little dark skinned girls who cry in the mirror! May you see your face as the apex of beauty.) 

Dark Girls: Preview from Bradinn French on Vimeo.

MEMORIES OF THE LITTLE ELEPHANT EXHIBIT! TRACKING THE JOURNEY OF AFRICAN PEOPLE AOUND THE GLOBE!

THOURGH THE INITIATIVES OF DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN PARTNERSHIP!

YOUR ART HERE!

COMING SOON TO 200 SCHEMERHORN!

MEMORIES OF THE LITTLE ELPHANT THE EXHIBIT!

THE STORY AND ILLUSTRATIONS WILL BE TURNED INTO A WINDOW-POP-UP-STYLE VISUAL EXPERINCE!

STAY TUNED!

FEB. 20TH -30TH