"Folklore and Fishnets"

Ezili from Jennifer Pritheeva Samuel on Vimeo.

Kirikou and the Sorceress

A tiny voice is heard from inside the womb of a pregnant woman : 

"Mother, give birth to me !"

"A child who can speak from his mother's womb can give birth to himself", replies the mother. 

And so a little boy is born, cuts his own umbilical cord and declares : 

"My name is Kirikou" 

The tiny Kirikou is born into an African village upon which a sorceress called Karaba has cast a terrible spell: the spring has dried up, the villagers are being blackmailed, the men of the village have either been kidnapped or have mysteriously disappeared. 

"She eats them !", the superstitious villagers declare…. 

Karaba is a stunning and cruel woman, surrounded by fearless and servile fetishes. But no sooner has Kirikou delivered himself from his mother's womb than he wants to rid the village of Karaba's curse and understand the cause of her wickedness. 

His adventure-filled voyage leads Kirikou to the Forbidden Mountain, where the Wise Man of the Mountain, who knows of Karaba and her secrets, awaits him.

I Still Love You.

This past March my youngest nephew, who's 4, moved away with mom. We all miss him dearly. Especially, of course, my brother. What really doesn't help is that the "non-talking" gene runs so strong through my family's blood.  Especially over distance and difficult emotions. But, it is just that way regardless. The story gets told that when my brother was little, he didn't talk at all for a LONG time...so everyone thought.  It became tense mummers and questions of ...if maybe... their was something maybe "not quite  right" with him.  Our big sister, then little too, would  say  "But, he can talk..."  He stayed silent. Then one day my aunt stepped into the room with the two of them sitting and playing...and my brother?...just a talking away to my sister! As soon as he became aware of her presence he quickly hushed... Auntie say "Uuuhhhuh!Boy! don't even try it!--now we know!"


Well, now he has a lil 'ol him. This means that for  the past 6 months since the move, my brother has unsuccessfully tried to have phone communication with his son. Sometime ago he decided that each time Jaylan doesn't come to the phone, he would just say to his older brother "Tell Jaylan, that's okay Dadda still loves him!" or "Even if you don't want to talk me, I still love you!" "Not matter what--I still  love you!"

For months  his big brother has been passing on the messages. "Dadda says that's okay-- he still loves you."  Sometime through speaker phone--"That's okay if you don't' wanna talk to me Jaylan--I still love you!"
Sometime with Jaylan being forced to hold the phone..."That's okay--I still love you!" My brother would smile and say "and there's nothing you can do to make me stop!"

But never any  response from Jaylan.

For the past few days Jaylan has been home-- visiting. Dadda is happy. We all are. It's Jaylan's world! Chuck E. Cheese two days in a row-- per his request! Today my brother calls to tell me, he'd been looking and looking for all the prize tickets Jaylan won over the 2 days and  finally:

Dadda say: "Awww maaaan Jaylan!!! I must've thrown them away! I'm sorry! It was an accident.... I promise we'll go again, and I'll help you win them all back!

Jaylan say : That's okay Dadda... I still love you.

Dedicated to J and J...and all of the other dadda....

 

{Soon again Whoad.--I love you.}

I told my parents I wanted to build a castle in the sky.
“Here’s a pencil and paper, let’s draw the plans,” they replied. 

I told my parents that one day a queen would wear my ring.
They said, “The only way to marry a queen is to be a king.” 

I told my parents I wanted to kick lil’ Reggie’s butt.
They replied, “lets say that you do…then what?” 

I told my parents I’m 17; I’m getting married ‘cause I love her.
They replied, “We won’t fight you if you can tell us her favorite color.”

I told my parents I’m not going to college; I wanna rap.
They said, “Wherever you go, remember one day you’ll go back.”

I told my parents I was going to be the next Bill Cosby, funny and rich.
They replied, “Why not just work hard and be the first Will Smith?” 

I told my parents I’m about to be a father and I’m scared.
They replied, “Sometimes all you need to do is simply be there.” 

My son told me he wanted to build a castle in the sky.
“Here’s a pencil and paper, let’s draw the plans!” I replied. 

                                                                                                  ~Will Smith 

Love, Peaks and Valleys

To My Children of Newark: From me to you...

-->
My children of Newark,

At the time of our goodbyes--I'll be too choked up to talk...this i know. So, the few things i have to say--let me say them now...here:

Remember to imagine it---imagine the details of it. Imagine yourself doing it. Imagine it complete. Imagine the feeling in your body as it’s happening. Imagine the look on your face. Make it real on your inside world---and to the outside word it will be born.  Remember it's all prayers---your mind and your words...be mindful of what your create...use care.



take care of your  mind--give your eyes, brain, and ears a break from the TV sometimes, and all the other electrical screens. It makes you dull...and does other not good stuff too. (trust me on that--they were created for a reason.)   Stare at the clouds and the tree branches sometimes. They have a rhythm and life and story to tell and it somehow feeds your creative mind.  look, its true, okay?! :-)

Try something new. You don't have to repeat what someone else thinks is cool. or what's happening all around. Humanness and Kindness---seems as though they're becoming extinct--keep them alive. Say a word that will make another feel better every day. Remember that it doesn't take any special talent or skill to be mean or rude--anyone and everyone can do it...and you are better than that.

 

this whole tattoo craze thing?…hmmm…. put some thought into how many people just become followers so easy. ... like they have no mind of their own!  Yo--  be your own leader, okay?...and be mindful of making your body/temple look like a vandalized building... it’s just not cute.

this summer, i watched you. So much Creativity/God running through you... know that you are special. Treat yourself as though you are precious. Carry yourself like you're precious--try to avoid loudness--especially in public spaces. Carry yourself in a way that makes other see instantly that you are more valuable than jewels. Ya'll see public and train behavior… just don’t mimic or add to the madness! Cause that’s exactly what it is.

 I too can rock tight jeans, t-shirts, and hair up in a pony tail..[haha--and sometimes do!--imagine that!] but there is an immediate difference in the way i am treated and spoken to when i move on the street...command the best for your selves.




Use fear for your own good. I've learned that its like a big guard dog snarling and barking....but it's only there because so is the treasure. Walk Boldly through it--and see your greatest gifts shine.

It's okay to tremble. It's okay when  your belly is in knots. Like "X marks the spot" so do those trembles and shakes. You're close to your power. [Like me joining in on the freestyle circle! :-)]

Its takes a lot of courage to be honest. And to be plainly and honestly YOURSELF takes an extra heap of it..and a long time. but practice it some every day...

 

Mean words hurt deep. i know. but don't believe them. they don't tell you anything true about yourself---they just tell you how much pain the one saying them is in....Hear this:  you are brilliant. your are beautiful. You are immensely talented. you are guided. you are capable.

Do not dismiss your ideas as unimportant. The mere fact that the idea landed upon  you---is confirmation that YES the idea is WORTH DOING!

You are not a victim of circumstances. We all have a life story. We all have dramas and hurt. But still, create your  life how you want it to be.



Find a way to let it out--- write, paint, color, dance, run,  sing… talk..but get it out… (ex)press it out!

It is soooo okay to make mistakes. to make mistakes is to be PERFECT. You’re supposed to! And  then find the courage to acknowledge it---and correct it. Learn from it.  That's how we grow. That is THE goal.

Let people see your eyes when you speak, and speak only if you can see theirs.

Be sure to always claim the right to pause and THINK....I was told: learn to be okay with that  quiet and uncomfortable moment...while you allow another person to SEE you THINK/FEEL  something out for YOURSELF before making any decisions. It's good for another to know that you are a THINKER for yourself.  make DECISIONS based on your own thinking...not simply CHOICES based on someone else's. Do you see the difference?  choices are limited. DECISIONS come from a vast wide open place of your own desires.
 
Be revolutionaries--watch the grown ups. repeat the good. make the decision to NOT to repeat the bad.

Stay away from the Bad. Please. Especially you, my boys, you have no idea how invaluable you are…and  how much is working against you. Just lean toward the good, okay?---have the courage to walk away from the bad. (no matter how small you think it is..) (watch and see.) And if you don't have anyone teaching you how to be a MAN (because you do have to learn that, its not just about getting older and bigger...) try to find examples to follow--of noble, responsible, and upright men. Be strong of mind and spirit.  And strong doesn't mean be to hard and unbendable... I've learned that those things break first.




Don’t let money be your 1st focus. Focus on your passion—what your heart truly loves to do…[no matter how stupid some else makes you feel it is. It isn’t.] do what you enjoy—what makes you happy and you will be provided for—then the money will follow--and much  much more. Trust. It’s true.

Know that you have a role on this planet that NO ONE else can fill. It is uniquely yours.   someone has a talent/skill better than you—simply see if you can learn from them…grow better every day.



be loving.

This was a lot!  Haha---but that’s it ya’ll—I’m done!
I'm grinning at you of course!
i love you!
Ms. Nehprii

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lifecinematic/5991292855/

To my children of Newark

in life there is so much to see and to do...
the sunshine...
the morning light...
the cool breeze passing through...

{may you sail away on a crystal ship of all your hopes and dreams....}
{thank you for the chance to know you.}

Storytelling:The Rose (Greek)

                     

 

From Metu, A compilation of stories by Akhmed Azzihir

Myth

"If you're not a reality, whose myth are you? If you're not a myth whose reality are you?"

                                                                                                                          ~ Sun Ra

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

(re-posted from 2/10)



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  nothing 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, wearing a white dress... and see only regal 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.

Storytelling: The Magic Orange Tree (Haitian)

CRIC? CRAC!

There was once a girl whose mother died when she was born. Her father waited for some time to remarry, but when he did, he married a woman who was both mean and cruel. She was so mean there were some days she would not give the girl anything at all to eat. The girl was often hungry. One day the girl came from school and saw on the table three round ripe oranges. Hmmmm. They smelled good. The girl looked around her. No one was there. She took one orange, peeled it, and ate it. Hmmm-mmm. It was good. She took a second orange and ate it. She ate the third orange. Oh-oh, she was happy. But soon her stepmother came home.

"Who has taken the oranges I left on the table?'' she said. "Whoever has done so had better say their prayers now, for they will not be able to say them later.''

The girl was so frightened she ran from the house. She ran through the woods until she came to her own mother's grave. All night she cried and prayed to her mother to help her. Finally she fell asleep. In the morning the sun woke her, and as she rose to her feet something dropped from her skirt onto the ground. What was it? It was an orange pit. And the moment it entered the earth a green leaf sprouted from it. The girl watched, amazed. She knelt down and sang:

Orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow.
Orange tree, orange tree.
Grow and grow and grow,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.


The orange tree grew. It grew to the size of the girl. The girl sang:

Orange tree,
Branch and branch and branch.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Branch and branch and branch,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.


And many twisting, turning, curving branches appeared on the tree. Then the girl sang:
Orange tree,
Flower and flower and flower.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Flower and flower and flower,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.




Beautiful white blossoms covered the tree. After a time they began to fade, and small green buds appeared where the flowers had been. The girl sang:

Orange tree,
Ripen and ripen and ripen.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Ripen and ripen and ripen,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother.
Orange tree.


The oranges ripened, and the whole tree was filled with golden oranges. The girl was so delighted she danced around and around the tree, singing:
Orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.


But then when she looked, she saw the orange tree had grown up to the sky, far beyond her reach. What was she to do? Oh she was a clever girl. She sang:

Orange tree,
Lower and lower and lower.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Lower and lower and lower,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.


When the orange tree came down to her height, she filled her arms with oranges and returned home.  The moment the stepmother saw the gold oranges in the girl's arms, she seized them and began to eat them. Soon she had finished them all, ''Tell me, my sweet,'' she said to the girl, "where have you found such delicious oranges?"
The girl hesitated. She did not want to tell. The stepmother seized the girl's wrist and began to twist it.
''Tell me!" she ordered.
The girl led her stepmother through the woods to the orange tree. You remember the girl was very clever? Well, as soon as the girl came to the tree, she sang:

Orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.


And the orange tree grew up to the sky. What was the stepmother to do then? She began to plead and beg.
"Please" she said. "You shall be my own dear child. You may always have as much as you want to eat. Tell the tree to come down and you shall pick the oranges for me", so the girl quietly sang:

Orange tree,
Lower and lower and lower.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Lower and lower and lower,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.


The tree began to lower. When it came to the height of the stepmother, she leapt on it and began to climb so quickly you might have thought she was the daughter of an ape. And as she climbed from branch to branch, she ate every orange. The girl saw that there would soon be no oranges left. What would happen to her then? The girl sang:


Orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.


The orange tree grew and grew and grew and grew. "Help!" cried the stepmother as she rose into the sky. "H-E-E-lp...."
The girl cried: Break! Orange tree, Break!


The orange tree broke into a thousand pieces and the step mother as well.
Then the girl searched among the branches until she found .... a tiny orange pit. She carefully planted it in the earth. Softly she sang:

Orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow.
Orange tree, orange tree,
Grow and grow and grow,
Orange tree.
Stepmother is not real mother,
Orange tree.

The orange tree grew to the height of the girl. She picked some oranges and took them to market to sell. They were so sweet the people bought all her oranges.Every Saturday she is at the marketplace selling her oranges. Last Saturday, I went to see her and asked her if she would give me a free orange. "What?'' she cried. After all I've been through!'' And she gave me such a kick in the pants that that's how I got here today, to tell you the story-
"The Magic Orange Tree."

Commentary

When a child is born in the countryside, the umbilical cord may be saved and dried and planted in the earth, with a pit from a fruit tree placed on top of the cord. The tree that grows then belongs to the child, who can barter or sell it. (Young children in Haiti very quickly become economically active.) Trees in Haiti are thus thought to protect children and are sometimes referred to as the guardian angel of the child. However, if the tree should die or grow in a deformed manner, that would be considered an evil omen.

The song of the orange tree is often sung by the storyteller after the cric?, before the beginning of the story. Each storyteller may offer a slightly different melodic version of the song. Therefore, the storyteller's decision to sing before the story not only teaches the audience the storyteller's specific melody but also warms up the audience, for singing gets the blood flowing and the heart's juices pumping.

**Thank you "Jacmel" for recently singing its original rhythm to me... :-)

"FULL MOON" stories

This special event outside St. Stephen’s Church will feature Guyanese folk tales told by the light of the full moon.  

Presented by Brooklyn Arts Council in cooperation with the Guyana Cultural Association
WHEN: Wednesday, June 1, 6:30-8:30pm
WHERE: St. Stephen’s Church
E.28th St and Newkirk Avenue (East Flatbush)
Click here for map & directions

 

Hmmm....well June 1st is the new moon...not the full.. but still,  I'll be there! 

BAC is hosting more storytelling events throughout may and june: http://www.brooklynartscouncil.org/documents/1661 

View the event flyer
> OUATFlyer_FullMoon_June1.pdf   (402.626 kb)

Once Upon A Time in Brooklyn is made possible, in part, by support from Con Edison, The Mary Duke Biddle Foundation, National Endowment for the Arts, New York State Council on the Arts, New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, and the New York City Council.

More on the Rhythm of Work

every step we take is rhythm.
every word we speak is rhythm.
{and the silence in between makes the rhythm}

StoryTelling: The Old Alchemist (Burma/Myanmar)

Okay... so somehow this all starts with Michael Jackson, or maybe it starts with John Landis and  American werewolf, or perhaps we can bring it home to the principle of Khepra and the spirit's unending devotion to transformation... dunno. But, today it all turned into me an my lil ol lady (niece born of my sister. She's "1" supposedly) making full use of bathroom acoustics singing "Sing a song" at the top of our lungs while my lil-man, who is completely in love with anything gory, bloody, and monstrous  watches the movie Beetle Juice for ummm...the 4th or 5th  time since I've been here (may my sister not read this!) (I mean...I was right. Yes. He loves it.) (oh my...)  Well, his favorite part of the movie has allowed us an educational intermission to introduce him to the life of  Harry Belafonte, "work songs" and a brief geography lesson on islands and island life. And, I think together the two of us may have created a new dance technique --a moon walking-toe-standing--type of calypso!

  

Well, while the movie plays on---here's a short story on the importance of work!

(oh! And if you haven't ever sang "Sing" to the top of lungs in a closed bathroom...you should!) 

The Old Alchemist

Once upon a time, there lived an wise elder with his beautiful daughter. She fell in love with a handsome young man, and the two married with the elder's blessing. The young couple led a happy life, except for one problem: the husband spent his time working on alchemy, dreaming of a way to turn base elements into gold. Soon enough, he ran through his patrimony, and the young wife struggled to buy food each day. She finally asked her husband to find a job, but he protested. “I am on the verge of a breakthrough!” he insisted. “When I succeed, we will be rich beyond our dreams!”
Finally the young wife told her father about the problem. He was surprised to learn that his new son was an alchemist, but he promised to help his daughter and asked to see him the next day. The young man went reluctantly, expecting a reprimand. To his surprise, the elder confided in him, “I, too, was an alchemist when I was young!” The father inquired about the young man’s work, and the two spent the afternoon talking. Finally the old wise man stirred with excitement. “You have done everything I did!” he exclaimed. “You are surely on the verge of a breakthrough. But you need one more ingredient to change base elements into gold, and I have only recently discovered this secret.” The father paused and sighed. “But I am too old to undertake the task. It requires much work.”
“I can do it, dear father!” the young man volunteered. The old man brightened. “Yes, perhaps you can.” Then he leaned over and whispered, “The ingredient you need is the silver powder that grows on banana leaves. This powder becomes magic when you plant the bananas yourself, and cast certain spells upon it.”
“How much powder do we need?” the young man asked. “Two pounds,” the old man replied.
The son thought out loud, “That requires hundreds of banana plants!”
“Yes,” the elder sighed, “and that is why I cannot complete the work myself.” “Do not fear!” the young man said, “I will!” And so the old man taught his son the incantations and loaned him money for the project.
The next day, the young man bought some land, and cleared it. He dug the ground himself, just as the elder had instructed him, planted the bananas, and murmured the magic spells over them. Each day he examined his plants, keeping weeds and pests away, and when the plants bore fruit, he collected the silver powder from the leaves. There was scarcely any on each plant, and so the young man bought more land, and cultivated more bananas. After several years, the young man collected two pounds of the magic dust. He rushed to his father’s house.
“I have the magic powder!” the young man exclaimed. “Wonderful!” the old man rejoiced. “Now I can show you how to turn base elements into gold! But first you must bring your wife here. We need her help.” The young man was puzzled, but obeyed. When she appeared, the old man asked his daughter, “While your husband was collecting the banana powder, what did you do with the fruits?”
“Why I sold them,” the daughter said, “and that is how we earned a living.”
“Did you save any money?” the father asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“May I see it?” the old man asked. So his daughter hurried home and returned with several bags. The old man opened them, saw they were full of gold, and poured the coins on the floor. Then he took a handful of dirt, and put it next to the gold.
“See,” he turned to his young son, “you have changed base elements into gold!”
For a tense moment, the young man was silent. Then he laughed, seeing the wisdom in the old man’s trick. And from that day on, the young man and his wife prospered greatly. He tended to the plants while she went to the market, selling the bananas. And they both honored the elder as the wisest of alchemists.

Dedicated to my "lil ol' lady"

...it just so happens that we share a common favorite song...



Sing, sing a song
Sing out loud
Sing out strong
Sing of good things, not bad
Sing of happy, not sad.

Sing, sing a song
Make it simple
To last your whole life long
Don't worry that it's not good enough
for anyone else to hear
Just sing, sing a song.

Sing, sing a song
Let the world sing along
Sing of love there could be
Sing for you and for me.

Sing, sing a song
Make it simple
To last your whole life long
Don't worry that it's not good enough
for anyone else to hear
Just sing, sing a song.

On Imagination...

"Behold the greatest magician in the universe: It is she who makes  the memory yield it's fruit.  Who realizes before hand the possible and invents even the impossible. To her,  miracles cost nothing. She transports houses and mountains through the air, places whales in the sky and stars in the seas. Gives paradise to the hashish or opium to the ether, offers kingdoms,  inebriates and makes pirouette dances with joy under the mild pale. Such is imagination."
                                                                                                         ~ Eliphas Levi (on Kemetic Studies)

Blog Talk Radio Interview: The Power of Writing, Who and What gets Omitted?

Listen to internet radio with The Funky Writer on Blog Talk Radio

"...the difference between the writer and the scribe is that the scribe does so with an agenda..."
                                                                                                          ~Seba Akhmed Azzahir 


From Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man:
" I am an invisible man. No, I am not a trace or a special effect. I have at least a physical referent. I have bone and flesh and sinew and gristle. I have angers and passions. The problem is my intellect. People have a hard time seeing past it. They see my body as if it were just an effect of my mind, a magic-lantern projection, an image cast on a screen by a bright burning bulb. I am invisible, then, not because of some accident of biology, some genetic mishap, but because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of the people who look at me. They can’t see the machinery in the darkness behind the bulb. Perhaps it is because the pupils in their eyes have narrowed to tiny points (the light is so very bright) and so they cannot focus beyond into the darkness. Although it is often inconvenient and trying, I have learned to adapt to my peculiar circumstances. For although I remain invisible, some people believe they can get a pretty good image of who I am by getting me to respond to words. I suppose they fancy that they know me by what I say. My words become me, I suit them. I am a sort of  sounding board, people bounce words off me and by what comes echoing back to them they know where I stand. People find me by a process of echo-location, and by where I stand they determine who I am. I am my own radar image..."

Thank You!

... Thank you to the students of Ms. Toussaint, Ms. Jackson and Mr. Bunch (and thank you teachers!) of  Boys and Girls Highschool for making my morning! How nice it was to share with you and to hear YOUR stories! :-)  Thank you Ms. Huggins for putting together the conference and for inviting me!   Gratitude!
                                  ~ Nehprii

The Danger of a Single Story

I originally posted this video over a year ago...and  have watched it over and over.   Now, as I prepare for a presentation in the morning with some High School students, I'm re-watching it again and  re-minded of how powerful it is and can't help but to...re-post!



"... Show a people as one thing, and only one thing over and over again, and that is what they become..."

"power is the ability to not just tell the story of another person, but to make it the definitive story of that person. ...'If you want to dispossess a people, the simplest way to do it is to tell their story and  start with "secondly." Start  the story with the arrows of the Native Americans and not with the arrival of the British, and you have an entirely different story.  Start the story with the failure of the African state and not with the colonial creation of the African state and you have an entirely different story."

an excerpt...

"...The new vision is taking shape and is becoming the ground of human conduct and behavior, for ultimately creation is only  fully itself when it becomes conduct and behavior. It can only truly be itself when it steps out of the deep waters of the imagination, the place where the reeds grow in us, and emerges to walk the solid earth in deed of flesh and blood." ~ Laurens Van der Post, The creative pattern in primitive Africa.


(se-nefer)

Finally!

In 2010 Khunum Productions was given a grant by Downtown Brooklyn Partnership to create an exhibit based on its publication "Memories of the Little Elephant." www.NehpriiAmenii.com The creation of the exhibit was a community arts project--or as we liked to call it--a "LIVE Exhibit!" The process of creation was exposed as doors were opened for the entire community to enter and participate. In the midst of creating the exhibit, the space also doubled as a full functioning community arts center. People from all walks of life joined in on LIVE collective art, as well as classes, discussions and performances. The community's thirst for togetherness, creativity, dialog and expression...quenched. Here are a few moments captured. Thank you to you all...for LIVE Beauty!

A very very special thank you to Vicki Khuzami, Francisco Cuesta, Mohandass R., Kousalya J. and Adin Kachisi and the owners of Renaissance Plaza.

For exhibition booking please contact:
Khunumproductions@gmail.com

** Music Credit: hypnotic brass ensemble ballicki bone http://www.hypnoticbrassensemble.com/downloads

Creative Fire!

...well, the only justification i really have for posting this is because...it makes me happy! Every time i press play and hear these brothers making music on their invisible instruments, i am lifted! CREATIVITY in full release.
... mama's, daddy's, aunties, uncle's  teachers and all folk...nurture and water that creative spirit in your child--including your inner one---let it breathe...and spark a  flickering orange glow to the body's electrical system... and then, watch it spread like fire in the wind..

An amazing tribute to Herbi Hancock---what he did with a stage full of instruments, they've done with only one! :-)

Naturally 7 - Performing At 2011 BET Honors (Live) (2011)

"My contention is that creativity now is as important as literacy, and we should treat it with the same status."

"All children are born artist, the problem is...remaining an artist when you grow up..."

" ...The consequence is that many highly talented brilliant creative people think that they're not...because the thing they were good at in school wasn't valued or was actually stigmatized...We need to radically rethink our view of intelligence... "

And we shall fly kites to the sun!

Yes... It's about Basketball!... My anthropological take...

...Sooo....my 6 year old nephew just started playing basketball. And although, I have been totally against the stereotyping, media propaganda, and societal typecasting of black men and  basketball (sports period), I  am being forced to pay attention to the sport on a new level. Of course he is absolutely one of the cutest things running around!---Moon walking---and Billie Jean toe-stands happening on the court every chance he gets! (and I? the proud auntie?... I am all smiles!)  But, it's more than that! A few Saturdays ago, I got to attend his very first game!  It was my first b-ball game in years. Beyond just being in full cheerleader mode ("Go X Go!!!") I did observe some other things about the game that I must give credit to.

The basketball court ( team sports) is one of the few places in America where black men are permitted to gather as a collective without being postured as a threat. The camaraderie and brotherhood that is a natural institution in most other societies is--mandated through unspoken law-- illegal for black men in America. (Some conscious efforts have been made to remedy this,  like HBCU's as well as black fraternities, I know, but still...) On that same note, and with the societal issues becoming more complex, with  an entire nation of black men in prison,  there  are also not an abundant number of opportunities to receive a black man as a teacher in America.  Of course it happens; but, it's definitely not in abundance. During the game, I realized that the coach is often that rare teacher moment.

 Well, on the same team as my nephew, there was another very adorable little boy who was even more lost in the game than my Lil' Man! ("Go X Go!!!")  As everyone else ran, he stood still, shy and ready to cry. I saw his mother and noticed there was no father with her. Then I looked back at the game in time to see this huge man (coach!) pick up the little boy, tuck him under his arm,  and run him down the court! The coach ensured that the child would be a part of  the game, even if it meant with his own legs! I wondered. This person called "coach."  I  phoned and  asked a couple of basketball playing friends about the role of "coach" in their lives. But before I received their responses,  the first thing I received from these men was an instant vibration of combined tenderness, nostalgia, passion,  reverence, and humility. 

With no mention about the specifics of the game, here's what they said "coach" taught them:
 
Black Men United- You will know by tricej

 "My coach taught me courage. He highlighted what I was naturally good at, showed me how to strengthen those natural skills, and turn them into my role. My coach taught me how to best use my energy exertion as part of a team. He showed  me how to stick to my own role, how to see my role in relation to others, and how to  use that vision to accomplish the  greater goal.  He taught me collective reliability over personal accolades.  Also, in sports the role of the coach, supersedes even societal issues...beyond race--the bonds built between coach and team...they really are loving relationships."
                                                _______

"Every coach I ever had, always pulled me aside and let me know that I was special,  that there was something different about me. They helped me to understand why I was different, and helped me to apply my abilities to more than basket ball. As a child, I was so passive that I could have easily gotten into a gang. I couldn't see my strengths, but my coaches pointed them out. My coach taught me how to be a leader and not a follower. He showed me-- made me see-- how others followed my lead, even when I wasn't trying to lead. ...and he told  me not to be afraid to let basketball be my girlfriend!...  kept me out of a lot of trouble..."



I had asked  one of those same friends recently about his creativity--where/how it gets expressed. He said,  "You may think it silly sounding, but...it's while playing ball."  I noted some years ago,  upon learning about some of the "latest educational break-throughs" such as  Brain Gym and other kinesthetic learning modules,  that such movement plays a vital role in brain development. These educational breakthroughs highlight some very simple movements that activate and connect both the right and left brain. I saw the connect to African dance immediately. African dance is poly-rhythmic movements at its finest. It therefore sits as the base of African intellect. Geniusness cloaked in rhythms (Isn't that the same model of Creation over all???) Now,  the need for community and togetherness, dance, creativity, and positive self-expression for young black men in America is an entire topic within itself. However, I have begun to see basketball, as more than simply sport---but as  the poly-rhythmic movement /cognitive development  and creative outlet for young boys and men.

Am I saying that I no longer consider the NBA to be the current-day-billion-dollar-plantation? No.  I still do. And do I still think that same rhythm, ambidexterity, and keen eye-hand coordination could also be used and promoted to create more neuro-surgeons? Yes.  However, I must also note that within merely weeks of playing... I have heard my nephew's confidence, speech, voice, and conversation connect to the moment in a way that I have not heard previously. And I can't down play the timing as coincidence.

To coaches James "Twiggy" Sanders, Mark Graves, and  Clyde Turner, you should know that you've been key players in molding boys into a couple of the finest men I know...and that you are deeply appreciated. (And to the daddy of Miles  coaching at the Durham YMCA... helping my nephew to score his first 3 shots last week!!!!...and for helping  him to sound so grown up in only weeks... I THANK YOU.)

(Oh, and it was also brought to my attention that the court is one of the few places where men are allowed complete expression of their emotions. Where they may not be able to cry in their relationship, in their home or in public...it is completely acceptable for a grown man to get down on his knees, in joy or sorrow, and cry on the basketball court....)

How can I not be a fan?