Holy Division , Jerusalem

Guest Vignette by Dani Lynn Walker Kreutter

I meander the old streets in the City of Peace and I find myself at a viewpoint for the Wailing Wall. I look down at the wailers and at the wall and I see the military checkpoints and the 20-somethings with huge guns, their presence calming some fears and heightening others. The wailers have divided themselves on this wall – there is a larger portion for men and the women wail on the remaining piece. The Dome of the Rock lies behind, so close in distance, yet so far in unity for the devotees of such places. This city of peace and this land that is holy has been splintered in every imaginable way. The church marking the birth of the Prince of Peace also marks a power struggle between 3 different denominations. Abraham, the father of 3 warring traditions, is buried in Hebron, a city most divided. One side of his tomb is for the controllers and tourists; the other side for the controlled. A wall snakes through this holy land, splitting this place from that and splintering hearts in the process. All is divided, cut apart, separated. All is split. The holiness of it all fails to find me. I again observe the wailers and I feel their sorrow working in me. Something wells up in my heart, chokes me as it comes through my throat, and it seeps out from my eyes. My mind tells it to stop, but my body doesn’t listen. Even I am divided within myself. I’m interrupted by 2 lovers. They want me to take their photo in front of this historical landscape. And for that snapshot moment, the scene in front of me is not one of division.

Home , Black Father Moment

Guest Vignette by Byran Stanley 

I don’t believe that Adrian Peterson, the NFL player who disciplined his child with a “switch” from a tree, deserves to face criminal charges. Although, it is child abuse. I used to rely on the “fear through pain” method. It wasn’t until seeing the after effects that I learned that different children require different methods of discipline. My stepson was already dealing with emotional trauma from not having his dad consistent in his life, so he was initially very excited about having me around. I killed that joy with each spanking I gave him. Those spanking made him feel even more inadequate and ate away at his confidence. He would be afraid to tell me something as simple as he’s hungry. I didn’t understand it, because he rarely got spankings. My initial reaction was that he needed to toughen up. I realized later that I had created a hostile environment for him—he could never feel safe. My stepdaughter was completely different from her brother. The more I spanked her, the more she rebelled. Her will was just so strong, just like her mother. I thought I had to find a way to break her will, but then I realized that breaking her will is not the answer. That strong will could be what propels her to a successful future. I didn’t think you could reason with a three year old, but talking to her worked a lot better than spanking her. One time I let her know that I was disappointed in her for misbehaving and she cried. That let me know she understands. I believe whooping entered Black Culture from slavery when we were beat with whips and anything else the slave owners could find. We in turn carried out that same punishment to our kids and thus beginning the cycle. Parents are supposed to help their kids build on their strengths, not tear them down.

Dubai , Unexpected Arabian Night

Only crazy people visit Dubai in the summer. Around 10pm it was still so swelteringly hot, water condensed on the sunglasses atop my head. Throngs of racially ambiguous bronze skinned and dark-haired people swarmed around me in scarves and wide-bottomed dresses. Mostly men. Dubai’s population is 80% foreign born according to our guide who is obviously obsessed with 5 star hotels. “This hotel shaped like an open hand is owned by Thailand; this one shaped like a sail is owned by our vice president; this one takes the form of a crashing wave; this one could be a hotel but is actually the pink palace of the chairman of Emirates Airlines.” Apparently Dubai made a successful shift to high-end tourism because the oil money was running low. I looked up at a shard-shaped black shimmering tower, Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, as water danced to a rhythmic drumbeat. I stroked my new miniature bejeweled camel between my fingers and sighed deep—their consumerism got me.

Las Vegas , A Midnight in August

Guest Vignette by an anonymous sister of Janay Rice

The ache of a dying relationship is comparable to childbirth. It tears your insides apart; makes you throw up the sedatives you had been taking to cope with the unbearable pain. At some point in the process, you start to admit that there’s no turning back and that this has to come to an end somehow. For your survival. And sometimes, that moment comes only after your air supply has been cut off by the person who once had infinite love for you. In the home you built together. On the couch you shared bodily fluids. You look into his crazed eyes with the realization that he could kill more than your spirit. And you’re left with a choice that no one will ever understand. Either because you left and he was "too good of a man" to deserve that, or because you stayed knowing he was a violent bastard. There are nuances to this birthing process. If you push too soon, you will most certainly tear. If you don’t push, the pain will endure relentlessly. But you will always love everything that led up to this moment.

Because. He’s your baby.

West Side , Subway Ride

I enter the A train at 125th street. An older Dominican woman uses a small mirror to tweeze her chin hairs for the entire 13 minute express ride under Central Park. At Columbus Circle, we pick up a young Scandinavian woman with large, fish eyes and beaten red hair. It is an old train with tightly packed orange seats so she reluctantly rubs against a grey-haired sitar man. Port Authority stop unleashes a wave of aloof commuters. The suits nearly hide a mountain man with a yellow custom-made beard comb. He rakes his hair 40 or 50 times by the time we get to Penn Station. Here an Asian couple loses their balance as the subway car sways--one girl grips her black kiss-lip purse while the other girl drops her bag made of jean shorts sown closed at the butt. They steal a kiss. Doors open.