The Source of the River Nile

I kept my fathers ashes in two ziplock bags on my bedroom dresser in Uganda for three long years. It was difficult to explain to visiting friends and lovers. “Just some special dirt from home,” I mostly lied. How could I explain that I had no idea what to do with all I had left of a loving, mysterious father? Finally, the ceremony idea came to me as I searched the sky for the double-round, fluffy clouds I always find on December 10^th, his birthday. I would scatter his ashes at the source of the great Nile River.

The boat guide and I sat silent on the half-sunken party boat until we reached the backside of a strange island covered in plants with all white leaves. “Doves eat a lot of fish,” he explained pointing up to a group of birds so thick they blacked out the sun as they passed overhead. “Bird Shit Island.” When I didn’t join his soft laughter, he looked at the ziplock bag squeezed nervously in my lap.  “You got to put him right in the bubbles—that’s the source—the spring. This spring gives the great river power to flow north for 4,000 miles. I put you in the exact spot.”

I unzipped the first bag just as a small audience of four sizable dragon lizards poked their heads out from the island. “Thank you father for inspiring me to see the world by sharing your stories. Thank you for that last summer playing in the waterfalls of North Carolina. Thank you for letting me bench press with you in the garage and build a turtle pond with you in the backyard even though I was a girl”. 

I emptied the second bag and watched until the grey dust disappeared completely into the cool, hungry torrent.  A massive double-round fluffy cloud floated above. I cupped the clear water with my hands and smiled.

“May you rest in peace. May you forever be the source and I be the Nile. Goodbye father.”  

The Honeymoon Problem

Guest Vignette: Anonymous

My husband sees his buddy from high school. “Hey, I heard you just got married! Congrats!" As we wait in the Emergency Room, they strike up a conversation and have a jolly old chat.  "What brings you two in tonight?” A trip to the bathroom at midnight had left me with teeth-chattering pain and fever chills running up and down my spine. Within one minute he knows what I have. The mood in the room stays upbeat with the exception of me, who is scowling from pain and horrified by the context of my introduction as a new wife. This story will be retold by my sweet mother-in-law as an epic tale under the pretense of a prayer request.  Listeners will compassionately agree to pray--all the while snickering inside at the newly weds. After a couple hours of peeing glass, I get my cocktail of drugs and it’s not long before I start to feel a bit better. 24 hours later we get an e-mail from my husband’s Aunt asking about my UTI.  

Black Freedom Event , Schomburg Center

Three aged Black men sat on stage in varying shades of the same blue suit looking straight through--not at--me sitting near the back of the pristine auditorium. My hands were folded on my lap, fingers laced just as I was taught in elementary school. Dr. Robert Curvin, Dr. Clarence Taylor, and Dr. Junius Williams were all Civil Rights Movement veterans turned authors and college professors. It was hard to not be intimidated by their conviction and deep-voiced provocations.

"Do you know anything about the Civil Rights Movement in the North? Do you!?"

I lowered my head and rolled my eyes. How could it have taken me this long to realize that the "North was good; South was racist" history lesson was a myth? I seethed with miseducation anger in my seat.

"Now everyone up in here is smart enough to know racism ain't end in the '60's. But, do you realize that we been fighting for equality in the North since back then, since the beginning? Huge battles in Chicago and New York and Detroit against housing, employment, police, and social service discrimination."

I remembered the pride on my skinny US History teacher's face when she taught us high school kids how the Civil Rights Movement was successful and discrimination was abolished.

"We don't teach about the Northern struggle because that story doesn't have a happy ending."

My First Funeral , 2014 NYC Protests

Two police helicopters hovered so low I could hear their propellers cutting the air even over the screams and chants of the crowd. We stopped and knelt before a line of twenty officers, chanting and raising our hands in surrender and defiance. 

"Hands Up / Don't Shoot"  

A weathered-faced, elderly Black man moved forward to speak directly to the cops and began to read out the names of over 150 unarmed men, women and children who have been killed by police. 

"Being Black is not a Crime / Same story Every Time" 

He read the ages of each victim after their names: Aiyana Jones, 7 years old; Rekia Boyd, 22; Yvette Smith, 47 and mother of two... He read the circumstances of each killing: Some were children sleeping. Others were men walking with their girlfriend. And still more were just impoverished women, mistaken for criminals. The list of victim's names seemed endless. 

"We Charge Genocide / We Charge Genocide / We Charge Genocide" 

Periodically, the old man would stop and ask if anyone on the police force could answer for these deaths. He would ask if anyone has been held accountable for a single one. We were only a few steps from the police precinct door.

"Who do you Protect? / Who do you Serve?"  

Voices started to crack with emotion, fatigue and pain. A girl buried her face in her hands to hide her tears. I realized that this is the first funeral I have ever attended. 

"NYPD, KKK / How many Kids have you Killed Today?"

Higher ranking officers in crisp, white uniforms emerged. I struggled to write my sign clearly with shaky, frigid fingers--Police Can Commit Crimes--all in caps. We rose from our knees and began to chant again. I showed my sign to every cop I passed, looking them straight in the eye. Police can commit crimes.

"Hey Hey, Ho Ho / These Racist Cops have Got to Go"

The cops began to encircle us in the street and outnumbered the protesters 3 to 1.  A school bus painted blue and white with barred windows pulled up and parked a couple feet in front of us. More officers dismounted motorcycles and we started to move, walking quickly down a side street straight through oncoming traffic. 

"Shut it Down, Shut it Down / Eric Garner, Michael Brown"

Most of the time during the protests I was either filled with rage or fear. Then we started to scream "I Can't Breathe", echoing the last words of Eric Garner. And after each time we said it, we counted: 

"I Can't Breathe / 1 / I Can't Breathe / 2 / I Can't Breathe / 3 / I Can't Breathe ... 

Up to eleven. When we reached eleven I was, for the first time, filled with a deep, sorrowful, mourning sadness. Eric Garner begged to live 11 times. The officers choked the life out of him and will not be punished. 11 times. He begged to live. And now we beg for justice.

"What do we want / Justice / When do we want it / NOW"