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" 

  

Uganda , When the Bush Has Taken its Toll

Guest Vignette by Stephanie Nitshcke Riddell 

She looked so different I didn’t recognize her at first. She no longer had a new weave; bags had developed under her eyes; her clothes were worn and lacking style. Her spark was gone. She had been living in northern Uganda since we met half a year ago. She probably thought I had forgotten her when my eyes did not display immediate recognition. What could have possibly happened to her up there? Maybe it was living in a house full of men? She was a twin, so the separation from her sibling was taxing. Or the distance from her boyfriend? Perhaps it was the harsh realities she faced helping people who had no water? Long work hours? Living without simple luxuries? A little combo? I wouldn’t dare ask because I knew it would be hard to conceal my garish curiosity. My tone would have exposed the honest thought in my mind, “The bush has taken its toll.” 

Philly , Forbes Under 30 Summit 2014

To my left, a well-dressed woman’s eyes got red and wet as Monica Lewinsky described her suicidal thoughts from years ago. I quickly retreated to the lobby to recover my sanity at the free cookie cart. Half of the Philadelphia Mayor’s office was in attendance to support this event as a “city revitalization effort”. They debated whether the Summit’s Wiz Khalifa and Afrojack concert last night was profitable. We returned to the ballroom to witness an oddly cellulite and breast implant ridden fashion show. My serious attention was only grabbed back by Sara Blakely, the inventor of Spanx. How did she grow a billion dollar company from only 5,000 dollars of savings and manage to keep 100% business ownership? The question bugged me while I kicked around the energy-harnessing soccer ball my new friend Jessica invented for rural students to power their reading lights. No one here is normal. And then, Malala entered the ballroom. This short, visibly awkward teenager who lives a double life—handing in homework one day and accepting the Nobel Prize the next—spoke powerfully about education. My eyes were not wet, but my heart was on fire. I believe Malala looked directly at me: "Education is the key to ending poverty globally. We must continue our work."  

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.