Tag: Crishuana.Com

  • Day 1. Umjoa – #CELEBRATE, Ch 3.

    Day 1. Umjoa – #CELEBRATE, Ch 3.

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    / We don’t borrow
    from Africa,
    we utilize
    that which was ours
    2 start with.
    The culture
    provides a basis
    4 revolution
    + recovery. / -Maulana Karenga

    (7 Days of Kwanzaa. 7 Excerpts from Chapter 3 of a forthcoming essay series, #CELEBRATE: Meditations on a Black Festive Culture)

    Chapter 3. Reincarnation: “KWANZAA”

    Day 1: Umoja

    okay, let’s get this straight:
    The reason they even codified an American Federal Holiday Calendar was to broaden definition of “American-ness” to include the white ethnic groups that were making up the majority of the country’s labor-force.

    When I worked in a public library, I started to notice when the federal holidays are because I got paid leave time for them. Every single one. It was great. Understanding the cultural politics  around federal holidays became important for me as I continued to develop my class-consciousness because these laws allow all American labors to observe leave and pay privileges on these specific legal and public holidays without designation. The two key words are: Legal. Public.
    The federal holidays are outlined by the United States Congress in Title V of the United States Code: 5 U.S.C. § 6103. Around the year 1880, the government began to legalize four new holidays for federal employees to have off:
    New Year’s Day,
    Independence Day,
    Thanksgiving Day,
    Chrima Day.

    During this exciting period of creation of American festivities, black folk were largely enjoying the benefits of 70 years of Jim Crow segregation, thanks to Plessy v Ferguson in 1896 until well after Brown v. Board of Education in 1954. Therefore, the sub-citizen position of black folk in the larger American society kept the federal government from hearing black demands for cultural recognition and inclusion on the American holiday calendar.

    The homie Frederick Douglass’ famous oration at Corinth Hall in Rochester forever voiced the black frustrations with an American culture that continued to deny them access to their overdue acknowledgment in his remarks on July 5th, 1852. In The Meaning of July 4th For the Negro, he probes, “What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim.”

    Wiki has a quick glance at this moment of invention on the timeline of the Great American Holidays in its article: “History – Federal Holidays in the United States.” At the time of this blog is being edited on Dec 26th, the government holidays also include the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr and Columbus Day. Other holidays you can probably think of (i.e. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, etc…) are observed as “public American holidays”, leaving their observances and labor obligations in the hands of individuals and private institutions. Of note, listings of these public holidays are often categorized by market sales…

    Well, there was one public black holiday: Freedom Day, the subject of chapter two. Since 1947, Freedom Day was the only holiday adopted from a black festive tradition of Emancipation Day and Juneteenth. Though it occupied space on the public holiday calendar, it had not become a cultural vehicle to expand the American identity in the way other popularly celebrated ethnic holidays like Hanukkah, St. Patrick’s Day and arguably Columbus Day had been for other minority groups.

    Further, a number of the national/popular American holidays highlighted painful cultural traumas including the systematic exclusion of both Native and African-American presence in the Nation’s historical narrative. As a federal holiday, Columbus Day represents the European discovery of America, but it also represents the dispossession of American Indian lands and genocide as well the establishment of the African Slave Trade in North America. The founding fathers that are commemorated on these holidays owned or condoned the slave trade.

    With all of these “conflicts of interest,” American holiday-makers needed to reassert a neater definition of “Freedom” in the festive calendar. Freedom Day was codified as a celebration of President Lincoln’s signing of the 13th Amendment.  Disregarding the holiday’s tradition of Freedom Day Oratoations which served to remind and establish Africans of their rightful place in story of the American republic, the unrecognized holiday Juneteenth subsequently absorbed this purpose.

    Grappling with the post-bellum Black Holiday Tradition, it is easy to understand how Kwanzaa became the powerful re-assertion that it was. As a method of the Black American culture to build a truly representative festive culture, Kwanzaa and the Black Protest Calendar emerged. The Black Holiday Tradition would be refiltered in this period through the cultural nationalist framework of the 1960s and 70s. J. Peniel’s Waiting ‘Til the Midnight Hour (2007) chronicles the notable shift into a new radical black consciousness among black intellectual thought and a shift away from the moderate politics of Civil Rights. Black Power challenged the black freedom struggle to move beyond social justice demands, to economic and cultural nationalism. But the story of Kwanzaa illustrates the struggle of the newly forming consciousness to create safe spaces within the existing black American contexts: from intellectual, social and cultural to the political, economic and, of course physical contexts.

    It radically advocated violence for self-defense.
    (1/7)

    All wax prints from post titles and Instagram are available for order from @HouseOfMimiWata African fabrics shop in Houston, TX.

    Sending you many blessings, family &

    Habari Gani until tomorrow,

    C.

  • eating meat: reflections on a plant-based lifestyle

    eating meat: reflections on a plant-based lifestyle

    IMG_6279.jpgFor 6.5 years of my life, since Februrary 2012, I have dedicated myself to a primarily plant-based lifestyle. My former partner was a student of Western medicene who swore by the full Hippocratic oath: “Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food,” while my best friend growing up was spiritually vegetarian in her household. I have never really eaten all that “normally.” At home, my mother loved to cook (and eat) and my father is West African. Growing up working class, my parents cooked more than we ate out, fast food included. For a few years now, I’ve been hanging out with the yogis and the “conscious” folks of the country, reading Chef Ahki, Terry Bryant and Solla Eiríksdóttir. I’ve made my way through Savor: Mindful Eating, Mindful Life a couple times.

    Now I am eating meat. It’s been a few months now. Walmart steaks and McDonald’s dollar cheeseburgers, buffalo chicken wings from my favorite sports bars, but most importantly, I am eating my father’s cooking: Beef stews over rice almost daily. I am eating love in food form and nothing is more delicious. And nothing is more spiritual. Since cooking with my former partner for hours, cutting up vegetables from our garden together, looking up infinite recipies on the internet, watching food documentaries over wine, and buying too many vegetarian cookbooks, I have exprienced how food is love. “Feeding another person is an act of love,” I once wrote to myself in a journal.

    Then God said, “I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food.”

    (Genesis 1:29 – NIV)

    When I finally separated with my partner in Nashville, my brother moved out with me. He was still getting on his feet and so was I. We had very little to spend on the fancy ingedients that I loved and I attempted a very lame garden in my apartment. With none of the extra kitchen tools I liked to have, we made do. But community is so powerful. My Puerto Rican neighbors upstairs taught me to make some bomb beans and rice. Tortillas don’t cost much and they literally go with everything, incuding peanut butter and jelly. Soon my brother started prepping at one of the best barbecue joints in the city and free food was a perk. He would bring home brisket and sweet smoked wings that smelled so good. But, I was vegetarian.

    But, I could see the pride he had in providing for our little house situation and I was running out of interesting ideas, so I starting eating the food he brought home. It was so good. And I was so proud of him with every bite. He was feeding me love. I learned that lesson just in time to move home. My father’s stands at the stove, watching the news on his little kitchen tv and cutting up onions, slicing fat off of chicken brests and sizzling oil in the pot with such joy. Any hour of the evening, he could be found doing this. It is a release for him after long days at work. It unique opportunity watch him cook away his stress. He cooks love right into his food. He cooks peace into it, and you can taste it. He cooks for 14 people, always. Even before I started staying here, my mtoher told me he would cook this way for just the two of them. When I ask him why he cooks so much, he tells me so that all of his children can come and eat dinner anytime. My sister, brothers and I are more than happy to oblige his request. It makes him happy to see us enjoying the meals he prepares. They are never vegetarian. But, that is okay. beef stew with love is much better for the soul and the environment than a politically bitter kale salad any day.


    My dad told me that growing up in Dakar, his father would always invite anyone who was around in the neighborhood to come and eat. His father told him that this was a blessing for his children so that they would always have food whereever they are. My dad tells me that of his 65 years of life, he has always had food where ever he is. Now, me too. I have never been hungry anywhere I have gone because of my dad’s generational blessings. When I was in Nashville, I learned to grow my own food and built community around organic community gardens across the city. When I lived on my own, my brother brought me food and my patrons cooked for me often from their gardens. And as a gardener who practices a mainly plant diet, I can have food anywhere I choose to go, too. I am not sure how much longer I will be consuming meat, but I know I will forever be eating love.
    Praise Jah for his blessings through all living things.

    If it’s your jam: find out more on the Western Yogi interpretation of Patanjali’s “Yogic Diet,” in Dayna Macy’s 2008 article for Yoga International, “Eat Like a Yogi: A Yoga Diet Based in Ayurvedic Prinicples.”
    Until then,

    May you cook with love,
    eat with love
    and always be in love,
    -C

  • Return of the Prodigal: a meditation

    Return of the Prodigal: a meditation

    A meditation on Luke 15:24.
    “For this my son was dead,  and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry.”

    Sounds & voices:

    harmonies from my childhood ring out from the bathroom,
    French songs my father used to play from the radio.
    (I sing along with my broken French in my head)

    The image as he gets ready for work, I am swept away into nostalgia,
    a sweetness I had been craving
    my last six months in Nashville

    I am home.

    I dream of my father as a young man,
    handsome and determined, very large glasses on a skinny frame
    making his way as a young African in newly independent Senegal

    or roaming the rues of Paris in search of a bon café,
    a noir in a sea of pale blanc.
    Perhaps a blonde girlfriend by his side
    as they bravely dare to redefine cultural taboos
    and overcome the racial socio-political walls between them.

    Just as soon, the Accura dealer is over the speaker
    reminding me that his new cars will bring me joy
    since my old Ford has a dented fender
    and expired plates.

    I am American again. The image is clear;
    my father, too, is American again,
    his citizenship codified some years ago
    by an oath and deep blue passport in hand.

    What was lost in gaining this new identity?
    I wonder as a few salty tears gently sliding down my cheeks surprise me
    and I am aware of the small lump
    in my throat.

    Happiness or sadness?

    Sometimes for me, they are the same.
    I am grateful to be home again,
    to find what I had been looking for.

    I am getting my life force back in to me slowly,
    everyday I am here, a little more.
    It was God’s grace that brought me home
    so that we all
    may be free to live again.

    Amen.