Birthday

I had a birthday, an amazing birthday this past July and I am still filled with the beauty, love and reality of it. Dearest friends came together and ensured that my birthday was spectacular. I had not slept with, had children with, or married any of them. Aging for me is so wonderfully strange. Seeing love and support and adventures coming from people and places where I have planted no long ago seeds that I'm now reaping and looking at the garden I tended, not perfectly, but with good effort continue to produce indifferent crops. I am not angry (most of the time), but fascinated. I am fascinated how I am slowly moving from what I thought to what I experience. Here is a poem that caught me on my journey and insisted I write it.

Independence Day 7/4/10

It happened today
Independence
Like birth is irrevocable
Even if I wished to return
To past servitude
I am unable to
I have discovered my power
And so have you
Though the aftermath of our struggle
Played the same dueling perceptions
It was only form
Not substance
And we both recognize that
We reside in different kingdoms
Only our geography remains the same
For the moment
Just for the moment

ayesha ali

peeking

with a shy
eye
i peep at my coming
death
curious
no so much in the manor
she'll caress
my face
but
after
the after
the end
the beginning
another journey
i glimpse her
with a shy eye
and
smile

ayesha ali
10/22/10

The Mammy and the Momma

Momma, mammy--so different, so alike, so much of who I am. Lots of mmmm's, lots of giving, lots of love. But however much they appear the same, the conditions that create them are very different, and that difference is why it is crucial to me to embrace the momma and free the mammy.

I remember watching old movies with my grandmother and seeing black women with head scarves clucking and catering to the likes of everyone from Mae West to Vivian Leigh (pictured). I later saw the movie "Imitation of Life" and was both ashamed of and inspired by the love and care shown by the character Annie (Did she have a last name?). I was also intrigued by the nowhere land she dwelled, alone and unloved, even by her own daughter. All those women were anonymous except to the regard they loved and nurtured without being truly included in their "families." They also shared another characteristic, their continued survival (economic as well as emotional) required them to be "loving" and "supportive." Such is the lot of the mammy.

Momma, of course, comes from a very different place. She is multidimensional and is part of the "family." Most important her love comes from a place a freedom and not necessity for economic, social, or spiritual survival. She is aware of her beauty and strength not from her care of others. It is the reverse, her love and care is a projection of her own heart. I grew up with women who at their hearts were mommas, but society both white and black needed them to be mammies.

Mammy is a caricature, and her historical existence is not from the chattel slavery south, but from the period of "Emancipation." (See http://www.ferris.edu/jimcrow/mammies/) She is a utility.

I've experienced the desire to use women, particularly black women as "workers" for the church and mosque. But it is not just religious settings that call me to sit on the mammy throne. Replace "Scarlett" with any and all institutions, including family. So often it seems that only the mammy is wanted. After all, she's asexual, without needs, without boundaries, without desires except those she is called upon to fill. She's overweight and unkempt, self-care is, of course, selfish and must be avoided at all costs.

How do I free this person and awaken her to her own self? It seems I must embrace her and recognize and honor her humanity, even while the world views her (and she views herself) as a tool. She's not. She loves even knowing that those she loves may join the chorus of negation that bombards her. I will model loving that doesn't require self-immolation.

Emerging from Pain

"Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful."
- The Buddha

Pain is a gift and a tribulation. Whether it is physical or emotional it has the ability to distort and enlighten my view of myself and my world. There is an old saying that says, "The best thing about being sick, is how good you feel when you're better." For weeks I have "manfully" ignored my body, falling into the delusion that I could hop over the sensations that were giving me messages calling me to attention, like a person whistling in the dark, believing the whistle will keep her safe.

My whistling didn't keep me "safe". Not listening, not practicing mindfulness, resulted in a physical flare that brought a great deal of pain and suffering. The gift of the practice and age is knowing that the cycle is inevitable whenever I drift from the present moment. I am humbled by my stupidity and my courage to begin again, to present myself to this present moment. So, I emerge from the cave of pain and delusion that I've been in for several weeks and gratefully turn my face toward the sun that always awaits me.