That 'Lightbulb' Moment

First of all, I really need to change the title of this blog, as I am no longer living in London, UK. Anyway, I just needed to say that:)

Have you ever had that 'a ha' moment? That 'lightbulb' moment, that suddenly illuminates your thoughts and tell you that 'No, you are not crazy?' Well, that just happened to me!

I've just finished reading my astrological reading for the day and the gist of what it was saying was to start acknowledging my self worth... start to embrace who you are and start to romance yourself first, as I (well, Virgos) have a tendency to lavish praise and self worth on others without acknowledging self - this has always been my downfall and paradoxically, my goal in life. However, the problem with me is that I don't pursue a happy balance within all of this. I could easily place it onto the mantle of my unhappy childhood, but I feel that's just a cop out and far too simplistic and easy for me to just lay the burden at the vestiges of my childhood. No, see, I'm somebody who looks for peace. I'm the first one to offer the proverbial olive branch to justify a means to an end.
Funny enough, whilst I was reading these words, I read other words in my email in another message that I received. I'm on Jewel Diamond Taylor's mailing list and each Wednesday I receive this affirmation email, entitled 'Wednesday Word'. Yes, I know that it's a day late, but sometimes Spirit/Creator leads you to places where you do not know where you are going to land as such. Because I am a lover of words and have a healthy addiction to reading, this was God's way of acknowledging my current pain and longing of being understood in my present time. Anyway, I digress. Jewel stated that and I quote:

"How do I find my purpose?" That is one of the most common reasons I am asked to provide life coaching, training, retreats and conference presentations. Besides my health and my family, I feel very blessed because I discovered life purpose and signature strengths. I tried many paths before discovering my purpose and calling.



My personality has the capacity of curiosity and a trial and error approach. While there are others who have an "all or nothing" approach to implement ideas. Some people get stuck with excuses, fear, procrastination or perfectionism. I am still on assignment to encourage and empower others to seek, ask and knock until they discover their life purpose. Success and life purpose are not "one size fits all". There is something divinely unique in your spiritual DNA. There is a divine plan purpose, and a gift your life can bring to others for God's glory.



When you say "yes" to your purpose and "yes" to God's way to fulfill your purpose, you will become an unstoppable force.

That is one thing that is stifling me right now. I feel that I have put my purpose into hibernation and others have taken over. Again, I am grateful and full of gratitude for some of the current things that are going on in my life, but it's just not ENOUGH. I am slowly beginning to resent certain aspects of my life, because I feel that my full potentiality has been suppressed.
How can I shake this feeling off? How can I retain my purpose in life? These are the thoughts that I have to continue asking myself.

Presently, I am in a country, without no money, nobody neutral to speak to and a general feeling of variable moods. I am still procrastinating over my creativity, as I feel that my self worth has been buried for the sake of others.
My 'lightbulb' moment needs to be maintained at all costs. I need this moment to remind me of my soul purpose in life and for it to be the light that shines it way out of the darkness that is in front of me right now.

Lonliness/Redemption

It's 3.20pm, a Saturday and I feel so alone.
If I was in London right now, I'd probably be at Ridley Road market or just chilling. But right now, my life seems to have taken an indirect turning much to my discomfort. Remember those emotional upheavals I mentioned the other day on the blog, well, I am feeling it right now.

Over here in dull, gray, monotone Arnhem I feel so alone. I have no one whatsoever to speak to when I am feeling in doubt. I feel like a plant wilting. A plant without no oxygen. I feel aimless woah, where did that thought come from? If anybody asked about me they would describe me as a sunny, optimistic, look at the bright side of life Taiwo. But now? I feel worthless. It's bad enough that I don't have anybody to emphasise with me, but most importantly, nobody who I can communicate with and talk about my true real feelings. The 'person who shall not be named' is the last person who I want to talk to right now. Maybe it's a real culture clash, because I talk about my 'feelings', he choses not to at times. See, when we used to have arguements and such, I felt a level of safety, because at least I was able to go back to London and lick my wounds and regroup my feelings, but now, I am in the eye of the storm and there seems no escaping for me at all. There is nowhere for me to go. I have no money, nothing to call for my own. I am literally stuck in this nightmare and I cannot see a light at the end of this tunnel for now.
I am 46 years old and I feel that the sacrifices that I have made over the years have been futile. I know that I am an intelligent woman, but I feel that I haven't truly thought through all of this. I decided to take the olive branch but abandon the buds.
I can't speak the dang language, and I am just, in a sense, utterly miserable.

How do I feel right now? Dazed, shut down and depressed. Only a miracle now can save me... Do I step out on faith or adhere to my prayers and hope that Spirit can hear and receive me?

As my lonliness swallows me up I will keep on keeping on... but it's so HARD.
Hmmm, just a BAD day overall, and I know that I am venting.

The Musing and Words of a UK African Woman Living In London: Freewrite - 'Desert'

The Musing and Words of a UK African Woman Living In London: Freewrite - 'Desert'

Freewrite - 'Desert'

There is so much that I need to say. Let me just start and say that I have decided to rejuvenate my blog. I intend to write in it at least once a week. I have commited myself to this notion and I am going to try and stick to this.
I understand that I have left... no, abandoned my blog. I see the last time I wrote in it was six months ago. Well, my life has taken a different fork in the road, but I will blog on this later on.

After leaving London and moving to Holland, I have a lot of time on my hands. I realise that I have to take advantage of this time, because, at the end of the day, time waits for no one, and most importantly, I'm sick and tired of procrastinating when it comes to my creativity, I need to take a good look at this, because I feel that I am just wasting what God has preordained for me. He has given me a voice, but due to my on and off procrastining attitude, I have been pretty lax hence the stagnation of my writing. Currently, I am in the midst of a a lot of emotional upheaval, but as I stated, I will blog this next time.

I've just started reading a book that I brought ten years ago in New Jersey. The book's entitled 'Room to Write: Daily Invitations to a Writer's Life', which is written by Bonni Goldberg.

The book is divided into two hundred studies, and the gist of the book is to use these studies as a companion, as such, to your writing. The author recommends that you do about four or five studies a week, but really, it's up to the user to schedule how many studies that can be used.
Basically, these studies can be used to begin journal entries (I guess blog entries in the technology age! lol), as warm ups or sketches before getting down to the 'serious writing', to dig deeper for ideas for a piece or to help develop characters for a novel you may have started. Thus, to 'prompt'ideas for your creativity.


Now, this is what I need. My writing has cobwebs over it, so I definitely need an MOT to kickstart my creativity back into gear again. This is the book to do it.

My first exercise was called 'diving', which is sometimes known as 'freewrite'. This writing exercise lets you write completely uncensored. So, in other words, for anal folk like me (lol), I don't get to look at my grammar, comprehension or punctuation. I just write and write and write without stopping. So, that's what I did. I wrote without stopping. I wrote from instinct and intuition. I came up for air after I completed on A4 size page. It was painful to look at my flow, because after reading my conscious flowings, I said to myself that I was being 'real' with myself - this always seems to happen when I undertake this particular task.
I got to chose a subject and I chose 'desert'. I was able to use this word in many ways. My pen flowed on the A4 lined sheet and this is what I came up with. Please bear in mind that I have taken poetic license to correct and edit my original piece, but this is it in essence:

Freewrite - Desert




"I feel that I have deserted my dreams and desires. In order to compromise my soul, I've deserted the path that was preordained to me.
This desert is an oasis of hopelessness, of an unfulfilled wish; a stuttering dream that has strangled the life force out of me. All I have to offer is tears and a sense of bereavement. I'm left abandoned and feel bereft in this emotional desert. Everything is all jumbled up and a sense of confusion is overwhelming all of my senses. I feel dull and lethargic. I feel suffocated by the lack of misunderstanding of where I currently find myself. So, what do I do? Do I just succumb to these ascending feelings or do I just put my head down with the rest of society and tell myself that everything is a-ok? This desert is now taking over my dreams. I feel desireless in this desert. The person who I daily see reflected back in the mirror is not me - at all. It's like I have morphed into another person. The effervescence behind the windows to my soul have gone flat and I'm not sure for how long. Truth be told, I do not really recognise myself anymore. I am just a shell of my former shelf. A cliche I know, but I feel that my life is a cliche at the moment. Right now, my life is an ellipsis. The space that I feel right now is a void that I trying to understand. Trying to make sense of this emotional desert. I feel empty and at loss. This desert is threatening to consume all of my thoughts and overwhelm all of my logical thinking. This desert is leaving me thirsty for the life that I once had. I have no money whatsoever and I am having to depend on somebody else emotionally, financially, mentally and I feel right now that I am being misunderstood with the above values from the person who I thought that I could depend on. It's hard to communicate with someone who just doesn't 'get' you, but I will have to write about that at another stage.
This desert is a vast landscape of nothingless. I feel that I have become a failure in my dreams that I once had and cultivated."

Wow... as I read the above words over, I felt a realness and an uncensored (albeit adjusted a little bit in terms of grammar etc) to make some sense. This is how I REALLY feel. I'm tired of masking my feelings up. The words and emotions that I have wrote and conveyed may change over time, but the thing about freewriting is just to go with the flow, and that is what I intend to do on this blog and with my future writing.

Adios for now...

I think that this blog is one of the hardest that I have ever written.
You see my mama - she's the one on the right with the bright eyes and optimistic smile - died 20 years ago today. The Kodak moment captured the joy of just being married to my father. Check out the body language. My sepia moment of realising that there was a love at the beginning, before the recriminations and accusations started.

All of the time, I agonised about this, because I kept saying to myself, how can I write a loving memory of a woman that I didn't even know. I mean, she gave birth to me, she nurtured me to the best of her abilities, but she also let me down. What do I mean by this? Well, I didn't know her. Although, paradoxically, I knew her in a sense of the cultural significances she placed around me and the continuous struggles that she daily faced, as 'other', in the 'motherland' when she had to defend herself. But I didn't KNOW her. I didn't know of her dreams or her wishes for me. I didn't know that she must've struggled with having two set of twins, living in a far away place without any kind of extended family around her to give her the support that she definitely needed. I didn't know that she loved my father, unconditionally, but he let her down. So, by him letting her down, she subsequently, let me down.

My mother did her best. I have to give her that. But how did she know that by placing me in white foster care as a young black girl, that it would, in my informative years, have an impact on my cultural psyche, that I would be searching for her for ever more. Searching for her voice, her nuances, her touch, her smell, her being. That I craved my mother's fingers to braid my hair when my foster parents couldn't even navigate through the dense hair on my head. That I craved to look at my mother's reflection and see myself in her. That I craved for her touch and tell me that she loved me. That I craved for my mother's wisdom when I gave birth to my first child. All of these things were needs that I needed but were not forthcoming. I then, in my informative years rebelled. I did not have the respect that I knew she sought from me. Although I reminded the good daughter, underlying all of this was a seething resentment. A bubbling brook of bitterness.

But now, after twenty years of my mama transitioning to the ancestors, I want to thank her. Thank her for the bitterness that had stuck at the back of my throat like unsaid words that were too stubborn to be spoken and now, I can voice and put a name to. In all of this though, I want to thank her for making me the woman that I am and I am becoming.

This is for you, Caroline Wuraola Ogunnaike. May you rest in eternal peace and know that I forgive you. You did your best, and for that I can now appreciate your memory and the legacy that you passed to me so that I can pass onto my kin.

Ashe

Part 2: Revelations and Reverberations of an Abandoned State

Wow, after reading my previous posts on here, it's been nearly a year since I've blogged. Sometimes, I feel that my creativity has suffered, due to my overall anxieties of how I feel about myself and my life. Although, I have been writing in my diary on many occasions -albeit, my minimal efforts have been noted in my diary - I still have lots of thoughts and ideas how my creativity will pan out.I procrastinate a lot and sometimes I feel this is affecting how I express myself with my words.

However, I can safely state, right now, at this moment, I feel that the root of my uncertainties lie with my departed mother. This is not to apportion blame on my mother, as I am aware that I have to take responsibility in my creative expressions. But it is definitely part of my 'makeup' as such. I don't want to be seen as a victim, as I am a survivor of my circumstances. Nonetheless, I can now place all of this into a clarified context.

My mother, Caroline Wuraola Olagundoye, passed over in 1989, June 30th to be exact.
Every time this date comes, I feel a sense of ambiguity and vagueness. Don't get me wrong, I had a kind of reverent respect for my mother, I mean, she brought me into this world. But the crux of my uncertainties et al, is that I never KNEW her. She was a mystery to me in life as she is in her transition.
Asking my mother about her life 'back home' was to commit a cardinal sin. I only started getting a better focused picture when she passed from her family members. This was because, myself, together with twin sisters and twin brothers decided to take her body 'back home' to bury her. Sometimes, I regret this decision. Only due to the fact that I, together with my children, are unable to visit her graveside. However, I know that her spirit is 'rested' in being buried 'back home'.
But back to how I feel about my mother.
As I said previously, she gave me life. Unfortunately, she didn't give me a sense of 'self' and who I was. Although she gave me some tools for life - 'tangible' being the key word that always cropped up in conversations between us both, she never led the way to see how I could attain this.
I have felt divorced and isolated from my Nigerian/Yoruba culture - I will be writing about this in other blog entries - simply because when my mother passed, all of the minimal contacts I had went with her.
So now, with my reflections and memories,I still try to conjure them up. Something that I can pass onto my own children as part of their legacy. But dang, it's hard.

To be continued...

Part 1: Revelations and Reverberations of an Abandoned State - 2.8.07

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, far away from home.
But I have to prefix that and state, a fatherless child as well, and what, is ‘home’? to me, what does it mean to have a constant 'home?' A solid foundation?

The above mantra is constantly entering my current consciousness.
It’s like the refrain of my life - the coda to my life.

I’ve never comprehended the notion of home and family, I guess, that’s why, somewhat unconsciously (subconsciously?) I was always ‘seeking’ for the notion of family; basically, somebody to love me. It was hard to ‘love’ me when, as a young, black skinned female child, I felt that I had been abandoned by the parents who were chosen to give me life.
I was fostered at an extreme early age, to foster parents who I have conveniently repressed. Maybe, cleansed away with my own racial myopia and a lack of loving that I thought was created when my parents procreated me. Certainly, due to the sexual, physical and mental abuse that I had gone through at the time. There was no such thing as Childline back then. I had to ‘suffer’ in silence and graciously smile and flash my dimples, be patted and rubbed on my head as a good luck charm and told to be a ‘good’ girl. I guess, that is why, in reflection, why I found libraries, the golden age of Hollywood and daydreaming of being part of my internalised flight from my surrounding realities.

These white foster parents, who remain anonymous to me this day – this is most probably due to the passing of a mother who remained eternally secretive to me and a father who abandoned me – were the template of my early years and home life. What were these early years and home life to me? Why have I suddenly suffered from historical amnesia? Is it because it’s so convenient to fit into my life at the moment, where I feel that I am suffering from some kind of melt down? Where I feel hopeless, abandoned and lost, floating within self-pity?

At this point, if anybody, who is reading this blog and is further interested on transracial fostering within the West African community in the UK, I came across a succinct article online article in the Guardian, which touched on some salient points : http://society.guardian.co.uk/adoption/story/0,,1219560,00.html


2007 and has not been easy for me. I enter this year of my forty- fourth birthday and I feel that I have achieved nothing.

In January, I got a temporary job, where I was informed to ‘hit the floor and run’ Why, this has been the motto with my life, especially with my constant nomadic roaming around since leaving home at the age of 17, or was it 18? Again, my historical amnesia is serving me very well.
I stayed on this job like a faithful servant. Not letting anybody down, getting no sense of assistance and support from my line manager – she was going through her own personal demons and crisis with senior management – and working with clients, managing staff who had no initial confidence of me due to the constant changeovers. However, I managed to succumb to all of this, even to the detriment of ill health. I was afflicted by a mysterious illness, where my initial doctor couldn’t diagnose anything. I had to take several blood tests. Afterwards, I took time off – approx two weeks, without sick pay – and came back to the organisation in total confusion. I decided, at that point, to hand in my notice. The staff that I was managing pleaded for me to stay on; the clients were sad to see yet another member of staff to disappear in the void due to the overall organisation’s disrespect of their staff. I was asked to apply for the post permanently. However, the pay wasn’t up to my standards. Additionally, it wasn’t where I wanted my career to be headed.
After a while, they (senior management) persuaded me to stay on. I did. Reluctantly. Only to be stabbed in the back whilst I was in Holland with Enson. I found out, through a phone call, that I wasn’t needed back. Just in time for the new tax year. How convenient.

So, I licked my battle wounds and notched it up as experience and subjectivity.

The issue of being fostered by white foster parents is an issue that I am constantly exploring. I only wish that I had a great wealth of knowledge of what had really happened in my early life. I wish that I could ask my parents about this. Because then, I guess, I would then start feeling ‘whole’ within myself. I am constantly in a state of flux. Trying to figure out my identity and trying to understand where I ‘fit’ into this global community.

This, and other issues, I will be addressing on this blog. It’s therapeutic to me. It’s healing to me. It’s time.

In the analogy of show business, I will be breaking my leg to discover the truth about who I be…

Why Lauryn, Why?

What's going on with you, Ms Hill?

What happened to the sassy, gorgeous sista, whose lyrics blew all of the other members of the Fugees to Kingdom come?

What has happened to the beautiful, dark skinned, natural wearing hair sister, whose lyrics were deeper than the Atlantic Ocean? Whose natural beauty was a complete opposite to all of those other divas, who sported false horse hair and trivial, banal lyrics?

Where is the genius who was behind one of the greatest CD's in the 90's, 'The Miseducation of Ms Hill'?

Really glad that I didn't attend Lauryn's recent concert in London. I warned my friends about attending, lest they'd be disappointed - they were.
I remember attending when she came to London last time. I thought I'd be like Biggie and give her one more chance, but she cancelled that when she arrived on stage, hours late, with diva mode alert fully on.
From listening to my friends painful account of Sunday's performance, it happened again on Monday in B'Ham. It recently happened previously in CA. There seems to be an ongoing pattern. Maybe there's a method to all of this madness?
In fact, Ms Hill is putting off her true fans. Fans who wait patiently for a next masterpiece. Fans who make excuses for her negative behaviour. Fans who expect so, so much more:(

Here's the evidence regarding her recent concert:

LATEST: Former FUGEES star LAURYN HILL let down more fans in England on Monday night (09Jul07) when she showed up two hours late, 30 minutes before the venue closed. Many of her devotees, who paid upwards of $80 (GBP40), had already left the Birmingham Academy when Hill arrived onstage to boos. The singer then delivered a poor performance, which mirrored the four-song set she played at a show in Oakland, California last week (05Jul07), before walking off. Angry fans who stayed for the performance were less than satisfied. One said, "She looked wasted... It was the worst gig of my life." Another said, "She looked like a clown, singing in an incredible aggressive manner and looking as though she were absolutely wasted, her eyes rolling... It's such a shame that such a talented individual is at such a low point. It was an absolute disgrace."

source: http://www.contactmusic.com/news.nsf/article/late%20arrival%20turns%20more%20fans%20against%20lauryn%20hill_1036983

Why Lauryn, why?

Come back.Filter out your internal demons. Get back out there. Nourish and nurture us with your peaceful spirituality. Bless us with your stunning presence. Hypnotise us with your wisdom. Entrance us and enhance us with your illuminating lyrics. We need you. Sick and tired of the over exposure of blond hair, horse tail weaving divas. Nauseous at the inane lyrics of the afore mentioned.I mean, whose going to remember in a few years time... no strike that, in a month's time the 'deepness' of Beyonce's 'Baby Boy' or 'Cater to U'?
Ms Hill, We need you to entertain us like before. We need you so we can shake our heads at your lyrics, smile at the memories of your voice and say... dang, let me put that track back on repeat

Big Brother - Underlying Racism and the stereotypical notions of Blackness

Well, here it is. Big Brother is back - with a bang and a quiet burning sizzle to tantilise the great british public into a sultry summer.
Albeit I am just a casual observer of the programme - curiosity brought me to Channel 4, after the global outcry of 'racism' in the 'celebrity' BB house occurred - however, I'm still fascinated that underlying racism is bubbling just below the surface, waiting to erupt like Etna. But how will we, the average, African British observer react? Will it be with passiveness or a slow shrug of the shoulders, burdened down by decades of complacency? Will we unite - regardless of our ideological backgrounds - and use our voice as one, as the Asian community did over Shilpa -gate ? Or will we slowly burn and remain mute just like we have recently have done on the proposed Mental Health Bill?
I still ask myself, how folk can allow themselves to be displayed to an anonymous, critical general public, broadcasting all of your flaws, imperfections and some of the contestants may espouse perfections(!) to an audience that is ready to sacrifice you at the nearest stake - oooops, they call it eviction:)
Briefly touching on the Shilpa Shetty incident. When I did get to see how she was portrayed on the programme, she came across as an articulate, confident, proud Asian woman. Completely comfortable with her culture and aspects of her identity. Albeit rumours surfaced that she bleaches. I can't attest to this, as I haven't followed her career. Also, the way that the camera, at times, focussed on her looks. Compare this to the three white trollops - sorry, I couldn't find a better way to describe these bullies. Anyway, she stood up to the bullying and the perceived racism and voila, the rest is history.
Now, we have 4 so called minorities captured in the house. We have Nicky, who clearly does not find any cultural awareness in her self. In fact, I read online that she was adopted by a caucasian family. Billi? Again, a pretty vacant Asian man, whose premise on entering the house were his 'model looks' and trying to date a page three girl. Nuff said about that one! However, what truly concerns me are the two African (try telling them that! lol) house mates and their complete underlying racial stereotypes. Check it out:
In one corner, we have a young African man, a man, who seems strangely comfortable with permed, gelled hair and blue contact lens - maybe trying to emulate his Essex boy friends - who calls himself Brian. Brian? Wow! Never heard a African man called Brian. The name evokes knotted handkerchiefs, chip butties, rainy, miserable summers, going to Blackpool pier for your summer vacation and all that is void about british culture! This man portrays himself as a shuffling, bumbling idiot. A young man who had no sense of who Shakespeare was - not that should matter, but it was the way his vapid and cringe worthy expressions on his face were shown when he asked if Romeo was the one from So Solid! *SMH* All in all, Brian is seen as non-threatening, inarticulate, humorous joker. Kind of in the mode of Frank Bruno - you know what I mean Harry? Yep, he's the kind of African man who is not *seen* as a bogeyman, but wait until you take one of his precious white daughters out. Then he magically transforms into a dark brute, like the mythological Hollywood version of King Kong or the protagonist, in Richard Wright's 'Native Son' Can you see where I'm coming from?
Then, on the opposite side of the corner comes Charley. Now, it's rumoured that she is biracial. Nonetheless, she has still been unconsciously placed within the nation's psyche as the 'angry, bitter black woman with a massive chip on her shoulder'. This has been documented by the rantings of many posters online, who object to her rudeness and inarticulateness.
When I observe both of these characters in the house, I see a lack of identity, Blackness and self. I guess, both of them go together, hand in hand. If no sense of self, then surely, there is no sense of your identity. The confusion on both parts are their lack of identity. Not only with their culture but with their self. Come on, do you really think that the BB producers would place an articulate brotha or sista in that house? Of course not, it would spoil the stereotypical notions that all Caucasians have of us.
Both Charley and Brian are playing the village fools/jesters. The court is the audience in the house and the audience at home.
As for Brian being fostered/adopted by whitey. Cop out. I was, as were members of my family as small children. Thankfully, we all had extended family intervention which managed to liberate me and the rest of my family from perpetrating self hatred and a lack of identity whilst going through the difficult stages of our lives.

In conclusion, I am not surprised about the betrayal of these two characters at all. It shows that the caucasian mind is still trying to upkeep and maintain these two stereotypical caricatures of African people. Charley - the so called 'bitter black woman with a huge chip on her shoulder', together with the stepin fetchit, mumbling, inarticulate nuances of Brian. Not surprising at all at the obvious status quo.
Let's admit it, who is BB made for? The lowest denominator - chavs. Who is BB made by? The so called highest denominator - white, male and upper/middle class.

My Tribute to Brothas:)

I just LOVE Black men.

Hmpf! Maybe an unpopular opinion to some (I don't know why), but Black men to me, are the epitome of everything that I desire. Period.

Yeah, you have the 'dogs', the 'players' the 'liars' the 'thieves of souls', ad nauseum. However, throwing all of the above into the trash and eliminating the tiring stereotypes, you have the brothas who are not only easy on the eye (shallow I know), whose internal are pure, who are working on themselves within a society who are constantly putting them down, whose presence that when I inhale make me dizzy with desire, lust, intellectual debate and overall, LOVE.

I just LOVE Black men.

For I have the ultimate role model of a Black man. The epitome of a Black man. Who? My dear ole papa. He showed me, at a young age what and how a Black man should be; how he should act; how to treat a Black woman like a QUEEN. How to simply BE. Especially in a world that attempts to invalidate their very souls, their essence and their presence. But hold on tight brothas. I got your back, your front, your side. I've got you all from the bottom of my heart and soul.

I just LOVE Black men.

Yeah I know. There aint a lot loving me back.But what to do? Still bless them with my love, even if they are not entering into my soul realm. These are the ones who have had negative relationships with women - Black women - starting with the woman who pushed them out into the world; who gave them life. I aint too stressed with those ones.I could be simplistic here and respond to it and call it 'self hate'. Maybe it is, deep down. Only they know.
You know, the ones that when I pass their space and hang their heads down; who can't even look at me deep in the iris, when they have somebody on their arm who don't resemble their mama, their grandma, their sistas, their neices, their cousins etc. Oh. Yeah. I hear you all. The resounding echo is almost frightening! "I don't 'see' her colour!" "My lens are colour blind..." ad nauseum.
Yeah right. There are external and internal factors that your missing out; your admissions are scarey! But I'll leave it up to you to figure them out. No anger from my end. Just a brief hurt. But I've moved on. Still got love for ya, even if you don't have it for yourself.

I just LOVE Black men.

I have two beautiful sons. I was fortunate, in a time in my life, to have been in LOVE with a Black man. He gave me truth. He showed me love. He gave me two beautiful princes. He is no longer in my life on that level. We both moved on. However, he stepped up to the plate, just how my pa showed me he would. Just because we 'fell out of love' he still is in love with his sons; he's still there, an invaluable presence in their lives. Showing them how to become men in a world who unindelibly are repulsed by their gender, colour and race.

I just LOVE Black men.

Overstand that I am aware of the hatred that is thrown your way, by society and some Black women. Who then use the overused refrain that because they've done been hurt they're gonna get them a white man because 'he treats me so well'. Hmmmmm....
I'm sure there are zillions of Black women who are more into Brad and George rather than Mekhi or Isiah... Do you, but having a lack of melanin by my side is inherently wrong - IN MY OPINION.

See,when I lie down and get intimate, when I communicate on the many different levels, I want to see the melanin, feel the melanin, taste the melanin. All from a BLACK man.

Oh. I can be friends with white men. We can hang out. Laugh. Joke. Chat. Go back and forth in emails. But no exchanging of bodily fluids. No loving. No intimacy... cos I have complete LOVE for Black men. No apologies. No excuses.

I just LOVE Black men. I guess you can say I was elated when Angie Stone released her single, 'Brotha'. Hell yeah! Has since become my own personal anthem. Thanks Angie!

*singing*

'My Black brotha, strong brotha

There is no one above ya

I want you to know that

I'm here for you, for ever true

Cause you're my black brotha, strong brotha...'

So, in tribute to all those Beautiful, loving and honest Black men out there:

I salute you!

Beauty is In The Eye of The Beholder: Embracing a Black Beauty Aesthetic

"Mirror, Mirror on the wall, whose the fairest one of all?"


With the western media fascination and churning out of Caucasian features as the hallmark and standard of beauty, one could be forgiven that the "eye of the beholder" has a very limited and restricted view of other possibilities of beauty and how it is ultimately defined. In each of our waking hours we are bombarded and seduced with television, magazine, video, newspaper advertising images that duly prompt us to buy the products that promise to deliver a desired appearance and status. For black folk this usually is of a Caucasian appearance and ideal. One only has to check the local beauty store, with the plethora of lightening creams and different styles of weaves and wigs to confirm this 'norm'.
Each season a part of the female anatomy is deemed fashionable. Breasts, bootys, hips, and full lips. Each of these body parts take their turn at being the 'in thing' to flaunt and with it comes all the peripheral tools to help achieve 'a look' (if one doesn't possess it already}. There are breast implants, liposuction, buttock injections, coloured contact lenses etc. It is ironic that these women - and it is in the main women - who are already blessed with nature with the above (and more) features are rarely deemed fashionable let alone, beautiful. Black folks are only recognised and acknowledged by the mainstream (read white) media when it suits them or when 'black is (becomes) the "new" black'.

There is no need to wholly absorb an alien culture to be used as a standard. It would appear that some black folks are most affected by foreign traditions. Our psyche and culture has been attacked in such a profound way that our reaction to outside invasions can only be best described as 'confusion'. Ultimately, we suffer the most from embracing euro centric standards in all aspects of our lives.

Malcolm X utilised the model of the 'field nigger' and the 'house nigger' and how their status on plantations were used as a basis for division. The slaves who closely resembled the slave master, i.e. straight hair and pale skinned were more favoured and were privileged to work in the house. Those slaves who were 'unfortunate' and possessed more African features took the brunt of hard work in the cotton fields. In fact, intra-racism (to call it what it is) is still in effect in the 21st century. The colour complex still has an impact on our psyches. Consequently, those with lighter skin complexions are still more favoured. One only needs to look at the proliferation of music videos for confirmation. Additionally, the adverts - both on TV and the billboards - cater towards a lighter skin aesthetic. Ultimately, the light skinned, long haired black woman is still by and large accepted as the most desired.

In Hollyweird (sic) the palette of the colour aesthetics is still the same. Nothing has subtly changed. Black actors when speaking frankly will state that if they looked more like say, Vanessa Williams, Beyonce or Haille Berry they'd receive (albeit restricted) better roles. For any positive changes to be made, we have to shoulder the mantle ourselves. We are not in control nor do we own the mass popular mediums, which replicate images of beauty. However, what is owned, consumed and controlled by us tends only, at times, to perpetrate euro centric beauty standards.Take a look in popular Black womens magazines such as Essence and Vibe's Vixen to confirm this.
Although there are independent magazines, such as 'Naturally Yours' (a black women's magazine which celebrates and embraces natural hair/beauty) which is breaking the mold - albeit on a tiny scale.

We really have to start at home. It certainly initiates there like a seed ready to germinate. For instance, what images are going to reinforce our children's perception of their beauty and self worth?
Can you imagine if every day since the day that a black child was born - regardless of the gender - that there were positive images around them on a daily basis that emphasised that they were the standard for beauty and achievement? There would be no bounds or obstacles to their ultimate accomplishments. Just think, this is what white people internalise every day!

Challenge the prevailing attitudes to how YOU see yourself. For example, how do you wear your hair and why? Do you internalise the negative aspects to your own beauty?
Much has been written about how much we as humans learn more through what we see than what we hear.
Check yourself; examine attitudes to us folks who have a lighter or darker complexion, or those with long or straight textured hair. I know it's not an easy thing to do. I know, that in the past, I have had my own issues with my skin complexion.

My journey started at a young age. Although I didn't go as far as attempting to erase my colour with lightening creams or such, I still internalised a negative image of myself and my true African features. My journey, or 'enlightenment' came from reading.
When I discovered the Toni Morrison's 'The Bluest Eye', I 'saw' myself in the main protagonist, Pecola Breedlove. I desired, like her to have the 'bluest eyes' so that I could obtain love and desire. It took a long, long while for me to finally accept and embrace my African features. I still have to stop myself sometimes when it comes to discussing the deep down hurt I felt as a young girl. I guess, my healing was and is in my writing; it's an ongoing process *smile*.

Truly, in conclusion, beauty is totally subjective and it really is 'in the eye of the beholder'. We may all wail and state that there is no difference to our overall attitudes when it comes to the notion of how beauty affects and impacts us. However, our general behaviour is so ingrained and internalised that it will take gigantic efforts to throw off our lasting legacies of this mis-education.

Some Poetry!

I'll be adding poetry throughout, from time to time:)
Let me know what you all think! Comments below.

*sidenote*
All of my pieces are copyrighted. So please, no plagarising! lol


Rite…

Water is our affinity

Likely we were coastlines in an ancient land

Renewing, with phases of the moon

Rain trees and plant people.



The one who builds temples from stick and stone,

Paints frescoes of indigo pimento saffron,

Is now in need of repair.

Standing, facing my ocean toil at his back armour at his feet

Singing, searching, chanting for remedy,

And the woman whose only task is his rebirth.



I am that woman

To embrace and bathe him

Collect and undress

Strip away the cover the day has cast

Swathing where he is most hollow, erect

With parts of myself folding softly inward

Submitting bodies and will

To the cure in the suffuse

Wet-ting

Us

Wash-ing

Him

Soak-ing

Me

Surren -der

In’

Swim-ming

Freely

Plung-ing

Deeply

Wrapping

Writhing

Rinsing

Rising

Knead-ing

Through

Heal-ing

You

Hold-ing

Breath

Resurface

New



When all else falls away like mud cloth and sand

Passion be the water,

A woman healing a man who builds

But I don’t need temples

Only a few stepping stones carving a path

That clings to the earth

Kissing the ground

We

Walk

On.



Taiwo Ogunnaike
Copyright 2003


poetess

I was born in Utopia,

graced with the body of a Goddess and the image of a Queen.

With arms toned stretching long enough to reach all continents

and a few planets in between.

I have a belly full for reproduction;

my legs are long and lean.

My skin is smooth and gold as a Nigerian Sun,

My eyes are as brown as a cocoa bean.



I take summer holidays on the Nile, Isis brings me

Beautifully well endowed men to feast on, I am content.

By the end of summer I would spit out babies,

Continuing to build a strong black universe.

My babies will grow up to be fruitful and multiply

in great numbers. Our blackness will forever grow



On my lazy nights I would sit in the woods and paint the sky with clouds.

You may know it as the northern lights or the aurora boreal.


Sometimes I would whisper sweet wisdom in our newborn babies ears,

I know that it makes you wonder

why are they grinning so hard when they've just arrived here.



On Sunday mornings I would sing an aria with the cherubs,

our beautiful voices chimed for all it was worth.

Once I sold the sun to the planet Urantia;

most know it by the name Earth.



On cool nights I would dance across the Moon

riding on the tail of a shooting star;

Waving at Cancri, Pollux, Castor,and not to forget the Quasar.



I would walk the path of the Sahara Desert leaving

all men in awe of my Nubian beauty;

Dark & mysterious, beautifully sculptured,

They can not help but notice me.

I was born in Utopia.

Taiwo Ogunnaike
Copyright 2003

My Life... Still Evolving

"If you looked at my life and see what I've seen ..."

These lyrics from Mary J Blige's seminal CD, 'My Life', always haunted me and some what paradoxically, revived my weary and tired spirit. See, these lyrics - especially the above excerpt mantra that wraps itself throughout the song - have become a continuing memorandum of the soundtrack of my life.

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but a rusty copper one. My younger life was filled with disappointment, anger, rejection, abandonment, frustration and sadness. However, I feel extremely blessed, that at this point in my life I haven't succumbed to any dangerous toxic substances or have become a victim of my circumstances. I guess the only reminder left of all of this is that well, sometimes, my personality can become a bit - how can I say - addictive.

Let me explain. My personality used to be clingy, but I started LOVING me externally and internally. That was the first hurdle of my obstacles that were blocking me. I still have got a bit of a distance to go and many hurdles to cross, but I'm starting to really believe in me.

I've had others believe in me, but I never took that and applied it to my life.
I was talking to a beautiful person today, who is incidentally my soul mate. He informed me that "the harder the battle, the sweeter the victory".
That led me to a 'light bulb' moment and everything - the drama, the sorrows, the tears, the letdowns - that has happened in my entire life is starting to slowly clarify itself for me. I mean, everything happens for a reason, no?

So now, let me drink - no scratch that! Let me toast and lift up my goblet to the sweet nectar of life. My life. With all of it's shortcomings; my shortcomings. Because they have truly shaped me; and are still shaping me, so I can eventually evolve to the woman that I was destined to be!

Cheers!

Revisiting my submitted dissertation: 'Who's Gotta Have It?'

I was just looking over my dissertation and I was like, dang girl! You did the dang thang!Although I haven't completely graduated (long story), this is my dissertation that I still need to submit.

Anyway, it was, from my point of view, a womanist deconstruction of 'She's Gotta Have It'.
I really enjoyed writing and researching for it.
Not bad for somebody who was told at an earlier age by racist schoolteachers that I wouldn't amount to anything. Oh, the power of books and reading for self, huh? lol

I've posted 4 pages of it. Let me know what y'all think! Post your thoughts... look forward to reading them *big smile*

Who’s Gotta Have It?

A Womanist deconstruction of sexual and transgressive narrative themes in Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It.



Christine Gledhill opens her essay, CriticisRecent Developments in Feminist by stating that a crucial aspect for examination is the fact that ‘women as women’ are not only misrepresented and vocally ignored on screen, but that the female point of view is not heard. (In Braudy and Cohen, 1999:251) In regard to feminist film theory in general, bell hooks observes that mainstream cinema fails to acknowledge black female spectator ship, adding that

‘Many feminist film critics continue to structure their discourse as though it speaks about ‘women’ when in actuality it speaks only about white women.’
(hooks, 1992:123)

This exclusionary practice details the idea that feminist theorists when writing about white women under the overall banner of ‘women’ do not actually see the whiteness of the image, a practice which calls for further scrutiny. Hooks goes on to suggest that this process negates the necessity of revising ‘conventional ways of thinking about psychoanalysis as a paradigm of analysis’ (hooks, 1992:124) and it denies the fact that gender/sexuality may not be the primary or sole signifier of difference. In addition to Gledhill’s statement one could then observe that a crucial issue in womanist[1] film theory is the examination of the fact that ‘black women as black women’ are not represented on film, that their voice is invisible and their point of view is not heard. (I state this in a pluralist sense,
[1] A term coined by Alice Walker from the book, 'InSearch of our Mother’s Gardens’, which describes a distinct and separate form of black feminism. For further reference see http://www.sistahspace.com/nommo/wom509.html

invisible and their point of view is not heard. (I state this in a pluralist sense, taking into consideration that not all black women think the same or are the same, but speak of ‘black women’ under the collective banner of gender.)

In a world that is now considered to be postmodern, fast moving and progressive, and where women’s transitional identities could be described by the same measure[1], women continue to be portrayed on film from a male point of view and within a patriarchal framework underscored by set codes and narratives. This practice has caused unrest from feminist film theorists and critics, and has spawned many theories and unresolved questions in an effort to challenge, change or create new ways of looking. How then can women, with all of their complex strengths, emotions and foibles be accurately portrayed from a phallocentric point of view within a male dominated industry?
This essay speaks from a womanist standpoint, attempting to deconstruct the narrative within Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It with the aim of confronting a few of those unanswered questions. Not to miraculously solve the apparently unsolvable, but perhaps once again to raise issues to the forefront. In bell hooks deconstructive essay of the same movie, entitled Whose Pussy Is This? she surmises that ‘(it) can take its place alongside a growing body of contemporary films that claim to tell women’s stories while privileging male narratives’. (hooks, 1996:231) The film will be critiqued in response to Spike’s claim that he merely intended to ‘Make an intelligent film that showed black people loving each other and black people falling out of love’ (Lee, 1987:57), but in fact he systematically replicates ‘mainstream patriarchal cinematic practices which represents woman (in this case a black woman) as the object of a phallocentric gaze.’ (hooks, 1992:126) Some of the questions raised are; does the narrative represent the female lead character to her fullest extent? Whose voice is dominant within the narrative? Is the central female character liberated, independent and in control as Spike had intended her to be? From whose point of view does the narrative

[1] Here I speak of all women.

truly run? Does the movie successfully portray black female sexual agency, even though a male directed it?
And finally, did she get the ‘it’ that she was supposed to have?

When the multi-award winning[1] She’s Gotta Have It was released in 1986, audiences attended with preconceived notions of what they were about to see. This was partly due the hype surrounding the director, the young, black maverick Spike Lee; whose fresh, innovative and revolutionary approach it was hoped would single-handedly be the saviour of black American independent film, and partly because of the way in which it was tagged, as ‘A Seriously Sexy Comedy’. The tag line proved to be misleading (though none the less successful), as although on the surface the film is controversially about sexual politics between a black woman and her three black lovers,[2] and there are certainly some fine comedic moments in the film; within the narrative lie serious, sexual taboo subjects such as punishment, violence against black women, masturbation, sexual agency and promiscuity (in a newly aids-aware culture). In fact it was the descriptions of the sex scenes, (the fact that there actually were sex scenes), that had to a large extent set the precedent for the audience’s anticipation. Black audiences patronised the film in significant numbers in the hope that their hunger for positive and accurate representations of their culture would be sated and that finally there was a movie in existence, which would sensitively depict love and sexual issues that were real and even essential to them. The large audience figures also gave it crossover appeal, making his directorial debut (made in just twelve days on a paltry budget of $178,000) the success story of 1986 that would go on to gross over $7,137,502 in the United States.[3] (www.the-numbers.com)

[1] It was awarded the Prix de la Jeunesse award at Cannes in 1987, and the Clarence Muse Youth Award from the Black Filmmakers Hall Of Fame. It went on to accrue accolades from film festivals around the world such as Montreal, Amsterdam, Switzerland and Paris. (Lee, 1987: Postscript)

[2] Controversial, because it is the female character who is sexually liberated, not the other way around, thus breaking with convention, so to speak.

[3] A feat Nelson George described as, ‘A miracle of faith and capitalism.’ (Lee, 1987:15) Also groundbreaking in a similar way to Van Peebles’ Sweet Sweetback’s Baadaaass Song (1971) in that his movie saved Island Pictures just as the Blaxploitation genre had reputedly saved Hollywood from financial ruin.

Spike Lee was born in 1957 in Atlanta and as a young boy moved with his middle class family to the Bed-Stuyvesant area of Brooklyn, New York. A third generation Moorehouse graduate, he attended New York University’s film school where he was awarded a Student Academy Award for his thesis, Joe’s Bed-Stuy Barbershop: We Cut Heads (1983). She’s Gotta Have It came as a refreshing change for the black community who were still suffering the effects of the post-Blaxploitation fallout in terms of the lack of positive representation. Its fresh approach depicted a humorous, middle class slice of black urban life without reference to drugs, guns, ghettos or the negative aspects of hip-hop. In effect it was almost an antidote to other films of its era such as Wild style (1982) and Krush Groove (1985).

Breaking with traditional narrative codes Spike chose a black female as the protagonist, his decision for which is outlined in the first page of the journal he kept which logged the trials and tribulations he faced whilst making of the movie,

‘It's always amazed me how men can go out and bone any and everything between fifteen and eighty and it’s OK. They are encouraged to have and enjoy sex, while it’s not so for women. If they do what men do they are labelled whore, prostitute, nympho, etc. Why this double standard? Why not explore this? Have a character, a beautiful young black woman who loves sex, and can love more than one man at a time also… The men label the main character a freak, but she’s not. SHE’S GOTTA HAVE IT – that’s all.’
(Lee, 1987:66)