Esmion

Black label/ white hangover #1 - a salute to Charl Landvreugd

2011-07-23T09:10:00.000-07:00

On July 21 2011 yet another Dutchman flew over the cuckoo’s nest of colonialism. It was on this day that the Dutch newspaper Volkskrant published Michael Tedja’s bitter piece about Charl Landvreugd’s exhibition Agnosia. Landvreugd’s showing is a collection of art made by Black artists and the opening took place on Thursday July 14.

Tedja opens his tirade with: “It is absurd to select an artist solely based on skin colour. It should be about the quality of art.” In the Netherlands this can be interpreted in two ways:

1. I make it my business to confront and attack all racism because whenever race is used as an excluding factor this is always unacceptable.

or

2. Race should only be mentioned in the context of illustrating the negative results of this multicultural society and if you try to use it to specify anything that so much as leans towards excellence I will not take this lightly.

In the first paragraph Tedja states that Landvreugd made many historical errors and in the third paragraph he illustrates this by mentioning that on the Biënnale exhibition of 2003 (entitled: ‘We are the World’) curator Rein Wolfs showed the work of, and I quote “[…] an African. A pitch black artist, if you will. His name is Meshac Gaba.” Then he continues by stating that Fiona Tan, too, had her work shown. He mentions that "everybody" must have seen that Fiona doesn’t look like your typical Dutch valley girl and he wonders if she might have escaped Landvreugd’s radar because “[…] her light brown skin probably isn’t black enough for skin specialist Landvreugd.”

Man, Charl… Tedja sure told you! We all know that in a country where allochtonen* make up 14% of the entire Dutch population it only takes two examples to send you and your manifest of Black identity straight to the sewer. And no, the fact that Fiona Tan is Indonesian and not Afro-Dutch doesn’t matter because when someone is in the midst of a deranged delirium about race -and the politics that constructed its ever so Eurocentric boundaries- one cannot be bothered with logic or reason. While trying to face the frantic fear of ‘the other’ one has no time for questions about facts. With your Blackness… How dare you, Charl Landvreugd… how dare you???

Dutch tradition has it that Black is a label that should only be applied by white hands. A worrisome number of Dutch white folks thinks it’s up to them to decide when we are Black and when we have behaved well enough for them to consider us and/or our work beyond adjectives. Or, at least beyond any adjectives that may ‘remind’ us of our heritage. A robber who’s Black isn’t just a robber. More often than not news reports will describe this criminal as a Black (fe)male. If they really have a moment to spare they might even mention that (s)he is from Suriname, the Antilles or Africa.

When a Black person produces an amazing piece of art you will be heart pressed to find a review (if they pay any attention to it at all) that mentions the person’s Blackness and/or heritage in the first 4 paragraphs. Unless of course that person suffered genital mutilation, came her as a refugee and/or is diagnosed with sickle-cell.

And if you decide to do so yourself? “Well… that’s just very unpatriotic and highly oversensitive.” Why? “Because we’re all human. Skin colour doesn’t matter and the sooner we morph into one big happy rainbow the sooner we can spend that pot of gold at the end of it.” Or should we say 'at the end of us'?

Brother Landvreugd, I salute you for putting together Agnosia. Our people don’t only need artistic celebrations like yours… we, as a nation of people who are constantly assaulted by the arrogance and hypocrisy that fuel Dutch racism, deserve it. Our sense of self and readiness for renaissance are being built on initiatives like yours.

Due to a complete lack of interest I have no idea about Michael Tedja’s ethnical background but I truly hope he’s white. And not just any regular kind of white… Aryan white. Because honestly… it would be a damn shame if a non-white person is so busy preaching the white man’s Eurocentric gospel that he fails to realise that at the end of the day he will still end up in the back of the church.

*Allochtoon - a loosely used political term meaning non-Dutch, mostly meaning non-white, more than often referring to people from Suriname, the Antilles, Africa (the country, not the continent) and Morocco (not the one in Africa, the other one).

Untitled ('cause it's just that random)

2011-07-23T07:23:00.000-07:00

At5, Amsterdam’s local television station, can never go too long without bothering us with their mediocrity. The intro of one of their items published on Thursday July 21 informs us that the police are looking for two boys who robbed a 60-year old woman.

The robbery happened on the afternoon of Thursday June 2. One of the boys grabs the iPhone of a 60-year old woman who was sitting in the subway with her husband. The woman reportedly was pulled to the ground and slammed her head against the seat in front of her. At5’s item also shows us two photos of the boys and a video shot by various surveillance cameras. To give the good citizens something to work with they inform us that the boys we should all be looking for are of Surinamese, Antillean or African origin.

Before I continue let me make very clear that truly I hope hell has a special swamp for folks who rob the elderly. I don’t see how being mugged can be anything less than traumatic but if you combine this with the fact that far too few seniors have the physical ability to protect themselves from their attackers –and/or the mental ability to fully recover from the fear that comes with this – it really makes the horror complete. These boys need to get caught and serve some serious time in a cell with a big breasted man who will refer to them Puddin’ and Fatback.

But while trying to make this happen let’s have another look at the text on the Wanted-posters. “[…] two Negroid boys of Surinamese, Antillean or African origin.”

First things first: All people –Black, white and bounty- need to stop using words like neger (negro) or Negroid.

Second… it is with these kinds of reports that At5 proves to be just another media outlet that fell victim to Dutch mediocrity. Because seriously… how do we know where these boys are from and how will information about the country/continent where they and/or their (grand)parents were born will help people find them? Did they do anything specific that assures us they’re not from Jamaica, Brazil or Argentina? And what does an African look like? Let’s, if only for a second and because we owe it to our own intelligence, consider the fact that if Africa is the world’s second largest continent there might be a variety in what Africans looks like.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying the woman who got robbed should have asked the boys to fill in some Nazi-esque census form that states all 190+ countries of the world but I am saying that unless the police is asking us to find two boys who are continuously rocking body suits and facemasks made of national flags they need to be a little more specific with their information.

Catch up, Kechiche! - in response to 'Black Venus'

2011-02-11T03:53:00.000-08:00

Abdellatif Kechiche’s Black Venus has to be the laziest and most cowardly attempt to summarize someone’s life. It’s not even a film, it’s a still of an idea without direction. Which, for a director, is problematic at best.

Kechiche failed miserably in his attempt to paint a picture of Sarah Baartman, the woman who is unfortunately best known as the Hottentot Venus. It, by lack of a word that’s even more nondescript, is purely a cinematic chain of catastrophes. Dancing, cracking whips, humiliation, drinking, humiliation, cracking whips, dancing… times a thousand. A change of scenery comes when we are introduced to Georges Cuvier and his hoodlums, a crew that tries to hide their cruelty under the cloak of science. Touching, poking, resistance, rage… Suddenly we’re in a brothel. A doctor tells Sarah she has a venereal disease, she continues to work as a prostitute, she dies and one of her abusers takes her body to Curvier. He, being the monster that he is, cuts off her genitals and breasts, removes her brain from her roughly opened the skull, peels the skin from her skeleton and double checks if the classroom is nice and tidy for his next lecture. The end.

As the closing credits roll, the left side of the screen shows no more than 2 minute worth of snippets of the return of miss Baartman’s remains to South Africa. On August 9th 2002, 192 years after after she was taken to London, Sarah Baartman is ceremonially welcomed back home. The P.S.-like manner in which this is shown clearly states that after 3 hours of abuse, sexual exploitation, intoxication and numbness director Abdellatif Kechiche ran out of time and the story behind the Sister didn’t make the cut. To Kechiche the fact that Nelson Mandela asked for the return of South Africa’s daughter in 1994 and it took the French Parliament 8 years to finally take their hands off her obviously wasn’t as interesting as yet another extensive scene in which she dances in front of a crowd consumed by horror and horniness.

Upon her return home president Thabo Mbeki delivered a powerful speech that included the following statement:
“As the French Parliament debated the matter of the return of the remains of our Sarah to her native land, the then Minister of Research, Roger-Gerard Scwartzenberg said: "This young woman was treated as if she was something monstrous. But where in this affair is the monstrosity?" Indeed, where did the monstrosity lie in the matter of the gross abuse of a defenceless African woman in England and France! It was not the abused human being who was monstrous but those who abused her. It was not the lonely African woman in Europe, alienated from her identity and her motherland who was the barbarian, but those who treated her with barbaric brutality. Among the truly monstrous were the leading scientists of the day, who sought to feed a rabid racism, such as the distinguished anatomist, Baron Georges Cuvier, who dissected Sarah's body after her death.”

Doesn’t this statement deserve as much attention as the countless close ups of her bottom? Doesn’t Sarah?

Besides a short scene in an English court when she is asked if she has children and the scene when Hendrick Caezar, one of the two main abusers, yells something about how she used to breast feed his babies there isn’t a single moment that gives the viewer any insight in who she was. I’m not saying Kechiche should have summarized the complete colonial history of South-Africa but there’s at least one political event that should not have been left out. Why wasn’t there more emphasizes on the initiation of the law with the derogatory name ‘Hottentot Proclamation’? One would figure that anything that prohibits a Khoi woman from going anywhere without a pass and forces her abusers to literally smuggle her to London is significant enough to pay proper attention to.

To not mention any political events is one thing but failing to understand the necessity to give the audience something, anything that would connect the main character to a family, a people, a country, a town, a time and a tongue is an unforgivable shame. We needed to be taken back to 1789 to see the then still untouched Gamtoos River Valley where she was born and, where besides the constant threat of lions and Christian missionaries, her community lived peace. We should, be it in high speed, have been shown how the colonizers succeeded to make their way to Gamtoos and yes, there had to be at least one shot of a little 6 year old girl with eyes that mirrored a childhood drenched with fear caused by the violent wars between the original South Africans and the Dutch and other European colonists. Mind you that in none of the shots her father nor her Brothers, Sisters and the members of her community should refer this little girl as Sarah because ‘Sarah Baartman’ isn’t the name she was given at birth.

She should have been shown as a young woman who was engaged to a young man named Solkar who gave her the tortoiseshell pendant she continued to wear for the rest of her life. If not to show her as someone who loved and was loved then to at least pay subtle homage to the necklage that is depicted in so many of the drawings they made of her. Black Venus should have featured scenes of a young woman who, after yet another outburst of violence, lost her father and her husband-to-be but was bold enough to love again. There had to be a glimpse of the young soldier who stole her heart, took her out, found the house they called their own, was a father for their newborn but who left her in the midst of grieving the death of their baby. How would she later refer to these tragedies?

These events, questions and answers didn’t have to be shown in chronological order but somewhere throughout the story the unfamiliar viewers should have been given the chance to understand how we got to the point that’s being presented as ‘the now’. Without a proper preface to the present no film has the right to give the impression of being biographical. Kechiche’s little cinematic cringe looks, feels and smells the same as any history book that allows or even justifies people to think that slavery was the starting point of African history.

Black Venus is nothing but yet another cinematic crime in a long line of attempts to portray iconic Black figures in the Eurocentric history of slavery as symbols instead of syndromes. Symbols can spark a simple kind of sentiment while syndromes demand further investigation. One portrays a person, the other represents a people. With not paying any attention to the mosaic of personal, social and political misery that caused the numbness that Kechiche so rudely tries to play off as intoxication, he robs the viewers who aren’t familiar with Sarah’s saga of developing ideas about historical and contemporary fixations on Black bodies.

The legacy of her abusers finds its revival in every moment a Black woman is subject to Eurocentric ‘curiosity’ and unauthorized actions of affection, admiration or disgust. She is every girl who verbally, physically and/or spiritually revolts against people who ‘just’ want to touch her hair, skin or body and who feel they can do so without asking. She is Nicki Minaj when Regis Philbin decided the combination of white privilege and male superiority was justification enough to slap her booty and Whoopi Goldberg when stylists grabbed her dreadlocks and told her that they had no idea what to do with “that” hair. The ongoing obsession with The Black Female continues to be more grand than anything Kechiche could ever squeeze into a vulgar, nylon body stocking.

I can't help but be unpleasantly intrigued by Abdellatif Kechiche who wanted to make a film about a Black woman’s behind while all he did was make an ass… of himself.

Surprise, party of 1

2009-09-09T17:16:00.000-07:00

“Hiphop hates women!” Sista Christa always has a way to make you look. Once I opened the Facebook link she referred to I couldn’t help but ask myself: “Are we really ‘talking consciousness’ with a lady who carries a chihuahua in her purse? Are we, miss Bell?” There’s something to be said for not judging a book by its cover or a blogger by her profile picture so I gave it a go. I must say it felt like I was going for 3 straight days but in the name of research I willingly donated 5 brain cells and a sigh to Kid Cudi’s rendition of Lady Gaga’s ‘Pokerface’ before diving into her article.

After reading Jennifer McLune’s piece about his song “Make Her Say (I Poke Her Face)” I couldn’t help but wonder when some ladies will stop being surprised and start actually busting some tail feathers. Who has to eat glass and burp a window in order for us to realise that some folks are on some craziness that goes beyond our imagination? Whose mother has to be insulted before all of us realise that we haven’t reached a collective level of respect yet and to take that realisation as a new starting point instead of a constant bump on a road called ‘huh’?

First of all... the song is awful. It’s what death sounds like when it gargles. Besides that nightstore song I don’t know Cudi’s other work so there’s no credit to chip away from and Kanye is as Kanye does but yes, it would have saved me a frown if Common didn’t spasm his way through it. And don’t get me wrong, I think Common’s an amazing artist and I love 81% of his work but the lyrics he drops on this track are crazier than someone’s third night in cold turkey rehab. And not just his part, the whole song sounds like lyrical proof of social disturbance.

Interestingly enough, in McLune’s piece Common gets it the hardest. It seems she expects more from him than from Kanye or Cudi so their verses don’t ‘deserve’ as much rage as his. I certainly hope I'm wrong about this because that would mean hers, more than anything else, is an issue about expectations. She also points out that he is ‘pimping consciousness’ which I think is a stretch because that would imply that consciousness is his to pimp. Rest assured, it’s not.

Back to the song. There’s nothing in it that sounds new to me, nothing that makes me believe that rap entered a new layer of ridicule and disgust. Why not? Because I was never under the impression that the game consisted completely of contemporary Stokely Carmichaels, Nikki Giovannis and Nelson Mandelas before ‘Make Her Say’ popped up. As a young(er) lady I loved Mos Def, Talib Kweli and yes, Common as well but I was also very aware of artists whose main focus is to infiltrate our intellect with everlasting descriptions of ‘raw sex’ and ‘women on the loose’. My love for Lauryn Hill never sheltered me from the randomness of females like Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown and I’m glad it didn’t because it allows me to skip the surprise part and move towards the action section. For Jennifer to state that this song traumatized her and left her physically sick raises one question and one question only: “Where have you been?”

But just when I thought there was an undiscovered, rap free valley somewhere far away and this was nothing but a culture shock based on the first poor excuse for Hip Hop she ever heard, Miss McLune revealed she isn’t surprised at all. Au contraire! It didn’t only NOT surprise her, it was a confirmation of what she has been thinking all along. Somewhere (please don’t make me read it again...) along the line she states:
“Still, this did not feel like a betrayal for me. It felt like just another slap, or another poke in the face I guess, from black men. It reminded me why, while I still may have a little lingering faith in black men individually to do the right thing by women, I no longer have any faith in them collectively.”

With this crazy fish-fart of a song they (Cudi, Kanye and Common) poked us in the face but Jennifer’s little sidetrack poked us in our progress. She dismisses Common based on one song but I bet she would still want to be considered 'a critical thinker' after an ignorant statement like that. Put it over another Lady Gaga beat and we would have the B-side of 'Make Her Say'. It's funny 'cause it's blasphemous... I wonder how she justifies writing about ‘women-hating-men’ in the same article where she make it so painfully clear that she have no love for Black men as a collective. To me that sounds like Common should save her a seat in ‘the inconsistency box’ she stuffs him in.

In the same paragraph McLune states that she finds consolation in the fact that she’s never been a fan of Kanye or Common. What?! That’s like saying you’re not bothered with Don Imus’ statement because you never listen to the radio anyway. This issue is so much bigger than Kanye and Common and it goes far beyond the temporary insanity that makes one sample this ridiculous track in the first place. This heartbreaking issue has been around way before Common flipped his first veggie burger and being surprised sounds like a dismissal of that what has been accomplished as well as that what still needs to be done.

And how interesting is it that she dismisses the fact that somehow someway there are always some females ready to jump in front of a camera and illustrate what’s being said in lyrics that makes your soul itch? Or, even worse, females who believe that the only way to answer is with even more vulgarity. I just hope I’m overlooking some of Jennifer’s previous masterpieces about songs like ‘Kill the Bitch’, ‘Put It In My Mouth’ and ‘Baller Bitch’ which are all sung by women. Contrary to what some of us might like to think, this is not only an issue of men acting like fools but it’s equally about us not setting them straight and grabbing other women who co-create a space for their madness by the neck.

So enough with being surprised folks! As soon as we don’t consider every degrading rap track the first in its kind we can finally move some mountains.This hurtful side of Hip Hop is here but, luckily, so are we. We have work to do and it’s hard to keep walking with your jaw constantly on the floor. Step it up!

Light,

Simone Zeefuik

The combs of Black folks – pt 1

2009-08-04T17:05:00.000-07:00

Chris Rock is back in the theater and this time both masks cry of tragedy. After the updates of Imani, Christa and MB informed me that the trailer is here I went on a stroll past various opinions about his latest project. It’s ironic how the man who brought us ‘Kill the messenger’ is now actually being attacked for his documentary ‘Good Hair’. “His wife has a weave, how dare he!”

Let he or she who has always been without texturizer cast the first comb but even if you can.. must it keep the Brother from making a documentary? Tyra Banks has a weave but for that one Good hair/Bad hair-show she not only gave us fierce, she gave us cornrows. Felt better? After the next show when the wig/ weave/ something else Korean was back on again, I mean...

It’s like a talkshow host saying ‘Yo!’ because one of his guests is an MC. I would have watched the show if she had a Pocahontas-wig down to her ankles. Why? Because this bagage is bigger than Banks. She has the platform to inform a massive amount of people at once, I’m glad she did the show and I’m equally smilefull about Rock’s documentary. Eventhough it was his daughter who pushed him over the hairline, this goes beyond him, his wife and whoever sold her her hair. Do you NOT love Oprah because she has a weave? Before you answer that I just want to remind you that, not unlike the big Sista upstairs, miss Winfrey can hear your thoughts...

What makes my ‘fro itch even more are the comments about how Chris Rock shouldn’t let white folks in on ‘our business’. Why not, because the concept of good hair isn’t part of the eurocentric beauty standards? It’s not a mystery, no FBI agents are losing their jobs and there’s no horn section in the background adding to the suspence. The bigger picture of how we got in this mess is in a Scandinavian forrest worth of history books. Should we burn all libraries and bookstore to save our little secret? I wonder what feeds this desire to produce a psychotic smile and yell ‘Everything’s fine!’ when in all honesty it’s not.

Rest asured, over the past few decades we’ve dropped more than one clue that we as a worldwide nation need work. That’s oke as long as we keep working. And we’ve proven to ourselves that we can so by all means, let’s work and give props to all workers even if they're not carrying what you're carrying. Plus, I really think the people worried about keeping it on the hush are overestimating the relevance of this particular problem for ‘the others’. After golf, tennis and the recent White House-take over, I really think the white folks they’re worried about couldn’t care less about our hair...

I look forward to seeing it and I raise my afro pick on behalf of Chris Rock because his documentary is either another step forward or it will spark other steps forward. Hopefully both.

We’re walking people, we’re walking!

X - Moved by Malcolm: Magic remembered

2009-03-03T17:19:00.000-08:00

“Lady! Are you one of the organizers?” My lips curled into a confirmation and the tip of my index finger followed Kirsten across the room to share the credits with her. The man on the bar stool smiled back and invited me to come a little closer. “All the way from Amsterdam… Welcome to the Nuyorican!” It didn’t fully hit me until he said it. It didn't seem real when Kirsten first mentioned the possibility and even as I was finding my way through the kitsch of the Lower East side it could still have been anything else. Even though we spent the last couple of moments wrapping up the final details it doesn’t seem real until he reaches out his hand, shakes mine and with a boyish grin tells me his name is Miguel. I introduced myself and added: “It’s a pleasure to meet you, mr. Algarín.”

After an exchange of kindness and promising to mention that Action and Mongo Affairs are being sold and signed at the bar the gods of time cracked their necks. Almost there… Upstairs DJ Oja hooked us up with the crème of the crates, Jamila blessed the backstage area with good news about the laptop and what sounded like the heaviest horseman of the apocalypse indicated that the audience was coming in. Almost there! With a last check with the artists and the technical crew we crochet the last loose ends into the party beret. As Oja fills the room with the voice of the man who we came to honor, Kirsten and I took a last breath and stepped on stage.

Aside from a play at elementary school this was my first time on stage so it actually was the last breath I would take for quite a while. Luckily I had a lovely co-host. After we give some background info on the evening and its connection with Amsterdam Kirsten, breaking down barriers as TheChangeAgent, kicked off our poetic salute to Malcolm X/ benefit for Haiti and didn’t waste a single syllable to let us know what we were there for. With the fire of the phoenix on her arm she makes more than clear that she’s one of the soldiers in the quest to add ‘poetry’ to Amsterdam’s list of bikes, cheese and weed. After she ripped what she came to rip she got back in host-mode and introduced Charan P.

When I told Oja about our idea for this evening, Charan was one of the three poets whose names traveled on his first breath of recommendation and my brother proved once again to have an impeccable taste in art. Charan P. delivers the rage of every unsung protest song while combining the power of a Panther with the peace of a Buddha who has lyrics instead of lotuses growing from her footsteps.

While still in awe I stepped on stage to introduce my girl and our third poet of the evening: Kelly Tsai. Kelly, the warrior butterfly who uses the sharp edges of broken silence to cut the cords of the puppets dangling from prejudice. With her highly energetic performance she proved that the truth doesn’t always have to sting and that even in her truest rants she is one of the funniest poets around. If she chooses to tho’ because with the same poem she took us from haha to a-hah without missing her point. Kells for president, any president!

Before Oja got back behind his turntables Kirsten welcomed Steve Carr to the stage. This comedian/poet shared his first time at the Nuyorican with us. His work was beautifully honest and he read it with the admirable patience of someone who gave was cool enough to give time its first break. For a split second his inner-poet plays tug of war with mr. Algarín’s performance feedback. “Oh, and thank you for making me even more nervous!” Steve says between poems. The crowd laughs, he rounds up his set and just like that… the first half of the show is over.
(Steve later bought one of mr. Algarin’s books so it’s safe to say the gentlemen ended the evening with a poet’s agreement.)

After the break it was time to visually connect Old Amsterdam with New Amsterdam. (Old) Amsterdam based poets Najiba Abdellaoui and Raja Felgata got inspired and organised a Dutch version of X on the same day. See, that’s the beauty of different timezones! Najiba pulled some technical strings and made sure the video footage was sent to us so we could show it in the newer version of our capital. We listened quietly until someone on the screen shouted out the Nuyorican and the appreciation was returned with loud, enthusiastic sounds.

Back to New Amsterdam where three of the bravest answers to questions like “What will become of our sons?” were ready to bless the stage!

Kahlil Almustafa went first. His performance was an anthem for every ‘20s and ‘30s poet whose dreams we’re trying to live today but it wouldn’t do him justice to label him as ‘a young [insert favourite poet here]’. Nah, with this Brother we have our own. During his incredible performance he also brought out Kambale Musavuli, a great mind who broke down Congo’s tragedies and who empowered us to keep pushing forward.

Next up was the Jersey MC whose presence was as surprising as it was supreme. Hasan Salaam graced the stage with lyrics that reminded me of everything that ever made me know a Hiphop track by heart. This Brother is one of the most recent reasons for folks to go to a record store and spend their money on good vibes and clear thoughts.

The live portion of the show was wrapped up by Earthdriver’s radiant Jeremiah Hosea who starts off by blessing us with his heartwarming song ‘Love is the highest truth’. Jeremiah is one of those rare personifications of security who always makes me feel at home no matter how many miles I am from where I last used my house keys. That combined with his amazing vocal and writing skills and where he stands as an activist made him a more than welcome guest.

He ends his set with the poem he recited at a poetry gathering where I met him a few years ago and completes the poetry part of the evening. And just like that it was time for the last thank you’s and for Lou from the AMHE foundation to come on stage to share some words about the organization we raised money for.

As Oja took us out with some soothing sounds the evening came to an end. “Sis, I got you!” he kept on telling me. And he did. From day one this remarkable son of Haiti came through like an army of inspiration and advice and he didn’t stop steaming until he unplugged his DJ set.

Back in the hotel I surrendered myself to a very tasty falafel and the comfort of my hotel bed while realizing that this evening cut the ribbon of a new bridge between shared loves on separate locations. We are living proof that the distance between kindred spirits only exists in geography and there will be more to come!

Love and light to:
Charan P – You blew me away in such a way that I wasn’t sure if it was really happening. When I have kids I’ll bring them to your classes!
Kelly Tsai – For breaking it down and allowing us to make snow angels in the crumbs. The Juice Bar folks should name a shake after you!
Steve Carr – You did it and it was beautiful! From now on tall Mexican people everywhere will celebrate your birthday.
Kahlil Almustafa – For your kindness and your spirit. From Auction Black to Oval Office left me straight out of bookmarks. Thanks!
Hasan Salaam – For the support, the jokes and for your comforting company. You’re appreciated. Yeah, yeah… Jersey is aight. –smiles-
Jeremiah Hosea – For your Zen, your creative vision and for nodding when I wasn’t sure if I was still there. I’m humming your song.
DJ Oja– No matter how you flip the mathematics it all leads up to the fact that you hooked us up. Spiritually and production wise you are an absolute angel. Thanks for everything, Brother!!

Many thanks to Lou and Kambale for painting the bigger picture. Smiles and bows to Jamila and Mariano for making the Nuyorican feel like home.

Hugs to RnR for not pushing the mute button even though I didn’t share my Bowery-chicken. You really are the bigger person and perhaps even the better freestyler. I said ‘perhaps’!!!

Salutations, hugs and hymns for Kirsten. May we continue to celebrate our sisterhood!!

Bless,
Simone