With time to kill before my first ever Capoeira class at Cambridge Dance Complex, I wandered around 'da square in search of some sustinence for my growling belly. I spotted a bright yellow advertisement for a weekly Farmer's Market nearby. So I frolicked in hopes of finding some local, fresh, pesticide and hormone free deliciousness. Upon further frolicking I landed near one of the last remaining stands at the market and met Farmer Al, a small Jamaican man, whose crow claws around the eyes suggests a lifetime of laughs, sprinkled with tears. He smiled those big "Caribbean smiles" you see in the Jamaica commercials. He spoke to me like an old friend and offered advice and funny jokes. "Your passport to the world is your knowledge, young lady." Along with boxes of lettuce, fresh garlic and thyme for sale, Farmer Al also had copies of his book. "Farmer Al's Seeds of Wisdom". We chatted for a while and before I left Farmer Al handed me a flower and a copy of his book, "To Marly, best wishes. Farmer Al '06", he signed. When I tried to object on account of my brokeness, he wouldn't hear of it and insisted that all I owed him was to do well in life.

Back at Dance Complex, I walked into the Capoiera class in Studio 2. After the warm up, the instructor took aside the virgins and showed us the basic steps, a kick and a duck. The dance itself was fierce and beautiful all at once. The Afro-Brazilian bass beats were reminscent of Djembe drumming in West African music and yet strangely similar to Haitian voodoo music. At the end of the class, everyone got into a circle. The mestre, or master, a stocky Brazilian man who spoke no English, started beating a pandiero and singing in Portugese. A call and response song, we all repeated as best we could and tried not to anger Mestre Chuvisco who insisted that everyone sing with as much energy as they could. The energy of the spectators are what propel the fighters into the circle. Thus began a ritual where fighters take turns in the circle, battling for style and skill. The foreign chanting of voices, the pandiero and the graceful yet powerful combating of the Capoeiraistas transferred me to another time and place -where slaves practiced a deadly martial art and masked it as dancing to deceive their masters. I felt like a spectator spying on an ancient ritual.

I guess sometimes it trips me out how connected all this shit really is. How slave rebellions weren't really that long ago. How they continue to occur on a small scale in every ghetto, every city. How an art form used to liberate slaves in Brazil over 200 years ago is still practiced and respected and passed through generations. How the music to this Brazilian rebellious art form is somehow connected to a Haitian rebellious art form. How African call and response culture, religion and drum beats travelled, battled and eventually fused to become Afro-Brazilian call and response culture, religion and drum beats. How old the concept of battling really is. And how a little old man with a toothy smile can know exactly what to say to liberate a stressed out young vessel from a hectic day.

Brotha from Anotha Motha

At first I wasn't feelin it.
Actually, I was down right against it.
My 53 year old daddy and step mom adopting a baby?
Hell No. Never. Nunca!
It made no sense. My pops already had two daughters. What did he need another child for? He was too old anyway. At his age, he can't be running around chasing no little kid. Never mind the fact that their crib in Brooklyn has no front or backyard. Kids need yards damnit! I was tight and I wasn't having it.

Five months later I get a letter in the mail while I'm in Ghana for study abroad. In the envelope, there is a picture of a little brown baby and on the back it says, "Hi, I'm your new brother Jonathan." My new brother?? Hold up. What?! I was heated. How dare they?! How dare they make such a huge decision without my blessings. The nerve. I called my dad as soon as I returned and told him exactly what I thought about the whole thing. We got in a huge fight and didn't speak for a couple months.

Four months after I let my dad have it, I got on the Fung Wah to New York to make peace and to meet my new brother. Between my dad and I, amends were made and I finally met my 10 month old brother. I was instantly smitten by the chubby lil dude with patches of hair growing all over his head. It was love at first sight and I spent the week changing diapers and watching Baby Einstein. Although I enjoyed the week, I couldn't shake the nagging tug on my conscience. I needed to apologize to pops.

I had been blinded by selfishness and I was shamed.
I never considered what a blessing this child would be...

...the happiness he would bring to his new mom who was cursed with miscarriage after miscarriage and could never bear children.
...the second chance for my dad who never quite got over losing his two daughters in a messy divorce with my mom and not watching them grow up.

What would've happened to this unwanted seed of a violated woman had he not been adopted. Where would he be now? Statistics abound of orphanage babies growing up with no love, no affection, abuses and neglect. And then there's this " controversial/ new/ trend" I'm not really sure about. He could've been another black baby left to be raised by an institution. Just another number.

My baby brother is turning two today and every day I'm more and more fascinated by him. He's a loving, funny, loud, gets up in everything, nosy toddler. I always find myself wondering about his future, what he'll be, what he'll do. Sometimes I get teary cuz I think about all he'll have to go through growing up black in this country and I want to protect him from all of it. But I guess all I can do is be there to help him become a strong black man and leave the rest to God.

The crib in BK may not have a yard but the house is full of love, toys, laughter and enough stuff to keep the lil dude busy and there are parks on every city block. My old man definately can't keep up with his hyper ass but that's what I'm here for. We kick it regularly and he's become my little homie. He keeps me laughin and runnin all day and I read him books with black babies and titles he can't read yet. He is a blessing in every way and I can't wait to watch him grow up!

Happy Birthday J-Dizzle, sissy loves you!

Natty Natty

The day I met my hair was like any other day...
I stepped into the shower, after 6 months no lye
No shower cap to protect my transforming hair from the liquid demon H2O had become.
See... I had decided to "go natural" ..... whatever that means.
I had decided to free my hair
to quit forcing it to do what was unnatural.

The day I met my hair,
I stepped under the running water
and for the first time since moms introduced me to "Just For Me,"
I was Free. My hair...
I lovingly ran my fingers through my naps.
As the warm water met my scalp,
........ I smiled, I grinned, I laughed.... out loud!
My once bone straight hair curled up... tight little spirals, all over my head.

I laughed.
"Hi," I thought.
"Nice to meet you."

Growing up, I can remember running around the house like a fool with a towel on my head pretending to have long flowing hair. I begged my mom to stop torturing me with dookie braids and relax my hair. At the tender of age of 11, she obliged. As a teenager, I lived in braids to avoid dealing with that limp mess that my hair had become. Freshmen year in college, I wanted a more grown up look so I ditched my signature Brandy braids and religiously relaxed my hair every 6 weeks (definately broke my pockets!). At 20, I decided enough was enough. I cut off my perm and went tit for tat with my naps. They won.

A long way from them towel days, being natural has given me a personal relationship with my hair and a sense of freedom. In a society where everything from library books to conversations between loved ones is monitored, my hair was the one thing I could reclaim... one thing that could remain uncontrolled and mine. It might sound cliche but going natural saved my life. For 20 years, the strange, foreign substance on my head was an enigma to me. I was a slave to my hair. I had to run away from the rain; when them roots started growing in, I hid it under wraps and hats; when it broke off, I sought solace in braids. My hair is no longer an inanimate object that perplexes me. Naw, it's as animated and alive as I am.

Ostrich's Have It Good.

So I'm on the commuter rail heading outbound to Fitchburg, right, and there is this group of teenagers sitting in the back of the car. I'm up front. Five minutes away from the Fitchburg station, the train's main engine goes out. The friendly, round, pink faced conductor informs us all that we now have to wait 30 minutes for another train to come in and tow us into the station.

So I'm kickin back with my new book and I have the unfortunate privelege of overhearing the conversation of a group of Black and Latino teenagers seated in the rear of the car. Shamed. And. Disgusted. If self hate had a commercial, these kids would be the Oscar winning actors.

The topic of their banter was the differences between "African black" and "regular black". Mind you, they were explaining all this to a white girl. According to these young people, "African black" was ashy, burnt and ugly. They all agreed that the ideal image was Latino looking- ie. light skin and eyes; wavy hair. African and Haitian were the worst kind of black you could possibly be. Are you upset yet? Don't be, cuz it gets better. So these young'ns are chatting and all of a sudden the "n*gga" fit must've hit one of them cuz he started dropping "n-bombs" after every other word. As I'm sitting in front of the train with some white folks listening in on all this I start to melt in my seat as shame and disgust burn up my insides. This was one of those times when I wished I was an ostrich. A big ole ostrich with my head in a hole. Well, these kids were speaking so loudly that they were heard in the next car over. Just then, our old friend the pink conductor comes storming through the car to my rescue. Yes, to my rescue. He says to the young man and all his counterparts that his language is not allowed on the train. "If it can't be said by 100% of the population, 100% of the time..." he doesn't want to hear it. "It's foul language, to me, I don't care who you are. I don't want to hear that word on this train again."

Now. Let's think about this for a minute. We all know self hate is about as rampant as herpes on a college campus but I guess it just hurts to see and hear it so loud and clear. Whenever I feel like we're moving forward, I hear some ignant stuff like that and I'm disappointed all over again. Yes, I am sensitive about the "n word". (For any of you who may not be aware of how out of control it's getting, check this out.) My tongue and lips haven't gotten together to form it in a long time and I cringe wheneverI hear it used by our people. (why is it worst when it's in front of white folks?) So big ups to Mr. Conductor for putting homeboy in his place. Although, I don't necessarily agree with his reasoning. It's kind of like a "if I can't say it, neither can you" type deal. But, I do respect his gully. Cuz you know what? How many of us can say we've done the same thing? I mean, really. Why aren't we putting these people in their places? Personally, I ask of those whom I surround myself with, not to use the word in my presence. Most of my peoples oblige or don't use the word at all themselves. But what about those we don't know? Those who haven't been so called "enlightened"? Those who are still Bamboozled? Who are we waiting for to educate them? To put them in their place. A pink faced conductor? Shouldn't that be our job? What will happen to our youth if we keep waiting on someone else to show them the light? What if no one comes?

I don't know the answers... that's why I'm asking ya'll. But. What I do know is, we're falling off. It's time to step up our game. It starts with one. If we don't do it, who will?