A Christmas letter & dedication- to those who still struggle, or have overcome the struggle.
The honor and privilege of being involved in true community is so grand. On this Christmas, 2011, the best gift is the gift of life; no, not just an ordinary life, but one that is filled with wonder, diversity, friends, family, children, tears, laughter, freedom, and a sense of pride and dignity.
Our stories and voices are powerful testimonies; symbols of light amidst the darkness we have all known. The gift of these stories may not seem much like a gift; but they are no less than miracles; lives changed and changing.
There is no guarantee that when we move away from the darkness we have known, life will always be extraordinary; it won’t. If we choose to live life, it will feel tragic, hard and empty at times; these are as much a part of being alive as the wonder of it is. If we choose to live life, we grow bigger than our wounds and heal; and in healing ourselves, we may get the gift of healing those we love. We must work hard when we choose to live life; it is so precious and awesome. We should never let it slip away beyond our grasp, or waste it.
We must be careful; we mustn’t forget the families, names, faces, hearts and humanness we share. We mustn’t forget the lives we share.
Good tidings, and luck to you. May you reap the benefits of the work you are willing to do to find true freedom; a freedom that has nothing to do with the literal walls that surround us; but the internal ones that we construct around your hearts and souls.
May you dream and realize your dreams. May you cherish yourself and your loved ones; may this year be an inspirational and momentous one.
From-Denise and all the men and women who have worked to dream for those who couldn't dream for themselves; they, and all of you, are my true heroes.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
A day in that previous life....so long ago
After count and lunch, I pulled weeds again, wondering about my dorm mates. I thought of the tension that Julie mentioned. Perhaps she was right. Something was coming down. Shit! Maybe they’re after me. My mind rioted. I pulled weeds faster.
“Say, is yo’ ancestors black or sumpthin’? Boogie, d’ya see dis white girl’s nappy hair?” said a huge, black woman. I had tried everything that existed to straighten my hair, but it remained stubbornly nappy most of my life. When I let it grow out, it had a mind of its own and formed an Angela-Davis-like Afro. I said nothing. The black woman strutted across the yard, shaking her head.
At quitting time, I walked toward my dorm and hoped for sanctuary in my house. A different correctional officer opened the door from the outside, but this time after she let me in, she left the dorm and all the house doors unlocked. Then she walked off, headed toward the chow hall.
A woman with bright-red hair stood by the dayroom window that faced the yard and kitchen. She was one of my dorm mates. “Get to your house, close your door, and stay there ’til we tell ya to come out,” she ordered. I couldn’t walk fast enough.
In my house, the walls closed in and the very air forbade me to move. I was trapped and knew they would get me soon. For an hour, my thoughts were stuck on death or worse. I heard them scuffling back and forth in the hall and wished if they were going to get me, they would just do it and get it over with.
Two hours later, another correctional officer came in to announce count. I was safe for a few moments. After count was clear it was dinnertime, but this meal was not mandatory to attend as were lunch and breakfast. I blindly chose to remain inside, preferring to get it over with, whatever would come.
The correctional officer left and most of the inmates stayed. I was alone with them - my ill fate loomed. But no one paid any attention to me. I began to consider the remote possibility that something was going on, but it was not about me. Maybe they were shooting dope or smoking pot or beating someone up and just didn’t want me to know. I crouched in my cell and prayed to the god I had denounced so many years before, when evil stepfather number three had raped me and my mother had retreated into silence and denial.
“Say, is yo’ ancestors black or sumpthin’? Boogie, d’ya see dis white girl’s nappy hair?” said a huge, black woman. I had tried everything that existed to straighten my hair, but it remained stubbornly nappy most of my life. When I let it grow out, it had a mind of its own and formed an Angela-Davis-like Afro. I said nothing. The black woman strutted across the yard, shaking her head.
At quitting time, I walked toward my dorm and hoped for sanctuary in my house. A different correctional officer opened the door from the outside, but this time after she let me in, she left the dorm and all the house doors unlocked. Then she walked off, headed toward the chow hall.
A woman with bright-red hair stood by the dayroom window that faced the yard and kitchen. She was one of my dorm mates. “Get to your house, close your door, and stay there ’til we tell ya to come out,” she ordered. I couldn’t walk fast enough.
In my house, the walls closed in and the very air forbade me to move. I was trapped and knew they would get me soon. For an hour, my thoughts were stuck on death or worse. I heard them scuffling back and forth in the hall and wished if they were going to get me, they would just do it and get it over with.
Two hours later, another correctional officer came in to announce count. I was safe for a few moments. After count was clear it was dinnertime, but this meal was not mandatory to attend as were lunch and breakfast. I blindly chose to remain inside, preferring to get it over with, whatever would come.
The correctional officer left and most of the inmates stayed. I was alone with them - my ill fate loomed. But no one paid any attention to me. I began to consider the remote possibility that something was going on, but it was not about me. Maybe they were shooting dope or smoking pot or beating someone up and just didn’t want me to know. I crouched in my cell and prayed to the god I had denounced so many years before, when evil stepfather number three had raped me and my mother had retreated into silence and denial.
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