Category: Uncategorized

#lifestyle, #thoughts, #tirades, Uncategorized

a reflection on my first memory of racism in America

ronellegreen

I couldn’t get my bearings, or tell left from right, or figure out where the train station was in relation to where I was standing. I had just moved to the US and didn’t have a phone yet, but I had a destination. I stood on the sidewalk, reading signs and staying positive. “You’re smart, you’ll figure it out,” I whispered to myself. I was proud and on my way to college in Washington, DC, but this was my first time feeling this cold and this lost. Spinning like a gig, somewhere in Virginia.

I saw a man walking past and thought to ask for directions to the nearest train station. “He looks like he’s from here, he’ll know,” I said to myself. “It’s just directions. And otherwise you’ll be stuck here.”

“Excuse me, sir. Could you point me to th– “

“–I don’t have any cash, excuse me,” the stout, white man hissed the second he laid eyes on me. I stood, stunned, as he scurried off in undeniable scorn and fear, clutching his briefcase.

I crossed the street and went into a Starbucks, heading straight for the bathroom. I stared in that dirty Starbucks mirror for 15 minutes, looking for the beggar in my face.

I spoke to myself out loud. “Your hair is frizzy. That must be it. Or actually, it’s this scarf.”

“The scarf is scraggly,” I persuaded myself.

I felt more confused than insulted. I wondered what in the start of my sentence implied that I was asking that stranger for money. I wondered if he couldn’t hear the strong Caribbean accent when I spoke, if he couldn’t see that I was just lost. I put my scarf in my suitcase. I bought a latte and continued in search of the nearest train station.

It took years of my being here – of hearing other people speak of white women clutching their purses on sight of Black people – to eventually understand that I didn’t really look like a beggar that day. I looked Black. I looked like a Black woman with the audacity to ask for something – even directions.

I experienced racism in retrospect, and that’s been particularly illuminating for me. It’s highlighted for me that we all may or may not have consciously experienced or been exposed to racism, but regardless, we all have a duty to be able to explain it.

Racism is a feature of [modern] American society, and by way of being part of that society, it is relevant to all of us. It’s dangerous to remain oblivious, since this is a matter of life and death for human beings. That’s the danger with not ‘seeing color” – If you don’t see color, you also don’t see the problem, which makes you part of it.

In every space we occupy, we can challenge ourselves to see color and see how it affects the way we feel and think. We can challenge ourselves to practice empathy and understanding, and to probe every one of our preconceived notions about people and systems (from real estate, to healthcare, to education etc.). Understand that all the original architects of racism are dead; these are all inherited and learned mindsets and behaviors. Now is the time to learn and unlearn as needed, and to build the necessary habit of that going forward.

#lifestyle, #thoughts, Uncategorized

love letter to Jamaica

ronellegreen

My love for reggae music isn’t surface level, and doesn’t end at the music itself. Reggae is a genre I’ve come to believe is sacred. At least for me it is. I have countless personal anecdotes to explain that statement, but I’ll share a recent one for the sake of brevity.

I was talking to a man, getting to know him, and boy, did I love him off. We fell out after one of the most absurd conversations I’ve had in my life, during which he descended into classing me all kinds of ways. Only one of his attempts to insult me stuck, and it was that I am a rebel without a cause.

This, because I’m one to love a debate. I’m opinionated, I love to think and am eager to learn, and I love to challenge the views of myself and others in pursuit of never ending learning. It’s fundamental to my being, and has been used against me since my first memory of myself. All my high school report cards include a comment from a teacher or principal emphasizing that my potential is hindered by how much I love to chat and argue.

I am now acutely aware that some people will just not be my people because of this, and that my natural inclination to question and assert is an asset in all the right spaces, and that’s a liberating awareness that I don’t take for granted. As I’ve been consciously doing deep work on my Self this past year — probing every one of my self-limiting beliefs; healing all my hurt feelings; crystallizing all my loftiest dreams and goals with hundreds of hours of journaling, reading, and challenges (from personal finance to meditation to unlocking my vision of self, etc.) — I’ve continued to listen to reggae music, mainly because… good vibes.

During the very period of my self work to heal my hurt feelings about being labeled a causeless rebel — I can’t make this up — Pressure Busspipe released his album, “Rebel With a Cause.”

“Rebel With a Cause” is an album that includes a song that will play in the background of my future wedding, a verse by Jah9 that is no less than formative, and an overall message so in line with what I was, at that very same time of release, experiencing, but also on a different level, what I continue to experience now.

So for me, reggae is sacred. It is always sent for me with very direct instructions and affirmations hidden in lyrics and titles and sound power. It’s an art that I deeply appreciate.

That is not the point of this love letter, though. The point is that as a nation, for generations, we have birthed and been home to not just a powerful genre, but power infinite and fundamentally untraceable.

The other day, I learnt that Jamaica was basically Martin Luther King, Jr.’s favorite island, and that he rented a house in Ochi, minutes away from where I’ve lived majority of my life, to write his last book before being assassinated — arguably one of his most prophetic works — “Where Do We Go From Here: Chaos or Community,” a plan for a future America, in peace and solitude.

Shortly after that, in reading Zora Neale Hurston’s ethnographic study, “Tell My Horse,” I came across her words: “The very best place to be in all the world is St. Mary[‘s parish], Jamaica.” St. Mary, where I’ve lived majority of my life. Zora Neale Hurston, prolific juggernaut in my very passion, writing.

I don’t even need to get into listing Jamaican greats like Usain Bolt, like Bob Marley. I don’t even need to talk about the global impact of our tiny nation’s culture and people.

It’s no mystery or argument that greatness and Jamaica are synonymous. My solitary greatest wish for every Jamaican is a radical acceptance of the proximity to greatness, in any sense of the word, that is their birthright.

I’m not sure where my love for Jamaica really comes from, but I vividly recall a moment in which, maybe, it was born. I was 8 years old and standing in the crowd of the student population at morning devotion at my preparatory school in Upton, St. Ann, where we were required to sing Jamaica’s National [School] Song:

I pledge my heart forever
To serve with humble pride
This shining homeland, ever
So long as earth abide

I pledge my heart, this island
As God and faith shall live
My work, my strength, my love, and
My loyalty to give.

O green isle of the Indies,
Jamaica, strong and free,
Our vows and loyal promises,
O heartland, ’tis to thee

I felt an overwhelming sense of emotion, but I couldn’t identify which emotion it was. I got goosebumps hearing the chorus of varying ages sing those words. Inspired by the British song “I Vow to Thee My Country,” the national song for schools was composed with the aim of preparing youth for nationhood after independence, which was gained in 1962. I suppose since we’d already achieved independence and a national identity, it made a patriot out of me.

This is why I laugh at myself when I remember my inner, secret reaction to a themed birthday party my coworkers threw for me at my work study job during my time at Howard University. I walked into the office to screams of “Surpriiiise! Happy birthdayyy!” and to the sight of green mixed drinks, Jamaica flags in the cups, Jamaica flag cupcakes, and Jamaica-themed decorations. I was genuinely happy, of course, but I remember secretly comparing myself to others later that night. My other coworkers had had parties thrown based on things about them and things they loved that weren’t their nationality. I asked myself if everyone saw me as just Jamaican.

After my time of introspection, I’ve concluded I am not just a Jamaican, I love being one. It’s a privilege to have my citizenship be a source of personal pride. Not everyone feels that feeling.

I know we have a lot of work to do, but I’m grateful to have the ability and the will to do my part of that work.

#thoughts, #tirades, Uncategorized

my unpopular opinion on monetizing creativity

ronellegreen

in honor of creatives everywhere, selling prints, beats, and whatever your pieces are – shine on. between self doubt, lack of support, cost of producing and just.. living, it can be extremely difficult to do your best work in a way that is sustainable and lucrative. (i had to link my friend’s new song in right there because i’m living for it right now). anyway, i want to write on something that’s been scratching at my sanity lately.

a chunk of my generation of creatives, be it career creatives or dabblers, are latching onto this new narrative of entitlement that makes me cringe. this is in two ways:

  1. you think your friends are supposed  to throw money at you for your work just because they’re your friends.
  2. you think the whole world should know/care/accept how much it costs you to produce your work, and be ever-willing to pay top dollar for said work, because they know/care/accept how much it costs you.

not only do you think one of, or both, those things, but you’re angry about it. you tweet rant about it. you condescend those who verbally, not monetarily, express support for you. you chit chat in your creative friend groups about the measly non-creatives who “just don’t understand” and huff and puff about your acrylics and canvases and photography equipment and instruments and blah. blah. blah.

my reply to this chunk of my generation of creatives:

  1. your friends might not care about your work at all. that’s okay. they don’t have to consume your work because they’re your friend. they can support you in countless other ways. friends ≠guaranteed customers.
  2. (unfortunately, but actually) no one cares. people will buy your work because they are moved by it and think it is quality, not because they know/care/accept how hard it must be for you.

the point about all your whining and anger with the modern, young art consumer is this, absolutely, positively, no one cares. and no one should. here’s why.

art is something that feels personal to the artist, I get that. my poems all feel like my vital organs. but guess what, your art does not feel personal to the viewer  – it feels like a product. and it is a product. especially if you intend to earn money for it. once you decide to earn hard dollars for the art you produce, you have a responsibility now to not only produce good work, but to operate as a business entity. that is what you are now, a business. wendy’s does not get to say to burger-buyers: “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH BEEF AND WAGES AND MAINTENANCE COST? STOP COMPLAINING AND BUY OUR BURGERS”. apple does not get to say “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT COSTS TO DEVELOP iOS AND MAKE iPHONES? SHUT UP AND BUY OUR STUFF”. no business on earth gets to say that. no business on earth gets to whine about potential customers not liking their pricing, or not wanting to pay what they think their product is worth. so you shouldn’t feel like you get to, either. what businesses have to do is adjust their price schema to fit their target markets. so for you, decide who you’re targeting, build a deliberate, thought out, standardized pricing strategy. decide on a marketing strategy. do research into how to operate as a fully functional sole proprietorship – that is what you become the minute you want to make money for your work. your friends are your friends – not necessarily your target market. aside from them plainly using you for your talents and abusing the work you do, stop getting upset with them for supporting you in ways other than buying your work. sometimes, they simply don’t care about your work enough to pay for any of it – and that’s okay. some of my absolute best friends don’t ever read my blog or poetry, and it’s okay, because they just don’t care for this type of thing. i don’t send off angry tweets about them being “fake” and not “supporting” me – my asking for their support through consumption of my work is different from my asking them to support me as a companion and friend. consuming your work is not the only way people can support you! you are more than the art you produce.

with that said, i am not telling you to settle for selling your work for less than you think it is worth. nor am i telling you to become a passionate business magnate. all i’m saying is, this neo-starving-artist logic has to go. i’m sure your work is worth what you think it is. and i’m sure your talent can feed you and build an empire. act like it. operate like it. monetize it. but bring it up to standard, polish it, and know that there will be countless people who don’t care about it, want to buy it, or think it’s good – and that’s fine.

 

Uncategorized

burning sage

ronellegreen

so there’s a whole school of thought on this. a whole field of study, really.

it is believed that burning the herb, sage, in one’s space will cleanse its energies and make the space sacred and pure. sage is like a plant version of rubbing alcohol, it kills spiritual germs and such.

though i’ve always been one to appreciate and delve deeply into the topic of spirituality and self awareness, i’ve never really grasped the concept of sage, crystals, yoni eggs or anything of the sort. i’m probably too simplistic and cynical a personality to attach sacred properties to a bunch of leaves or a smooth stone. this is not to say i’m closed-minded, but rather I don’t understand – a whole other discussion to be had (call in the theologists and machiavellians) – the attachment of sacredness to materials. I don’t understand how dried bushes can “cleanse” a space. though i’ve read countless essays and opinions and angles and scientific explanations, none apply to what I naturally think or can grasp without coercion. but guess what, sage is still my shit.

I burn it all the time. I think it lightens my spirit, through my space.

 

 

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but I attach that solely to its scent. I think that my journey through finding out how sage could possibly work, made me subconsciously attach a positive meaning to the smell of it. now, when I smell burnt sage, I smell sisterhood and power and self love and sensuality and spirit. I smell flavour and I smell strength. just as I attach a mood to the fragrances I wear everyday – one perfume for my get-it-done self, and one for my girl-you’re-so-hot-right-now-self. I attach the scent of sage to the essence of sanity, deliberate sanity – to the essence of deciding to not be affected by anxiety, and to be at ease. so burning sage for me, is to light new opportunity ablaze – something I can decide to do every night in my room, which is so profound to me that I can’t believe I didn’t think of doing this earlier.

I buy mine (cue, shameless plug: take note howard students) from the cutest, quaintest, black-owned, brick front gem on georgia avenue – blue nile. it’s literally $2.

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it makes me wonder if whatever you want sage to be for, is what it is for. what if you could pick any tiny ritual for yourself that clears your mind in your own kind of way? what would your ritual be?

#everbless,