While reading this, you may find yourself trying to determine whether I have a problem with Michael Vick. You will have little reason to support this, nor will you view my stance on fighting pit bulls as being different from his prior perspective. Threatening the earning power of millions of dollars for the sake of fighting dogs, borders on madness. By the way, if you are an animal lover, this may not be the story for you.
Reading today's newspaper, I am reminded that capitalism still rules. For Michael Vick, this prior statement bodes well, he will replenish his coffers and return to the standard of living to which he is accustomed. To the PETA guys, it is another reminder of why the notion that fish feel pain, only resonates with the fish. It has been reported that Michael has been awarded another contract by Nike. In essence, he has been redeemed. He has paid his debt to society and is making amends for what was, on his part, a bad decision.
You will not find me casting any stones. I applaud Michael Vick for taking his punishment like a man and coming back to the sport he loves. He has proved that fighting Rover against Tiger, will not define his legacy. He has again, been placed in a position to participate in the sport he has lived for. Quite rightly, he deserves the opportunity to recover from what in his case, was a bad decision.
Nike, in my opinion, have shown the clear nature of the cannibalistic and opportunistic attitude we see amongst leading companies. It is this very same capitalistic zeal that sheds some light to the country's current economic crisis. Okay, I exaggerate but it really writes well. Win at all costs, make money any way possible. This is simply an opportunity to increase sales. Would such an opportunity fall to the average convict? Of course not, many of them could not obtain a job with Nike. This is not an exception exception. They have determined the marketability of Vick's story and in so doing, have realized that the "Road to Redemption" book will be bigger than the rise to fame article.
There is a certain heroism in the broken and beaten warrior returning from battle. This symbolism is biblical in nature. Take for example David; he is embraced as a picture of triumph even as he suffered travails of woe and cave life. The vagabond lifestyle he led as he hid from Saul's men. He was an inevitable star. America likes the vision of a bruised and battered soldier, who is worn from battle, limping his way home to collapse near death in the arms of childhood love, only to rise up again and fight. Michael Vick has risen again and he is fast becoming a hero to the many.
America redeems. You just need to apologize. We are very much a society that practices selective forgiveness. If one takes ownership, apologizes, it is possible to then move right along. For those that are famous? This can mean signing a new contract. The dogs associated with this tale will probably never ask Michael why he got them bitten every weekend, some even killed. Nike doesn't remember and really doesn't need to. You see, going forward, Michael has apologized and is making amends. I believe he has seen the folly of his ways, and will become the man he was meant to be. We are all allowed a second chance, in Micheal's case it's worth millions.
So I applaud Michael Vick for his triumphant return. I am a little more skeptical however about the company that sees this tragedy as an opportunity to sell sneakers and apparel.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Symbiosis
I spent a little time of this past vacation week watching "The Queen of Trees" a documentary about the Sycamore fig trees of Kenya. The documentary focused on the symbiotic relationship between the fig tree and fig wasp. A tiny little wasp whose whole life cycle is indelibly tied to the fig tree seasons. The fig tree has developed a unique relationship with the fig wasp, critical to either species' survival. Wikipedia states that the term symbiosis (from the Greek: σύν syn "with"; and βίωσις biosis "living") commonly describes close and often long-term interactions between different biological species. The term was first used in 1879 by the German mycologist Heinrich Anton de Bary, who defined it as "the living together of unlike organisms".
The fig wasp is tiny - neither threatening nor large enough to warrant concern. It is unique in that each species of fig wasp pollinates only one type of fig tree. This is a key aspect of the relationship, a co-evolution that has manifested itself to ensure that neither survives without the other. The fig wasp pollinates the fig tree and in turn, the tree provides a nesting ground and incubator for the fig wasp.
Watching this relationship, I understand more that as a species, we have lost our ability to live in any mutually beneficial relationship with other species. We have used dominion to increase our own conveniences at the expense of all other species. While on vacation, a knock on the door brought a warning from the neighbor's son that a bear was going through the trash at the dumpster (an example of how we interject negativity into natures concert). Our waste has become the bear's food source, circumventing his natural instinct to hunt and gather for himself, thus rendering him a garbage forager. Not built for this purpose but forced to adapt to this unnatural manipulation of the environment, he finds new ways to survive. Not to sound like a conservationist, but it is clear that we have crossed into natures 'no man's land'. The only symbiotic relationship we seem to nurture well is with bacteria, which we harbor as they, in turn, help us digest our food.
We have harnessed energy so as to extend daylight. This has given us more hours to manipulate our work day and created innovative ways for us to work harder. We are reaping fossil fuels at a rate faster than can be replenished. We have driven numerous species to extinction or near it and still fail to recognize that we were made to be a component and not a determinant.
Having spent some time in a serene environment, surrounded by God's beauty, one can't help but become acutely aware of each breath. The co-existence of everything as it is meant to live becomes clear. The deer grazing in the forest; the horse fly buzzing around the mare's flank; the hedgehog waddling his way up the slope; all part of a singular purpose. Nature expends its energy surviving for seasons to become energy for something else. We are the only species that has worked diligently to escape this reality. We build coffins to preserve our remains, and use chemicals to preserve our dead; as if the decomposition of our bodies does not have an ordained purpose.
The fig wasp pursues its life purpose with an unstoppable determination. Similarly, the fig tree provides nutritional support to a myriad of creatures that in turn attract and provide nutrition for others. This is all part of the connection and the symbiosis of life. Human inability to live in harmony with nature may be the cause of many of the things that we all say our grandparents never suffered from; Alzheimer's, stress, depression, anxiety, precocious puberty, Anxiety, ADHD, ADD, STD, DVD, CD, and MP3 - to name but a few. I may not have clinical evidence to support my conclusions, but looking around at what has become of a world void of a connection to nature should convince you of one thing - as a species, we're a mess.
The fig wasp has other parasitic wasps that take advantage of its labor and lay their eggs in its nest. Many of us have people in our lives who bring similar opportunistic negativity. They provide influences that detract, distract and detour us from our purpose. In the fig wasp's case, even these parasites serve a purpose in this grand symphony. They ensure that fig wasps don't overpopulate. Many fig wasp queens are born with these parasite larvae already eating them alive. Nevertheless, fig wasps pursue their purpose with resolve and single mindedness, even under sentence of death. Their reward, is the perpetuation of two species. The fig wasp has inspired me to rethink my walk with nature, to accept the negativity as a part of my personal growth. I am recognizing that the larvae of negativity from birth through youth sit ready to burst out and ultimately destroy me. However, every purposed life leaves a footprint. It is our choice to decide whether it will be positive or otherwise. I choose the former.
Like the fig wasp, I too want to achieve that singular purpose worth dying and risking my life for. I want what would - on the surface - appear to be a meaningless existence but, upon reflection and inspection, show itself to be a life filled with a small deposit in the birth of a great big tree that will live for hundreds of years.
The fig wasp is tiny - neither threatening nor large enough to warrant concern. It is unique in that each species of fig wasp pollinates only one type of fig tree. This is a key aspect of the relationship, a co-evolution that has manifested itself to ensure that neither survives without the other. The fig wasp pollinates the fig tree and in turn, the tree provides a nesting ground and incubator for the fig wasp.
Watching this relationship, I understand more that as a species, we have lost our ability to live in any mutually beneficial relationship with other species. We have used dominion to increase our own conveniences at the expense of all other species. While on vacation, a knock on the door brought a warning from the neighbor's son that a bear was going through the trash at the dumpster (an example of how we interject negativity into natures concert). Our waste has become the bear's food source, circumventing his natural instinct to hunt and gather for himself, thus rendering him a garbage forager. Not built for this purpose but forced to adapt to this unnatural manipulation of the environment, he finds new ways to survive. Not to sound like a conservationist, but it is clear that we have crossed into natures 'no man's land'. The only symbiotic relationship we seem to nurture well is with bacteria, which we harbor as they, in turn, help us digest our food.
We have harnessed energy so as to extend daylight. This has given us more hours to manipulate our work day and created innovative ways for us to work harder. We are reaping fossil fuels at a rate faster than can be replenished. We have driven numerous species to extinction or near it and still fail to recognize that we were made to be a component and not a determinant.
Having spent some time in a serene environment, surrounded by God's beauty, one can't help but become acutely aware of each breath. The co-existence of everything as it is meant to live becomes clear. The deer grazing in the forest; the horse fly buzzing around the mare's flank; the hedgehog waddling his way up the slope; all part of a singular purpose. Nature expends its energy surviving for seasons to become energy for something else. We are the only species that has worked diligently to escape this reality. We build coffins to preserve our remains, and use chemicals to preserve our dead; as if the decomposition of our bodies does not have an ordained purpose.
The fig wasp pursues its life purpose with an unstoppable determination. Similarly, the fig tree provides nutritional support to a myriad of creatures that in turn attract and provide nutrition for others. This is all part of the connection and the symbiosis of life. Human inability to live in harmony with nature may be the cause of many of the things that we all say our grandparents never suffered from; Alzheimer's, stress, depression, anxiety, precocious puberty, Anxiety, ADHD, ADD, STD, DVD, CD, and MP3 - to name but a few. I may not have clinical evidence to support my conclusions, but looking around at what has become of a world void of a connection to nature should convince you of one thing - as a species, we're a mess.
The fig wasp has other parasitic wasps that take advantage of its labor and lay their eggs in its nest. Many of us have people in our lives who bring similar opportunistic negativity. They provide influences that detract, distract and detour us from our purpose. In the fig wasp's case, even these parasites serve a purpose in this grand symphony. They ensure that fig wasps don't overpopulate. Many fig wasp queens are born with these parasite larvae already eating them alive. Nevertheless, fig wasps pursue their purpose with resolve and single mindedness, even under sentence of death. Their reward, is the perpetuation of two species. The fig wasp has inspired me to rethink my walk with nature, to accept the negativity as a part of my personal growth. I am recognizing that the larvae of negativity from birth through youth sit ready to burst out and ultimately destroy me. However, every purposed life leaves a footprint. It is our choice to decide whether it will be positive or otherwise. I choose the former.
Like the fig wasp, I too want to achieve that singular purpose worth dying and risking my life for. I want what would - on the surface - appear to be a meaningless existence but, upon reflection and inspection, show itself to be a life filled with a small deposit in the birth of a great big tree that will live for hundreds of years.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Cloudy with a Chance of Change
In his book, The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho says, "It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting." The tide and flow of every breath is a step in the process of human change. Like many things, change is to be expected and embraced. For many of us though, we resist it for the sheer fact that familiarity makes us feel safe. Bathed in the embrace of its sameness, we shy from the signs that flash out new directions.
This comfort zone, this place of refuge, is the very thing that blocks the blessing for many of us to move into new possibilities. We stand in the quagmire of familiar circumstances, suspicious of unclear possibilities. What is missing in our lives is an acknowledgment of the stages of change to which we are inexplicably tied.
Embracing these changes, these constant shifts, is what develops a defined life. Following a strand of change from one end to the other; creates the intoxication of a sustained generational history. Every change is a loop in the tapestry. It becomes the defining fiber for each line of DNA; an entry in the annals of humanity.
So, as I sit atop this mountain overlooking my land, I see the shifts in the scape of life. The peaks and the valleys, the eroded cliffs and the dense forests. I recognize the hill paths well worn from the soles of constant use; the deadly ledges from whence I almost fell. I acknowledge the lakes that have pooled together with tears of my loved ones. I see the barren fields and the burgeoning gardens.
The paths we must all take are not encumbered by human order. It is the conspiring in the heavens that creates streets and intersections. The GPS of life becomes moot for lack of destination and yet for every man, the destination is a lock - death. Therefore, the shifts and tides we find ourselves in, move us closer to this pressing inevitability.
If you were to be thrown into the current of a strong flowing river, controlling your path or destination would be futile. You would have to submit to the demands of its flow. Life is a river current of certain stages. Somewhere in the middle of the rapids, we need to let go and just keep our heads above water. For in this resignation, we find the peace that carries us firmly to our destination.
That's God for you; bringing you to your dreams through a raging torrent, asking you to just "Let go and let God". So, I rewrite Paulo Coehlo's statement with this conviction, "It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes God inevitable."
This comfort zone, this place of refuge, is the very thing that blocks the blessing for many of us to move into new possibilities. We stand in the quagmire of familiar circumstances, suspicious of unclear possibilities. What is missing in our lives is an acknowledgment of the stages of change to which we are inexplicably tied.
Embracing these changes, these constant shifts, is what develops a defined life. Following a strand of change from one end to the other; creates the intoxication of a sustained generational history. Every change is a loop in the tapestry. It becomes the defining fiber for each line of DNA; an entry in the annals of humanity.
So, as I sit atop this mountain overlooking my land, I see the shifts in the scape of life. The peaks and the valleys, the eroded cliffs and the dense forests. I recognize the hill paths well worn from the soles of constant use; the deadly ledges from whence I almost fell. I acknowledge the lakes that have pooled together with tears of my loved ones. I see the barren fields and the burgeoning gardens.
The paths we must all take are not encumbered by human order. It is the conspiring in the heavens that creates streets and intersections. The GPS of life becomes moot for lack of destination and yet for every man, the destination is a lock - death. Therefore, the shifts and tides we find ourselves in, move us closer to this pressing inevitability.
If you were to be thrown into the current of a strong flowing river, controlling your path or destination would be futile. You would have to submit to the demands of its flow. Life is a river current of certain stages. Somewhere in the middle of the rapids, we need to let go and just keep our heads above water. For in this resignation, we find the peace that carries us firmly to our destination.
That's God for you; bringing you to your dreams through a raging torrent, asking you to just "Let go and let God". So, I rewrite Paulo Coehlo's statement with this conviction, "It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes God inevitable."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Age of Innocence
I watch as a little boy places his action figure on the table in front of me. His eyes are fixed on the action hero. I can't quite hear what he is saying but I can tell that he is in deep dialogue. He stretches the plastic man's arms out and from one of them extends a sword. I hear a slicing "whoosh" escape his lips.
I am seated on a black leather couch a few feet from his father who pays him no mind and continues to manipulate his Blackberry. I make a reference to how we are all addicted to our Crackberries and the father nods and chuckles. The little boy acknowledges my interruption with a slight gaze but then gets back to his play. He lifts the figure and begins to trot around the waiting area. I can see that he intends for his hero to fly. The whooshing sounds give it away.
His action man flies not too far off the ground in swooping movements. Occasionally his head comes dangerously close to a table but never quite hits it. There is some invisible battle being fought here. The frequent manipulations of the arms and sword indicate a furious engagement that only he can see. He is intense about his endeavor and oblivious to my scrutiny. As I watch he comes back to his father and indicates that his sword is dislodged. His father breaks from his Blackberry task and offers his assistance in reestablishing the hero's weaponry.
Content with his renewed armament, the boy places his figure on the table in front of me and begins an epic battle. As the battle rages on in his mind, I begin to marvel at his freedom. He is totally disconnected from the activity around him. Here we are in a gymnasium lobby, he waiting on a sibling, me waiting on my daughter who is in her Tae Kwan Do class. Unlike the little boy, my mind is racing with the responsibilities of adulthood; work, mortgage, car notes and all the other things that make being a grown up cumbersome.
I keep my gaze on this little boy and feel the envy creep slowly through me. A life without the burden of tomorrow, the freedom of a spirit that enjoys only the moment. I try to reconnect with my childhood memories. Of playtime with Alexander Smith as we loaded sand into the backs of toy dump trucks. I recall building roads in the dirt and padding down the loose dirt with water; my times with Kitu Singh and his sister Emma, whose teeth are credited with the scar over my left eye.
The little boy in this waiting room represents more to me than nostalgic memories. He is the epitome of freedom and covering. His father sits protectively, engaged in his own activity, his occasional look keeps watch over his offspring's ministrations. The son, surrounded by the comfort of this protection, continues his play unconcerned. I envy this, never having had the comfort of a father of my own. Never having known that protective feeling of a man's influence over my youth.
This relationship between this boy and his father is about as close a human feeling one can get to understanding our relationship with God. One can truly only be as nonchalant as this child when one lives in the knowledge of the covering and protection provided by someone willing to face death and danger on your behalf. I never had a father that felt me important enough to press through his challenges to embrace me. The feeling of abandonment that I claimed I never felt, has manifested itself in my adulthood like a carved Greek pillar in a museum.
So as I sit here watching this boy, I am taken back to my own fears, hurts and hang-ups. My nothingness in the expanse of a life built on the insecurities of no God-figure. My disconnection from an integral shape-defining relationship that could have charted me on a different course. His "whoosh" brings me back into the moment and I smile at him. He looks up at me with his brown eyes and asks, "What is your name?" I hesitate and respond, "Soneka Kamuhuza," and as the words leave my lips, immediately realize the fallacy. Unlike this boy, whose father sits guard, I have never taken on my fathers identity, nor felt his comfort in my life. He has left no memories of innocent playing on my pages, nor created a shield around my life.
Yet oddly I am drawn to this moment, this innocence, this freedom. In this boy we all live vicariously, playing free, in our own little world, believing without looking, knowing deep inside our hearts, that we are protected.
I am seated on a black leather couch a few feet from his father who pays him no mind and continues to manipulate his Blackberry. I make a reference to how we are all addicted to our Crackberries and the father nods and chuckles. The little boy acknowledges my interruption with a slight gaze but then gets back to his play. He lifts the figure and begins to trot around the waiting area. I can see that he intends for his hero to fly. The whooshing sounds give it away.
His action man flies not too far off the ground in swooping movements. Occasionally his head comes dangerously close to a table but never quite hits it. There is some invisible battle being fought here. The frequent manipulations of the arms and sword indicate a furious engagement that only he can see. He is intense about his endeavor and oblivious to my scrutiny. As I watch he comes back to his father and indicates that his sword is dislodged. His father breaks from his Blackberry task and offers his assistance in reestablishing the hero's weaponry.
Content with his renewed armament, the boy places his figure on the table in front of me and begins an epic battle. As the battle rages on in his mind, I begin to marvel at his freedom. He is totally disconnected from the activity around him. Here we are in a gymnasium lobby, he waiting on a sibling, me waiting on my daughter who is in her Tae Kwan Do class. Unlike the little boy, my mind is racing with the responsibilities of adulthood; work, mortgage, car notes and all the other things that make being a grown up cumbersome.
I keep my gaze on this little boy and feel the envy creep slowly through me. A life without the burden of tomorrow, the freedom of a spirit that enjoys only the moment. I try to reconnect with my childhood memories. Of playtime with Alexander Smith as we loaded sand into the backs of toy dump trucks. I recall building roads in the dirt and padding down the loose dirt with water; my times with Kitu Singh and his sister Emma, whose teeth are credited with the scar over my left eye.
The little boy in this waiting room represents more to me than nostalgic memories. He is the epitome of freedom and covering. His father sits protectively, engaged in his own activity, his occasional look keeps watch over his offspring's ministrations. The son, surrounded by the comfort of this protection, continues his play unconcerned. I envy this, never having had the comfort of a father of my own. Never having known that protective feeling of a man's influence over my youth.
This relationship between this boy and his father is about as close a human feeling one can get to understanding our relationship with God. One can truly only be as nonchalant as this child when one lives in the knowledge of the covering and protection provided by someone willing to face death and danger on your behalf. I never had a father that felt me important enough to press through his challenges to embrace me. The feeling of abandonment that I claimed I never felt, has manifested itself in my adulthood like a carved Greek pillar in a museum.
So as I sit here watching this boy, I am taken back to my own fears, hurts and hang-ups. My nothingness in the expanse of a life built on the insecurities of no God-figure. My disconnection from an integral shape-defining relationship that could have charted me on a different course. His "whoosh" brings me back into the moment and I smile at him. He looks up at me with his brown eyes and asks, "What is your name?" I hesitate and respond, "Soneka Kamuhuza," and as the words leave my lips, immediately realize the fallacy. Unlike this boy, whose father sits guard, I have never taken on my fathers identity, nor felt his comfort in my life. He has left no memories of innocent playing on my pages, nor created a shield around my life.
Yet oddly I am drawn to this moment, this innocence, this freedom. In this boy we all live vicariously, playing free, in our own little world, believing without looking, knowing deep inside our hearts, that we are protected.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Mother of Mine!
It's for the forty four hours and forty six minutes
of labor you persevered
For the pain and anguish I saw you endure
Shouting out in anguish, as we waited for her
The sheer magnitude of your patience
as I watched your tears
Knowing that even as you pushed through
these were moments of your deepest fear
It's for staring down death without a blink
Taking needles in places I would never think
It's for never calling me names
even when I wasn't sincere
For taking my male frailty and inadequacies
and holding them secure
For giving a sense of purpose when my path was unclear
Calling me a champion when the loss was near
For that last push that brought her some air
Letting her little voice recoil in a hushed room
As if screaming, "I am here!"
My very life blood, joined with you in cell
I honor you now, I sing your song
I stand at your parade, saluting your part
For giving her life, and both of us a new start
My name, your name, my life, your life
Through the annals of time
For standing stoic in your morals
and unbending in faith
Your voice and manner unwavering winds
Never changing unlike seasonal friends
Pray tell my love what more to come
A puzzling story, I'm sure to some
I honor you now, Mother of Mine
Soneka K. Kamuhuza Copyright 2009
of labor you persevered
For the pain and anguish I saw you endure
Shouting out in anguish, as we waited for her
The sheer magnitude of your patience
as I watched your tears
Knowing that even as you pushed through
these were moments of your deepest fear
It's for staring down death without a blink
Taking needles in places I would never think
It's for never calling me names
even when I wasn't sincere
For taking my male frailty and inadequacies
and holding them secure
For giving a sense of purpose when my path was unclear
Calling me a champion when the loss was near
For that last push that brought her some air
Letting her little voice recoil in a hushed room
As if screaming, "I am here!"
My very life blood, joined with you in cell
I honor you now, I sing your song
I stand at your parade, saluting your part
For giving her life, and both of us a new start
My name, your name, my life, your life
Through the annals of time
For standing stoic in your morals
and unbending in faith
Your voice and manner unwavering winds
Never changing unlike seasonal friends
Pray tell my love what more to come
A puzzling story, I'm sure to some
I honor you now, Mother of Mine
Soneka K. Kamuhuza Copyright 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
What's in a name? (Africa)
A friend of mine has been hounding me for about a year and a half to watch a movie called Sankofa. She insisted that I needed to watch it. She believed that my sensibilities would grasp the depth of the message meant by the film-maker. She stated that there were several people she had shown it to who didn't get it - much to her frustration.
So, after finally acquiring a copy, she handed it to me last week, just in time for the weekend. Actually, she handed it to someone else - her boss - who felt it necessary to try to hijack this shipment that was meant for me. After a few threatening phone calls, the Sankofa DVD was delivered to my office.
Not intending to have anything too heavy, we sat down to watch the Sankofa DVD Saturday night. We usually pick a light hearted movie for Saturday nights, well, as we learned, Sankofa is far from that. It is the journey of a modern day woman who returns to the past to experience slavery on a plantation. The cinematography leaves much to be desired, however, the critical components of this movie build like the crescendo of an engrossing symphony. Once started, you will be forced to chase it to its end.
The rape, abuse, physical and emotional assault that follows is reminiscent of slave movies already seen. However, Sankofa carries through it an underlying message of identity and heritage that is subtle yet loud in its depiction. It is a story told from the perspective of Africans having never lost their identity in the midst of slavery. Those who sought to carry their traditions and heritage through generations. Their strength, found in communal traditions, acts of initiation and refusal to assimilate, empowered them. What culminates, I will not reveal, as I encourage everyone to watch it for themselves.
Sankofa's underlying tone shows the calculated method with which generations of Africans systematically lost their identity and took on slave names. Sankofa displays an intimacy with Africa to which the movie Roots, alludes. It careens full speed to a cataclysmic end that can be the only conclusion to a life of sadism, death, lies, abandonment, cruelty, hatred, terrorism and despair. In the midst of this, remains this component of a name. What is in a name?
Mine is Soneka Kamuhuza. A very distinct name. Well it's unique for this hemisphere, a dime-a-dozen in Zambezi, Zambia. I once rode a bus in Zambia, somebody called out to a Soneka, and half the bus answered. That burst my bubble. See, among the Lunda, Soneka is about as common as John is to the English. In America, I'm about as unique as Barack Obama. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. In Sankofa, I realized that the allegory was in the identifiable characteristics of strong African connections being countered by a terroristic effort to break that very bond.
To be named Toby, Henry, Mark as opposed to Kwame, Tesu, Ade was the beginning of the slavery brainwashing process. In essence the most critical part of the integration process was to lose your name. The slave would be beaten until he accepted his slave name. It would be his disconnection from who he was, his acceptance into who he was to become. So for over four hundred years the perpetuation of dissolution and separation has been perfected to what is now seen in African-American culture; Jones, Yokum, Sisko, Todd, to name a few.
A generation of people exist as if adrift at sea, with no port in sight. The slave masters game plan has come to pass. The very connection that Sankofa bridles with in its energetic scenes; the volcanic aspiration of self that Sankofa pulsates, is now lost. The silent fart of a distressed identity emits slowly from the bowels of a festering cultural myopia, all held together by a society with the runs. These frequent bathroom trips only help to highlight the stench that now emits from what is left of our hard earned freedom.
Somewhere, in the midst of all this cultural atrophy, I believe Sankofa rises as if to remind the many African-Americans who remain adrift. "Look East. Look to where the sun rises each morning. Remember a land where the sun is seen first each day by your people. A land that your ancestors called home. A land where they were free. Africa, mother Africa."
So, after finally acquiring a copy, she handed it to me last week, just in time for the weekend. Actually, she handed it to someone else - her boss - who felt it necessary to try to hijack this shipment that was meant for me. After a few threatening phone calls, the Sankofa DVD was delivered to my office.
Not intending to have anything too heavy, we sat down to watch the Sankofa DVD Saturday night. We usually pick a light hearted movie for Saturday nights, well, as we learned, Sankofa is far from that. It is the journey of a modern day woman who returns to the past to experience slavery on a plantation. The cinematography leaves much to be desired, however, the critical components of this movie build like the crescendo of an engrossing symphony. Once started, you will be forced to chase it to its end.
The rape, abuse, physical and emotional assault that follows is reminiscent of slave movies already seen. However, Sankofa carries through it an underlying message of identity and heritage that is subtle yet loud in its depiction. It is a story told from the perspective of Africans having never lost their identity in the midst of slavery. Those who sought to carry their traditions and heritage through generations. Their strength, found in communal traditions, acts of initiation and refusal to assimilate, empowered them. What culminates, I will not reveal, as I encourage everyone to watch it for themselves.
Sankofa's underlying tone shows the calculated method with which generations of Africans systematically lost their identity and took on slave names. Sankofa displays an intimacy with Africa to which the movie Roots, alludes. It careens full speed to a cataclysmic end that can be the only conclusion to a life of sadism, death, lies, abandonment, cruelty, hatred, terrorism and despair. In the midst of this, remains this component of a name. What is in a name?
Mine is Soneka Kamuhuza. A very distinct name. Well it's unique for this hemisphere, a dime-a-dozen in Zambezi, Zambia. I once rode a bus in Zambia, somebody called out to a Soneka, and half the bus answered. That burst my bubble. See, among the Lunda, Soneka is about as common as John is to the English. In America, I'm about as unique as Barack Obama. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. In Sankofa, I realized that the allegory was in the identifiable characteristics of strong African connections being countered by a terroristic effort to break that very bond.
To be named Toby, Henry, Mark as opposed to Kwame, Tesu, Ade was the beginning of the slavery brainwashing process. In essence the most critical part of the integration process was to lose your name. The slave would be beaten until he accepted his slave name. It would be his disconnection from who he was, his acceptance into who he was to become. So for over four hundred years the perpetuation of dissolution and separation has been perfected to what is now seen in African-American culture; Jones, Yokum, Sisko, Todd, to name a few.
A generation of people exist as if adrift at sea, with no port in sight. The slave masters game plan has come to pass. The very connection that Sankofa bridles with in its energetic scenes; the volcanic aspiration of self that Sankofa pulsates, is now lost. The silent fart of a distressed identity emits slowly from the bowels of a festering cultural myopia, all held together by a society with the runs. These frequent bathroom trips only help to highlight the stench that now emits from what is left of our hard earned freedom.
Somewhere, in the midst of all this cultural atrophy, I believe Sankofa rises as if to remind the many African-Americans who remain adrift. "Look East. Look to where the sun rises each morning. Remember a land where the sun is seen first each day by your people. A land that your ancestors called home. A land where they were free. Africa, mother Africa."
Saturday, April 11, 2009
It's just Salmon!
It was my wife's birthday this past Saturday and so as is tradition in our house, we celebrated the whole weekend. My daughter had a grand plan for her mother's breakfast in bed Saturday morning. So as she and I drove back from our first day of celebration Friday night, she announced that we did not have all the ingredients for the gourmet breakfast. Ever the dutiful father, I redirected and headed to the local supermarket for the much needed ingredients.
As my daughter navigated us through the store, she would occasionally grab a recognizable item and either toss it into the cart or shake her head as if disappointed. We finally found ourselves at the fish counter and she pointed triumphantly at Salmon. This was her grand ingredient, smoked Salmon. Not any type of Salmon, but the Alaskan kind. The Discovery channel, swimming upstream, being caught by bears kind, yes, that kind.
Never having been keen on Salmon as a food source, I have not purchased it. My girls on the other hand, enjoy Salmon burgers on occasion. So as we selected the Salmon, I noticed a pattern, the price. The price to weight ratio for the Salmon was extremely intriguing. It felt like I was holding a piece of paper napkin and yet the price said $8.99. Azheni's insistence on Salmon as a key ingredient swayed me to invest in this daylight robbery. In this case SuperFresh Supermarket was robbing me at night, so it was nightlight robbery.
The next morning as I helped prepare the breakfast, I discovered that I had invested in four slivers of smoked Salmon, for the grand price of $8.99. That's almost two bottles of cheap wine, a case of beer, two chickens (not Purdue), or four loaves of bread. Now for $8.99 for parts of a fish, I reckon the particular fish should have swam from Norway to Alaska, navigated its way up an electrical dam, given some fishermen directions, stopped in Canada to give a concert and then committed Harakiri in a gesture of honorable death.
As my daughter navigated us through the store, she would occasionally grab a recognizable item and either toss it into the cart or shake her head as if disappointed. We finally found ourselves at the fish counter and she pointed triumphantly at Salmon. This was her grand ingredient, smoked Salmon. Not any type of Salmon, but the Alaskan kind. The Discovery channel, swimming upstream, being caught by bears kind, yes, that kind.
Never having been keen on Salmon as a food source, I have not purchased it. My girls on the other hand, enjoy Salmon burgers on occasion. So as we selected the Salmon, I noticed a pattern, the price. The price to weight ratio for the Salmon was extremely intriguing. It felt like I was holding a piece of paper napkin and yet the price said $8.99. Azheni's insistence on Salmon as a key ingredient swayed me to invest in this daylight robbery. In this case SuperFresh Supermarket was robbing me at night, so it was nightlight robbery.
The next morning as I helped prepare the breakfast, I discovered that I had invested in four slivers of smoked Salmon, for the grand price of $8.99. That's almost two bottles of cheap wine, a case of beer, two chickens (not Purdue), or four loaves of bread. Now for $8.99 for parts of a fish, I reckon the particular fish should have swam from Norway to Alaska, navigated its way up an electrical dam, given some fishermen directions, stopped in Canada to give a concert and then committed Harakiri in a gesture of honorable death.
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