Happy Hollow Daze

Flew into Philadelphia International last night to visit family for the hollow daze. The reason for the synonymous spelling is to focus attention on the hyper-commercialization of big business, backed by slave/colonial fortunes and invested in marketing and advertising in order to slip thier subliminal hand deep in our pockets to satisy the artificial needs/wants of loved ones, of our selves. And we open wide, allowing them to suck after hypnotizing us into zombie like participation by consuming whatever it is they have in stock, on the warehouse shelves....I saw it first hand tonight, visiting my nephew Will's family in Bethlehem, PA. The artificial Christmas tree was lit--dressed with bulbs, garland and tinsel. An agel rested on the treetop, beneath which lay a mountain of presents that had been opened earlier that afternoon. His little girl, Coral, was coloring in front of the tree, but soon decided that she wanted to play with several cans of playdough. Her mama suggested that she wait until tomorrow because it was getting late and playdough can be quiite messy. Coral became angry, told her mama "no" and commenced to pout and then to cry. Then to my surprise, started kicking the rest of the presents and throwing them about until her mama threatened to "get the hot sauce," which seemed to calm her down.

Things have gotten out of hand. No matter what we get, whether we deserve it or not, we want more and more...and more. Gone are the daze of apples and oranges and home made cookies in stockings hanging from a makeshift brick carboard chimney; brand new socks and drawers, coloring books and crayons. Tonight I looked out of the backdoor of our farmhouse remembering how the snow fell across fallow fields. There is a full moon tonight and as I looked up at the mountain draped in the last rays of twilight, I remember the nights of laughter and love in this house; remember mamma coming home from work from the stocking factory or her day job cleaning and cooking Christmas dinner; remember the effort my sisters Pat, Carole and Peg put into making butterscotch and peppermint candy wreaths to hang from the doors; remember days of walking the stream and hunting crows feet to make the wreaths look authentic; remember digging sassafrass roots in the woods to make tonic that we'd need to cleanse our bodies come spring. When we couldn't afford a tree, daddy would come home after work at the brick yard, go to the woods down by the old house and chop down a cedar. And although the branches were oftentimes sparse, we'd make up for it by popping corn and stringing it as garland or making colored paper chains, or handmade ornaments from salted cookie dough. In Stations Audre Lord warns about this never ending hunger, warns about our fear that can never be satisfied. More than likely there are complex reasons for Coral's temper tantrum, but I believe it's a metaphor for a larger conundrum we face in American society. We need to be still on this Chilly Christmas evening, take time and reflect upon the true meaning of this time whatever our beliefs might be. It's time for family. Time for love. Time for small acts of kindness that accumulate, balance, and harmonize what has become the hollow daze of our increasingly complicated lives.

Her Hands in My Hair...

Florence W. Williams crossed over to the ancestral zone on Wednesday, December 12, 2007. Born November 8, 1911 in the Elmwood section of Philadelphia, PA. she was 96 years old. My dear lovely auntie, who used to straighten the thick of my hair on Saturday mornings in my mama's kitchen. I will miss her hands in my hair, miss her stern look when I was actin' a fool, her beautiful smile, the twinkle in her eye when she shared secrets with me that shaped me into the woman I am today. Later, I'd grow locks and she never quite adjusted to the style to say the least.

She promised me one night while I was sleeping, to sneak into my room with scissors sharpened and cut off one by one my twisted locks. Her guilded instrument, seal and deliver the Cyclops. My crown lopped and falling beneath shoulders, bare ropes tangled. My strength cascaded round my head as one eye opens--splay the wounded mane, a trophy in the darknes. Steal the lambs lost, dare the dead. What did she know of summer shadows draped on bedroom walls? Of cracks that sing soprano under floorboards. Splintered rough and calloused claws of sparrows, small breasted summoner of twilight vigils beneath towers crumbling covenants with God? Still I loved her irons that curled the blackness. The sizzle of blue unguents and green pomades that tamed wild roots. Ordered them lie down, preserved in smoky parlors, shoot by shoot on steamy Saturdays. "Be still" and enter Shirley's temple, refined with offerings of singed rags and burnt sacrifice of earlobes elegant on protracted afternoons of beauty. A list of stylized possibilities that were never mine.

Come out, come out wherever you are...

I returned to teaching this fall. Didn't realize how much time it takes, especially away from the research. I feel like I've enlisted in the "darkness visible." The hypergraph in me is excited for the semester to end. Love teaching, just like I imagine LDB loved spreading the word, healing the spirit. Got multiple writing projects--irons smoking in the ink & fire and it's time to come out and play. . One thing that I was able to accomplish during the semester was launching Blacksong, the digital archive of my matrilineal family history. I worked with Otim Oloya--one of the best as far as graphic designers go; an all around creative genius doing dirty deeds on the Left coast. We worked together on weekends and in mid-November launched Blacksong which can be accessed at www.djamsay.net. It's a work in progress, like the genealogical study of the Blackson Clan. During the hollow daze the plan is to complete the first phase of the archive. Big Ups Oteezy. I couldn't have done it without you baby.

Tu Madre

Happy Mamma's Day to All My Girls. The holiday's spiritual history dates back to ancient Kemet (aka Egypt). The celebration of the African Goddess Isis as the original mother of mothers of the pharonic line transforms and translates to others as well. Popular culture attributes the holiday's origin to the Greeks celebrating Rhea and the Roman Cybele as the first observed holiday. Most images on cards, web sites and magazines picture a European-type woman with suckling child, which is a striking resemblance to Isis cradling her infant son Horus. Why the sublimal erasure of history venerating women of color? "Bom-chika-wom-wom"-- the "Dozens" is a trope, figure of speech, or game of verbal sparring. It also refers to slaves who were auctioned by the dozen because they were elders or were mentally compromised. Rooted in west African traditions, during slavery playing the Dozens becomes a highly developed language arts skill, especially when it came to "Yo Mama" or "Tu Madre." Making a verbal come back when someone insults "yo mama" is a sign of wisdom, social grace and advanced mental wit, necessary for survival in a society where mothers, aunts, grandmothers and sisters could be beaten, raped or sold on a whim. As previously noted in his sketch, LDB mentions his mother Hannah's father (Palice Abrutas Darram) and his two children who were stolen from Africa and sold into slavery. He doesn't mention his grndfather Darram's wife nor her fate. Was she killed during a village raid? Raped on the slave ship that brought her to the Caribbean? Did she commit suicide or die from one of the infectious diseases in the ship's hull? Whatever her fate, Mama Darram, I celebrate your ancestral presence and all other women who work endlessly to protect thier family and extended family today.

Africans Resist

African rulers were coerced into selling thier own people or neighboring tribes into a very different slavery than what was practiced on the continent (Equiano). The choice: either raid villages, kidnapping your neighbors' wives, children and elders and sell them to European traders whose ships lay anchored off the coast, or to be sold themselves. This was not the case for all rulers, most notably Nzinga an Angolan warrior queen who resisted the Portugese in the early 17th century. She met with the governor, representing her brother the "ngola" (king). Here's another case of name switching or misinterpertation of names by Europeans who dubbed the entire country "Angola." Nzinga arrives at Luanda decked out in royal finery. She peeps game, realizing that the only seat in the room belongs to the governor. She calls over one of her girls who falls on her hands and knees and Nzinga takes her place on a human seat in the history of African resistance. She could not be moved, even though the governor tries to dehumanize...tries to debase her royal status and thow her off center. The governor's plan backfires, and the meeting results in a treaty on equal terms. Leaders like Nzinga are inspirational and like her predecessor Joan of Arc, who struggled against British oppression, her fight against the Portugese should be included in a curriculum marking African people as human agents of social change.

The African Diaspora

Throughout this blog I refer to the African Diaspora, which for the most part is understudied in educational institutions. It puts students at a considerable disadvantage unless they pro-actively delve into the history of slavery and colonization. The Portugese were one of the first European nations to engage in the slave "trade," which is a serious misomer, since those who were sold reaped no economic benefit. Ibn Battuta (in his Rhila or journey, 1325-1354 A.C.E.) writes about the splendor of Kilwa, a city which dominated east African coastal trade. Reaching the city in the mid-15th century and armed with superior weaponry, the Portugese massacred the people and sacked the city, planting thier flag while their priest looked on. Red arrows on the map indicate a huge population dispersal of various ethnic groups (estimates are anywhere from 10 to 60 million) to the Caribbean (a central distribution point) and Brazil which was a Portugese stronghold in "the new world." This map helps the viewer imagine where people from the continent were scattered. Although it was outlawed in the early 19th century, Africans were still imported illegally to north America. This scattering or broadcast of DNA (genetic seeds) across land masses and oceans causes us to recombine in ways which forever altered the future of who we have become. Although the soil was rife with adversity, we took root and "flowered," as Bob Marley sings in Redemption Song, in the coming generations. The dispersal is one reason, coupled with the inhumane system of slavery, for the mental fragmentation that keeps us in a state of psychological darkness or melancholy (the blues). Changing our ancestors' names from African to European ones also caused the mental dislocation of our identity. Most Africans in the Diaspora can only trace their heritage back to the mid to late 19th century using slave census records or maumission documents. Considered inhuman or "chattel" we weren't included in the U.S. census until the mid 19th century. What is significant here is the forced disruption and recombination of a human gene pool. Implications include physical, mental and spiritual ripples, which reach through time...both present and future unless we recover our past, arm ourselves with knowledge and think critically, like "strangers in a strange land," about who and what it is we have become.

Herbert Blackson & DNA

He sports a magnificant smile. Passed through his genes? Add him to me and the picture glimmers. Many paper trails lead to a “brick wall,” the term genealogists use to describe dead end leads or cold paper trails. The metaphor compounds around the beginning of the 16th century when Africans are scattered throughout the Americas, Caribbean, Europe and Asia (Diaspora). Brick walls are initially constructed via name switching, primarily by the clergy who sanction the business of slavery with blatant disregard for African naming practices. During the colonial era the practice evolves on the continent, with Africans adopting European first names while leaving their surname intact. The information in Lorenzo Dow Blackson's autobiographical sketch is crucial yielding more than most researchers discover in the beginning stages of the journey. What's in a name? Palice Abrutas Darram. Was it changed to Blackson? The science of DNA testing is ever evolving. I read arguments--both pro and con. Consider migration patterns and a relatively small database of samples from both Africa and its Diaspora for the evidence to be conclusive. Surnames and DNA are two ends that must be twisted together especially if your ancestors are African. I visit cousin Herbert "Herbie" Blackson, the family reunion chaplin. He tells me family stories and I dunk his cheek swabs into preservative. His DNA is submitted to a lab for chromosomal analysis of both Y and mtDNA (mitochondrial). I try not to be excited by the prospects of knowing our country (s) of origin. It takes several weeks for the results to come back, which reveal our lineage is rooted possibly in both Cameroon and Kenya. The results also show we have distant cousins in Antigua. Smile.

Palice Abrutas Darram

In LDB's "Sketch of the Author," he writes of his mother Susan's father whose name was Palice Abrutas Darram. He was sold into slavery with his son Mounch and his daughter Yambo. I will never know thier faces save in my imagination. I chose this mask as a visual representation of my ancestors who, according to DNA analysis and the MRCA (Most Recent Common Ancestor) were from the west African country of Cameroon. This mask from Gabon is fitting and resonates W.E.B. Dubois' concept of African diaspora thought also known as double consciousness. Africans conditioned themselves to think and act one way within dominant European society (the slavocracy). Among ourselves, we demask relaxing our emotionally gaurded neo-nature, allowing our true self to emerge. Over the past five centuries (16th-21st) this type of psychological shifting caused the ambiguity observed in African populations throughout the diaspora today--in some cases they neither feel allegience to Africa, America, themselves or each other.

Lorenzo Dow Blackson

My interest in Blackson genealogy began in 1997. My cousin Joyce Jenkins, our family historian, was conducting fieldwork, searching through books and records in Delaware and Pennsylvania for seeds of our family’s history. Growing up, I hadn’t heard much about my mom’s side of the family, partly because the Blackson clan resided in Philadelphia and partly because my mom was guarded when it came to the subject of the past. One thing that's important to know about researching family history is that whatever you uncover may not be pleasant. This is especially true for Africans in the Diaspora, whose families were separated, whose traditions were lost or fragmented and the very way in which we precieve our identity has been forever altered. Fortunately one of our ancestors, Lorenzo Dow Blackson, published a novel in 1867 titled "The Rise and Progress of the Kingdoms of Light and Darkness." You can access the book online by clicking the Wright American Fiction link.