Untitled...

This entry isn't really untitled. It has many titles. I couldn't decide on just one.

Here are but a few:

Tell 'em why You Mad Son...

or, No/bodies, Some/bodies...

or, For Real MoMa? You're Kidding, Right...

or, Where is Lorna?

I feverishly typed most of this entry on my Blackberry while sitting on the top floor of the Museum of Metropolitan Art. I had not been to the new location (which isn't so new anymore) and I was excited to get out and be inspired. Instead I felt like my life/breath was being choked out of me. Here is my story:

As I traveled up yet another escalator, I realized that I paid twenty bucks to get mad. I could feel the heat rising in my body like steam coming out from a NYC manhole cover. I could have gotten mad for free (like I did in the Bolton's fitting room earlier), but no, I paid to be angered.

I should have expected it. I should have known better. But I walked in blindly and got smacked upside the head pretty hard. I felt like Wily Coyote getting hit by a ton of Acme bricks. What hit me? It was the reality that many are still content with ignoring the bodies and the bodies of work of African-American women.

Let me begin with our bodies. I am no small girl. In fact, I was reminded of this in the fitting room of Bolton's earlier today. I may not be tall, but I am certainly not lacking presence. Except, of course, in places where white folks and a few others aren't expecting my presence. I was bumped and brushed one too many times for my taste. It was like I wasn't there. It was like they didn't see me. I am grateful that I have been set aside for Christian ministry because there is no telling what I may have otherwise said and done. What happens when your body has become so devalued in society that folks treat you like you have no body at all? No body. Nobody.

As for the bodies of work of African-American women artists, MoMa gets the gas face. Minutes before going to the women in photography exhibit, I snapped this picture and sent it to a friend. She and I had just been talking about the Guerilla Girls.

My delight by the inclusion of work by the Geurilla girls, and their creative commentary on African-American/Black woman artists, was dampened by the exclusion of African-American women photographers in an exhibit that "encompassed the vitality and richness of photography's many creative traditions and demonstrates the medium's accessibility to women from its inception."
Accessible? To whom? By whom? What women? How could MoMa have an exhibition of women photographers that contains only one Jeanne Moutoussamy-Ashe print? Where is Lorna? Where is Clarissa? Where is Deborah? Where is Adrian? Where?

MoMa, what are you saying? Are we nobodies with no bodies of work?

In an act of resistance I slipped quietly in the corner on the sixth floor of MoMa, slipped my iPod out of my purple bag, slipped on my headphones and listened to Jill Scott's "I'm Still Here," and then I left.

I am a boisterous river
I am a mountains story
I am a quiet feeling
I am a fragrant flower
I am a moonlit evening
I am a peaceful night
I am a writers thinking
I am a wealth unfathomed
And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don’t recognize me, I am here

I am a source of power
I am excited journey
I am the rock of patience
I am a whisper singing
I am unbridled freedom
I am the thought from thinking
I am a love unshattered
I am the great orgasm

And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here

And even if you don’t recognize me, I‘m still here
And even if you don’t recognize me

And even if you don’t recognize me, I‘m still here
And even if you don’t recognize me, I am, oh, I’m still here

Even if you don’t recognize me, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here

To add insult to injury, I walked past (and doubled back to) a painted image in the window of the really swanky bar, Modern, that is doors down from MoMa. Here is a detail. There was too much of a glare to get the entire display. What you don't see in this image are the other two women and the ways in which their bodies are postured, layered on each other, baring flesh.

Here were black women's bodies. On display. In a window. They were teasing, titillating, tempting. I felt like I was at the intersection of a slave auction block and Q-Tip's video for Vivrant Thang instead of at 53rd Street and 5th Avenue in Midtown Manhattan.

It is acceptable for our bodies bodies to be sexual, used to invoke or evoke pleasure for others. It is alright for our bodies to be used in service to others, laboring for the well being of others whether as a domestic worker, nanny, or factory worker. But folks don't know what to do with our bodies when we are just being. Though I haven't talked about Erykah Badu's video for "Window Seat" on the blog, I think that is precisely the issue. What do we do with the body of a black woman when she isn't shaking her a**?

Black women have strong bodies. Black women have beautiful bodies. Black women have intelligent bodies. Black women have resilient bodies. Sadly, Black women have bodies that are only recognized when we are sexual or working.

I don't know how to end this blog. Truth is, I am still angry. I thought writing would help. Maybe it did a little. There is more to be done to right these wrongs...

Images from Senior Sermon/Worship

(c) Images shot by Sungchun Ahn

In progress...

I am still here...I promise. I'm just trying to make it to tomorrow (my senior sermon & arts internship presentation).

I've been slack in reporting in since my hiatus. I've reached my weight loss goals, which this time around has become less about a number and more about a feeling. I love my body--my grown woman curvy body--which sustains me and carries me and is able to run with ease. I feel comfortable, for real, with who I am. My boyfriend *giggle* calls me a beautiful nerd. Yep, that's about right. (I call him a nerd lover.) I have made art, good art with by boy Jameel, over the last few weeks (and even entered a campus-wide arts contest in which we were chosen as finalists). I am embodying my preacher self and it shows. What I did not understand three years ago is starting to make some sense. Ahhhh, revelation. With 26 days until graduation, all is well with my soul. I feel good. In some ways I feel like I'm glowing.

To prove that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, here is a glimpse of my work. It is still in progress. My guiding question is, "what would it mean to consider human life, in general, and African-American female life, in particular, sacred text?" Notice the halos... I have been inspired by the form of the illuminated manuscript--an ancient tradition of making texts come alive.

The first image is a photograph of my mother, my sister, and me at my uncles wedding (circa 1977). The second image is a drawing that I've rendered of that image. I still have to add color and other details.

Once the work is done, presentation over, and body restored (aka I take a series of good naps) then I will post the entire body of work along with the artist statement.

Think on these things...

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus

They say you wept

must’ve laughed, too.

Can’t have one with without the other...

Belly laughed with friends

(Peter had to be a hoot)

Snicker laughed at religious leaders

(They think they're so serious. They can’t be serious.)

Heart laughed with children

(Maybe that's why you wanted them to come)

So you could get a good laugh,

Authentic laugh,

Healing laugh.

You give me permission to laugh...

snicker/snort/chuckle/guffaw.

Because you live I can face tomorrow

And because you laugh

I can laugh, too…

At home/in class/from pulpit

Jesus, I get joy just thinking about what you’ve done for me.

So you must get joy, too.

Just like Sarah begat Isaac,

Joy begets smiles

And smiles are laughter waiting to explode.

Michelangeo and them saw you

Sorrow/pain/serious/bruised/stretched/hung

I’m glad to know you also

Chuckled/snorted/head high/arms flailing/body shaking

Let laughter overtake you

‘Til you fell from your recliner.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus

They say you wept

Must’ve laughed, too.

Can’t have one with without the other.

Poem: Donna Olivia Powell (January 2010)

Image: "Jesus at the Bethany Home" by Hanna Cheriyan Varghese

When I Grow Up...

...I want to be just like—no, more brilliant and fabulous than—Nancy Lynne Westfield and Heather Murray Elkins. If that is humanly possible. But they continue to teach me, just like Mother Mary, with God all things are possible.

These two women are beautifully bold, beautifully creative, beautifully brilliant, and beautifully beautiful. It is beautiful to be in their presence—to watch and listen. They know things that I want to know. They be in the world in ways that I want to be in the world. They are Master Teachers. They embody what they teach. They are my teachers, in and out of the classroom. They make me think. They make me laugh. They sometimes even make me cry. They trust my voice. They trust my wisdom. They push me, hard sometimes. They do things like teach classes that do the work of mending the rupture that has been created between body, mind, and spirit. They have helped me to heal my ruptures so that I may usher others into spaces of healing. They write books that matter. They make me want to write books that matter. They are radically different, it seems, yet they—in spirit and in truth—are kin folk. They are cut from the same cloth—some beautifully woven tapestry with reds and purples and blues.

Lynne is a radical in the best sense of the word. She brings brilliant Black folk to Drew to engage us in the work of God-Talk with Black Thinkers. She is brilliant Black folk herself. She brings artists and healers to Drew to engage us in the work of Spirituality and Imagination. She is an artist and healer herself.

Heather Elkins is a storyteller. She not only writes and speaks poetry; She is a poem. She moves in verse. She is a collector of all things holy and can find the holy in all things.

So, when I grow up—rather, as I am growing into my self—I want to be just like them: brilliant and bold and free...

Image of N. Lynne Westfield shot by Jameel Morrison (taken from http://depts.drew.edu/tsfac/westfield/)

Image of Heather Elkins sketched by Bon Jeong Koo (taken from http://depts.drew.edu/tsfac/helkins/)

Think on these things...

I came across this Haiku written by Sonia Sanchez yesterday. It is from the book titled, Like the Singing Coming Off the Drums. Think on these things...

what is done is done

what is not done is not done

let it go...like the wind.

No Promises...

So, there was a reason that I refused to make promises on this new Blog--I knew I wouldn't have the time to blog as often as I'd like. In my perfect world, I'd wake early, pray, put on a pot of tea, read the newspaper, and then blog. Gardner Taylor said that a good preacher prepares with a Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Well, I've got my Bible, but waking to read the paper hasn't happened just yet. I'm barely waking in time to eat breakfast.

So, what's keeping me so busy? In addition to my classes, work at the church, my position as Chapel Steward, and being president of the Black Ministerial Caucus, I am working as the research assistant for the God-Talk with Black Thinkers class at Drew. In just two days, we will be blessed by Dr. Charles H. Long and Dr. Carolyn Jones Medine, who will be presenting a DuBoisian look at politics and civil religion. Working with my shero, Dr. N. Lynne Westfield, on the project has reminded me how much I love academia.

Lest you think I'm running away from the church, I must tell you that my work at Imani Baptist Church in East Orange has reminded me how much I love being part of church worship and growth. So, as I discern the specifics of my call to ministry, I am pretty sure that I'll have one foot in both places.

What about my art, you ask? Okay, maybe you didn't ask it. I'm asking it. What about my art? That'll be wrapped up in there too. Since sharing with you that I must create or I will die, I have designed a poster and program for the lecture series AND designed my perfect worship space. It's a funny story, actually...

Dr. Elkins, my worship professor, gave us folders in the beginning of the class. She is this magical woman who knows so much it is scary and teaches in narrative. Everything is a story. She is so amazing that you could go on a field trip with her to Walmart and find God in the cereal aisle. Anyway, back to the folder. During the second week of class, she asked us to take our folders home and draw our perfect sanctuary or worship space on the inside of the folder. I must stop and mention that this was an ungraded assignment. UNGRADED. So, being the artist (and overachiever) that I am, I proceeded to cut open a shoe box, staple it to the inside of my folder, cut images and words from Essence magazine, and create a 3D model of my perfect sanctuary, complete with an ocean for baptistism, a communion table, jewels, flowers, women in the congregation, and a woman suspended gracefully in the air holding a Bible. Did I mention that this assignment was ungraded?

I don't have three feet, but I am convinced that I will end up in a place where all of my passions-art, education, and ministry-come together. Maybe it will be that worship space that I designed on the inside of my folder. I am a dreamer, you know...