breath, cold fog. 44th street.
underneath the scaffolding. we run. Just 3 petals falling faster than the others off a wet black
NYPD. No one knows for sure the answers to our questions. They all just keep pointing
us further and further away from the great sparkly spear. Telling us we won’t we can’t
make it. All the roads are closing. At 47th Officer Mike said “if you run . . .
you just might see it” — a photo op for our bucket list, so it’s not fuck all the police
and further we run. 54th street.
Barricades we don’t run right through ‘em. Shift left, shift right, underneath support beams,
ladders anybody superstitious yet? We scream for a friend that doesn’t exist.
Makes us look like we have purpose.
59th we made it? It’s still—open. But full of faces, some don’t like that we’re impatient
Some don’t like that we won’t wait. Many don’t get that we’re on a mission—
that’s not impossible?
They refuse to understand some part of us is better than what we’re seen in passing on the
streets. They don’t get that we
don’t care about what some don’t comprehend. Cause the little liberty in front of the
Rockefeller tree never gave us anything in our dreams. Just false hopes from a vision that was
always unclear. And here we were chasing another.
A chance of a lifetime . . . one to see a giant orb. Fall for what? Havoc! Cause
that’s what we’re reeking of. “Officer! She has asthma . . . we have to get 4 blocks down”
Fuck him he’s in our way, taking up valuable time. So we run, before he can think to stop
us. we jump. Leaving our wretched stench on the other side of fence number 4
On 7th street in the midst of thousands of people we saw. it. In all its vim and vigor. Zoom
is a marvelous creation. All that looks glorious . . . clearly just knows where to shop.
The countdown began. 10
8, 7. . .We got lost.
Lost in the numbers. The voices.
Never saw the shiny marble
drop. and it was over. But for a second,
back at fence three,
we swore we heard Lady Liberty snickering through the streets as we laughed. (more…)
A nation of people are only as dead as their language.
Growing up my family never spoke our native languages. To be quite honest, we hadn’t set aside very much time to revisit our family’s archives and find the value in our rich heritage either. Aside from all of the stories and struggles passed down from generation to generation we had very few concrete facts about our lands, heritage and culture. The latter—tragic results of being native to America attending European schools for so many generations. Yet, as I grew, learned more, and revisited our history and herstory I became ever so determined to teach my future children their native heritage, culture, and language. After all, each of us is the master of his or her own ship or destiny. It is my duty, like many who share this generation with me, to help recover, reclaim, reestablish and restore the heritage, the culture and the balance for future generations now and forever to come. (more…)
Love is a matter of consistently having each other’s back—
and knowing that you never have to fear falling or rising from the ashes alone.
My natural journey started pretty darn basic on the “why I began my locs” scale. By my third year of college I had snipped, cut, colored and style my hair to the point of no return. I had officially grown tired of relaxing my hair and it being in such an unthriving state. I was done with trying to figure out how I wanted to style and keep my processed hair looking nice between relaxings. Nevertheless, I did not readily choose to go natural after coming to any of these realizations within myself.
No, my natural journey began to take shape around year four and following a paradigm shift in my romantic life and personal perspective.
In the beginning of this process, I had no clue what the outcome of my transition was going to look like simply because I couldn’t foresee what natural style I would be rocking. After about three months of still trying to figure out what style resonated best with me, I got to thinking seriously about locs. I’d always admired locs—and all the many variations of types, textures, and stylings. Thus, by the end of my official junior year, I had made my decision—I wanted to lock my hair. So, as soon as I arrived back in Saponi country I made my way into the city and into the salon chair of my tomin [aunt]—there, I placed my order.
At that time she had very little faith in my decision—so little that she refused to cut my relaxed ends for fear I would change my mind before summer’s end. I obliged her love …nevertheless, after spending my summer in the hellish heat of a motorsport camp and managing to perfect the struggle look of madwoman emerging from pool water on a smoldering hot day, I found myself sitting once again in the chair of my tomin—this time prepared more than ever for the big chop.
After it was all snipped and chopped I left the salon a new mahei [woman], and for the first time driving home, half watching the road and half glancing at myself in the rearview mirror, I realized how big my head really was.
Yet, none of that mattered because I was going back to university different, not yet spiritually, but definitely physically and wee bit mentally.
And while family and friends counted down the hours until I came back to their senses—I was busy making a commitment to myself and my itsy bitsy baby-struggle locs—one that said we would never part ways…little did they know upon agreeing to be so ride or die they would be in for one helluva lifetime…or was it little did I know …eh, Tomato—tomáto.
So, what’s the purpose of Nadira’s Locs?
Since the day my dead ends were chopped off—I have grown and learned so much about myself, my life, my love, my world and this universe and the world that we all share. I’ve acquired knowledge beyond measure in the last 5 years and counting—and I know there is so much more I’m meant to overstand. Upon deciding to nurture budding locs I had not given a mental journey or a spiritual journey much, if any, thought. Instead, I began this transition with the intentions of merely going on a physical journey. However, now I know the Universe had been conspiring miraculously—unbeknownst and unforeseeable by me at that time.
Thus, I write to you now and over the days to come many of my reflections, my overstandings, my thoughts and my ponderings—of the many flowers and thorns I’ve had the honor of being delighted and/or pricked by. I can never again in this lifetime or the next be the young woman I was upon my loc’ing day, but before myself I stand an ever-new wombman, changing so delicately as the seasons of the Great Mother of Laurels. Perfect—I am not, but changed I will forever be.
Biwa & Andestagōnwa ♥
[Peace & Love]
—Not-So-Nappy Nahdee [Tañyi, 2016]