kimbachronicles

[kimbachronicles]

[kimbachronicles]

2 Weeks without a Job*

“Don’t just accept what life brings to you each day as your reality. Instead, decide what you want your life to look like and then go out and make that life a reality.”

Unknown 

7.12.18

 I left my university subsidized housing position of 4 years just 2 weeks ago, tomorrow. That’s all of about 12 1/2 days, 305 hours and 18,420 minutes. (Yea I calculated it) It’s kind of weird to not do a job that I was fully integrated and spent large quantities of time dedicated to it. No - I haven’t missed it. I don’t think about it nearly as much as I thought. And I’m feeling pretty damn good about not having to ever do the job again.

But things are different. I no longer benefit from job provided housing. I no longer have medical benefits, status, privilege associated with working at a prestigious institution, and my University card can no longer access many of the buildings I so easily navigated (not that I need to access them, just that it’s cool to say you have access to university buildings.) In short, I don’t have a job.

Ok - I’m not being honest with you. I do have a job - I work for Lyft and Uber. I get paid approximately 600 dollars a week, tax free (until I have to do them in April). And I get to actually choose my hours whenever I want to work. (Meaning, for a night owl like me - a later start to mornings, and a later end to nights).

But the reality is nobody really sees what I do as a job. Moreover - no one sees what I do as real work. Many of my passengers ask me - “so what do you do?,” as if driving them to their next location is being done by someone else. “I do this, Lyft/Uber” is what I say. I  optimistically or shamefully say, well I just ended my job at University of Michigan - to which they begin to marvel only to wonder - “so what’s next?”

So, for all intents and purposes, I don’t have a job. As in, I don’t have a real job. I don’t have a respectable job. Tuh! I don’t even have an un-respected job - obvi, since what I do is not to be taken seriously. Moreover, everything I have tied to my sense of identity has been stripped from me. I no longer can simply rest on my laurels as a staff member. No longer can I wave around my title or position...well at least not until I get another respectable job.

But I didn’t leave my last job to get another respectable, society approved position. I left for the opposite effect. I left because I no longer wanted to invest in that world. I got tired of upholding a system that rewards the replication of past inequity, stratifications and layers and layers of institutional oppressions. But mostly because I was tired of doing something I was not passionate about. I left to re-imagine myself.

But reimagining yourself costs money. You still need to put food on the table. You still need to pay bills. I still (as of recent) have a car note. I still need to have a place to stay. Not having a job means not having an identity in a world that tells you, you need one. Not having a society approved job means finding the means/making money to support a lifestyle that is not seen as “acceptable.” Even if you don’t care, or it rolls off your back, you find yourself explaining yourself when someone asks “so what is it that you do besides this?,” or “so, is this like, a side gig?,” or “so how long you plan on doing this?,” when they sit in your car for all of 10mins, silently judging you for about 5 of them. Even my good friend half jokingly said to me the other day, “I sent you some jobs, cuz I mean, come on, you can’t do Lyft and Uber forever!” (Need I remind you, it’s been less than two weeks.)

But alas, leaving a job and job talk, doesn’t mean a clean break altogether. It means you rely on things like degrees and educational prospects, and places of residence, or the last job, or last internship or last title you had to give you status. By not “participating” you just end up participating by proxy, by association, and then you begin to live vicariously through a subset of a world you used to or wished you lived in.

You aren’t re-imagining yourself anymore. Just re-packaging and re-imagining a previous self. Or you are imagining a future self...still trapped...and it’s only been 2 weeks.

So you sit back a little, and you remind yourself of why you are without a society approved job. Why it matters so much for you to be satisfied with what you do and for whom you do it.  Sure - I don’t particularly like driving random strangers all over Ann Arbor and greater Detroit. But I do love my conversations in the car, I love seeing people make it to their destinations on time and I love being able to choose my schedule and hours - pick my poison, so to speak.  And I do love the exchange of ideas and of learning about people.

I don’t want to do this forever full time. But it’s okay for now. Having a job while still looking for a “real job” (whatever that means) gives you pause. It grounds you a bit. Keeps you a little sane. And it makes the search a little easier with a few coins to keep you going.

I don’t believe I will ever have just one “real” job, or career throughout my life. Which makes the prospect of living up to an idyllic status in the American worldview unimpressive for me. But I at least know from now on, that I will no longer feel pressured to stay in a system that doesn’t value my worth and for whom I feel is antithetical to what and how I believe. As I have for most of my professional career. And for this, this reason alone, I will gladly shatter any concept that invests reality in a title or vocation or an imagining that is not my own to call. That’s not a reality fit to live in...not for me.

[kimbachronicles]

Growing Up

Now you understand why Peter Pan didn’t want to grow up.

- Unknown

6.4.18

In a lot of ways growing up kills your spirit. I’m not talking “spiritual connection or sprituality”. I’m talking about your verve or zest for taking on risk and defying the limitations that life brings. I’m talking about the penchant for analyzing and the propensity to question what you are doing, the boldness of free movement and free thinking. Confined to the spaces and traces, the places of ritualistic and pre-ordained living, we become less rebellious and take on the machinations of the societal, the institutional and the familial. 

We shirk from the spaces of possibility and enter the spaces of the impossible. We question our impulses, retract our abstractions and give up and into the familiar, the mundane and the ordinary.And in so doing begin to take on the very character that we have for so long scrutinized. We begin to say things like “ahhh, well now that makes sense,” and “ah, well I suppose this is just the way it needs to be,” and “that’s just the way it is,” and “it is what it is”. But this is self-defeating.

Sure - we will need to pick and choose our battles in this life. Focusing our energies on the elements of things that we need to adjust or change so as to be most effective. Using our talents and desires as strategically as possible. And at the same time, we must be brave enough to see the boldness of our mind and our heart as a calling forth that is beautiful. Taking risk is inherent for our evolution as a people and is necessary for us all to be able to see the beauty that we so regularly suppress. If this means we must spend time, money, resources or energy toward our goals we must be willing to sacrifice, tire, lose and ultimately fail. If we wish to seek success, we must be bold and daring. We must be the child that cries and crawls, shouts and laughs, sleeps and awakes to new opportunities, new possibilities and new beginnings. The child within us that is boundless, alive and ever hopeful.

In a way instead of growing up, we become in some ways, less determined and less emboldened. One could say we shrink. Shrinking down we let our light dim, our flame fade. And then we fade away. But the key to growing up, means to hold that part of us, that imaginative, dreamy, passionate side to us, the light we hold within, tighter and tighter. Allowing instead this part of us to rise to grow and ultimately lead the way. Letting our light lead us to a brighter more fulfilled future -despite the challenges and darkness that comes our way. Let this be a promise to keep our light - ever bright, every shining. Always.

[kimbachronicles]

Whose Place Is This?

“Accept what is, let go of what was, and have faith in what will be.” 

—Sonia Ricotti.

5.23.18

I’m moving. Anyone who knows about what it feels like to move knows that it is no fun. Not...one...bit. Very rarely do you find people say “YAY! I’m moving. It’s just SOOO much fun!” (Full disclosure: my coworker loves to move so much, my jaw almost fell out my mouth when she told me). In fact most people are pretty reticent about the process even if they are uber happy about where they will be moving. For me, I’m neither happy about moving or where I will be moving. That’s because in my new place I will be living there for about a month only. And then I will have to move again. Yes...again.

Moving infuses all sorts of emotions in me. I start to question basic things, ideas, principles about myself, about my life and my style of living (yes style of living, not lifestyle...I’m different). But of all the things I begin to question before I leave a place, nothing is more alarming than the thought of “whose place is this?” Weird, I know. Why would I be asking, as I’m leaving a place, “whose place is this?” Silly really. But not for me. 

You see, I invest a lot of time into a place. I eat, sleep, lounge, watch tv, write, read, vent, rejoice in this place, these places that I live in. But rarely if ever do I take stock in the space, decorate, beautify or make meaning of the space. In short, while I live in the space, it lacks identity - principally my identity, my sense of what matters to me. It leaves me asking “whose place is this?,” who governs this space and makes it theirs?” “is it me? have I been here? I mean, really been here?” 

I know my things are here because I bought these things. However, this space could be anyone’s, perhaps a ghost or phantom, a ghoul or goblin, a hobbit or Harry Potter. Perhaps my energy is here, trapped in the space that is governed by ghouls or goblins, but this place is no place of mine. So whose is it? Perhaps I’ll never know. 

Maybe I never designed a place for me because I never knew this place to be mine. It was set up for me, as part of my compensation and role as part of my job. I manage this residence, and so I live here. But I don’t manage my space. I don’t invest in it. I just invest time. And that’s because I know that this place is temporary. 

Temporary like so many places before me. And time and space befuddle me. Time - ever elusive. Space - temporary. I know that this place, this space, doesn’t belong to me. I belong to it. For now. Well, for just the next few days. But I don’t want this anymore. I don’t mean space, I mean this devoidness, this emptiness.  I don’t want to reside in a place I haven’t made for me. This is no longer okay, no longer enough. Hobbit and Harry Potter be damned, I say no more. 

[kimbachronicles]

This Is Us

and there i was all these years without you without knowing who you were un-replaced  i had only imaginings if that questions more like it questions about what or who i was and maybe i didn’t sometimes i was too busy lost in thoughts about me

- @kimbachronicles​

5.5.18

It’s 1:15am and I’m watching an episode of This is Us. The father, William, has been kept away from his son, Randall, for 36 years. He originally gave him up but after attempts to get the child back, he is ultimately denied ever being able to visit him by his adoptive mom, Rebecca. Flash forward and William slips up in front of Randalls wife, Beth, and recalls giving poetry to his adopted mom years ago, who then shares it with his son. William is now forced to come forward and tell his son, lest Beth be the first to do so. But this now opens up a painful wound for Randall - not having known his father his whole life; and now knowing that all this time his mom never was honest, never gave him the opportunity to meet his chid.

I start crying...almost uncontrollably throughout the remainder of the show. I’ve sort of made it a habit to cry during these kind of scenes because I see myself in Randall. I see myself yearning for where my father is, wondering what he is doing. If he’s ever wondered about me. Has he ever wanted to see me? Did he ever try? Did he even think about it? 

I watch another episode where he confronts his past, he’s trying to make sense of his world. Why was he denied his father? Why was he not able to have that connection? How could his mother, who loves him and cares for him and wants only the best for him, keep him from the one person who he has wondered about all this time. All these years. 

I cry again. I don’t want to, but the tears gush. He must be so sad. He must be so alone, so pained to know that he has been without someone who he has searched for in every other man. In every other father figure. And now he ponders how the option was taken from him even thought it was always there.

Only for me...I never really tried to look for my father. I’ve never really tried to search for him and really pinpoint where he lived or where he grew up, what cities he frequented. Well, until recently. And I’m crying some more now. Because only minutes before watching these two episodes, I spent a couple hours online tracking my father down. And I finally (I strongly believe) was able to produce an image of who he is. 

The universe has a way of making you feel emotionally wrecked and hopeful, fallen apart and whole at the same time. Pity and prize all at once.

[kimbachronicles]

Lost and Found

*Loss and possession, death and life are one, There falls no shadow where there shines no sun.

~Hilaire Belloc

4.14.18

It’s 12:30pm and I wake up with a semi-dread. Where is my wallet? Do I have all my money in it? My heart is racing. Relax, I tell myself. It’s just a dream. Like so many dreams though, it feels real, and in this case too real.

In the dream, I am with my mom. She is surrounded by all of the students she taught years ago in elementary school. They are of course, all adults now. I see her face as she takes in seeing all these students. She's overcome with joy. Smiling, deeply happy. They are all laughing and joking. It's a sweet moment.

But I begin to realize that something is not right. I can't find my wallet. I look for it, or perhaps, I stumble upon it (this part is vague in my dream.) What I do know is I walk down a hallway and notice that my wallet is sitting atop a shelf. I reach for it. Nothing is in it. My heart is racing. Full on racing. Trepidation sets in. I get into a panic and begin retracing steps. Where did it go? Where are all of my cards?

Moments later

Not long after, my dream flashes forward to another time where I've lost my wallet. The dread kicks in again and I look for it. I’m searching all over. I need to find my wallet. I finally do. I then open it up, and it appears that nothing is there. My heart races, where are the cards? (Credit cards, identification cards, etc) Oh my god.I’m thinking. I then look again, turning the wallet upside down and on it’s side. Eventually, I notice all my cards are actually hiding inside a pocket on the side of the wallet. Relief sets in.

Moments pass. Now for a third time, I’m thinking about my wallet. How can it be happening all over again? This time, however, I'm awake. Reality sets in - It was all a dream.

Loss and Gain

It’s 12:50pm. I try to make sense of why I had the dream. I’m also wondering if there is any significance of the image of my mom with her students. Well, similar to my mom sending off a child into the world after teaching them (a form of loss), and then seeing them later on years later (a form of gain); my dream includes losing and then finding, loss and gain in the form of my wallet. And, maybe there is a spiritual meaning for this connection. Has my mom been ushered in my dream to channel the idea of loss and gain,  a sort of profoundly esoteric plot twist? Ok, maybe a bit melodramatic I admit.

There is nothing mysterious or imaginative about losing a wallet. Throughout life, I have lost many, many items. Most usually fall in the category of negligible or low cost items: hats, scarves, earbuds, books, pens... that sort of thing. I’ve also lost phones and wallets. In fact, I did lose a wallet about a year ago. But if I’m being honest, it did have an effect on me.

I felt naked without it. It seems silly but it’s a level of embarrassment and apprehension that comes without having it. Especially when you can’t produce a state ID. It’s immense actually. Going without an ID for just one day is anxiety provoking when you think of all the important things you need to do. Worse, if you are asked by an officer to produce one, it is not fun experience. Or there are normal everyday things like driving, shopping when it requires identification, clubbing, etc. Going without my ID for 3 weeks then having to fly to Texas for a trip added to the misery. It means you are dreading any moment you may need it. I spent many days reflecting on the situation - so much I decided I’d write about it someday.

But my experiences with loss typically don’t produce this sort of reckoning. They simply illuminate for me how forgetful I am, and of course how badly I need organization in my life. But my most prized lesson, believe it or not, was 2 years earlier when I was 27 years old.

2 Years Earlier

It’s October 2015 and I’m in Pennsylvania helping my friend Tara move. It was a long and tiring move. But I had plenty of times received the favor. So I felt not just a desire to want to support her, but an automatic duty to do so.

We’ve packed everything now and have safely moved it to her family’s home using a van from a rental company. After a day or so more I head back home. Only when I return, there is a problem. I can’t find my laptop. Like most things, I dismiss it. I’ll find it, I tell myself. It’s gotta be among my things somewhere. I’ll look for it and it will be there, It has to be.

I look and look. But I can’t find it. Oh, it must be back at Tara’s place. I’ll give her a call. Tara looks. Then she looks again. She can’t find it either. I call the moving company. The van was where I remember having it last. No luck. About a week and a half later it’s confirmed that I did indeed lose my laptop. Adding insult tin injury, I’d just paid off the laptop after 4 monthly payments and $2400. I am at first shocked. How could I lose such a valuable item? What was I thinking? Was I thinking? The answer is usually no. I wasn't. Or yes, I was thinking too much. Far more often than not, on things that are not (as) important.

Lessons Learned

When asked by my friend how I felt just a few weeks later, I initially confessed: It definitely bothered me for about a week. Ok maybe two weeks, but after that I had moved on. Was I bluffing? Absolutely not. What was it that made me feel so comfortable with the loss? Surely, I had lost many things before but nothing of this value. I had recently learned the value of presence. Of embracing the is-ness of the moment and being one with it. Perhaps it was preparing me for this situation?

Whatever lessons I learned prior to this situation, none taught me more powerfully than this: losing something costly, very valuable in monetary terms, taught me finite value/nature of all things (temperance), the importance of letting go (detachment), and oneness with self (self-awareness).

Of course, I didn’t voluntarily choose this path. And it would take several times, several years before I could appreciate the lessons it taught.

Typically we believe that if we lose a thing, all we need to do is find it in order for things to be right again. Of course, that isn’t what always happens. Nor is it true that we only need to find that thing for things to be alright. Even if we never find the thing again, we are able, if we allow the loss to be what is needs to be, difficult even painful, it is immeasurable.

Nothing that we lose is really ours

Losing things, even of high value, allows us to be in tune with a greater calling and a greater sense of self. That can only reside in our knowing that nothing can ever truly be lost or gained - so long as we are never attached to things. For when we leave this earth, just as when we enter the dream state, we take something far more with us away, and this is our spiritual being and our essence. Anything that we have material or otherwise, including our bodies, thoughts and even faculties of mind, are the things we borrow while on this earth. If we can learn to live without or with very little, we gain solace in a higher calling - oneness with self.

It’s 5am the next morning. I think I finally figured out what this dream means to me. Presence (gain) is needed in order to be able to function in society, whereas absence (loss) is a reminder that without that function, challenges occur. However, loss has a secondary function - it allows us to cherish that much more the things we do have. Because without them, while we can survive, we are forced to find alternate ways to manage and engage. Therefore, neither is truly good or bad. Both a part of what helps us to grow and learn and be more careful and aware beings.

The dream I had, the image of my mother seeing those children become adults is a harkening of beauty foretold: losing something or someone of so much value is an opportunity to gain faith in their development, in their potential and their value. And seeing them again, like finding a lost wallet of great value, allows us to be transformed in a new way - teaching us the value in all things and the lessons they provide us. Each and every day.

[kimbachronicles]

Making Room

Edit your life frequently and ruthlessly. It’s your masterpiece after all.

- Nathan W. Morris

3.29.18

I’m thinking about my lot in life. How I’ve come to appreciate so much about where my life is heading because of how much I have decided to invest in it. Invest in me.

It’s 11:30pm and I stumble upon the quote above when searching for the inspiration to write this. Edit your life frequently and ruthlessly. It’s your masterpiece after all. It speaks to me because for so long my life was in someone else’s hands, always someone else directing and influencing me. Always something else getting in the way of my dreams and goals, the life I want and the way I want to live it.

Worse, as the world kept me busy, I defaulted to investing all my passions into its demands. I began to forget who I was through my devotion. For these and many other reasons it can be hard to make any space for things which fall outside of routine and duty. I know this all too well. But it doesn’t have to be this way — not for me or you.

Maybe, like me, you’ve been telling yourself for months you will begin a craft, write a play or join a club. Maybe you want to join a gym or take dance classes; learn martial arts or take up sculpting. But you cant because maybe you feel guilty taking time away to do it. Or maybe you feel like you just don’t have any time. If you are one of many Americans who are struggling to find time you are probably not alone. In the U.S., 85.8 percent of males and 66.5 percent of females work more than 40 hours per week. Additionally, according to the ILO, “Americans work 137 more hours per year than Japanese workers, 260 more hours per year than British workers, and 499 more hours per year than French workers.”

What’s worse, you may face work pressures that seem to add to your worries. In the U.S. many companies are uninterested in protecting workers. Work too little? fired. Coming late too often? hours cut. Too opinionated? Letter in your file by the morning. To top it off, while at least 134 countries have laws setting the maximum length of the work week; the U.S. is not one of them. Furthermore, there may be other stressors — you may have the pressures of schooling, and if you are married, have children, or are supporting family, it may further complicate matters.

In short, where do you find time to pursue your passions, when you have so many things to do and so little time set aside? And if you’re like me, you may ask yourself what responsibilities and people will be let down in the process?

There are 5 things to know when considering your passions.

#1 There is only one you; you can’t do it all.

This is the most crucial thing to know regarding how you manage your time and pursue goals. Around New Year’s you may have 20 things you want to accomplish in the year. Great. How are you going to accomplish them? If you work at least 40 hours a week, what time are you setting aside to achieving them? 

One strategy to do this: start by setting SMART goals for your week/month and year. Doing the bare minimum on your to do list will certainly not make you feel encouraged. However, creating a to do with 30 things on it, may either be overwhelming or unrealistic. 

Secondly, Set a realistic set of tasks everyday and calibrate it based on the hours in the day. They will help you to put things into focus and allow you to feel accomplished at the end of the day.

Lastly, figure out what time you are most productive and schedule time to be efficient and active then. This can be helpful for both work related tasks and when carving out time to work on personal goals.

#2 You are the only one who will care most about your dreams.

Don’t believe anyone who will tell you that they care more about your dreams then theirs. They are either lying or in need of therapy. Either way, you have to be the driver of your own experiences and you have to make it a priority to believe and push yourself. Of course encouragement and support are helpful. Perhaps you might even hit a lull or low in your life and you need someone to lift you up. I”m not saying kick these people to the curb. On the contrary, lean on them to assist you in seeing your dreams through. As for the execution, you are the only person who can be fully trusted to know what your dreams are and to work toward ensuring it becomes a reality.

#3 You must make room for your dreams to come true. To do this, you must make the most out of your downtime.

Your time is precious, and it must be guarded. It may be very difficult, but most people have at least 30 minutes a day to devote to their passion. Even 15 minutes to write, draw, sing, dance, or read can help you toward your goals and it’s crucial that you set aside this time. Make room for your dreams and they will reward you with a reality in which to see them. 

Furthermore, protect it, and let no one take it away. You may need to be flexible on the when, but it is best to keep the same time every day, so as to ensure consistency. They say it takes 21 days to make or break a habit. Don’t believe it? Try it out and you will know whether or not it’s true for you.

#4 Learn to say “no.”

This may be the hardest thing if you are like me. I say “yes” to so many asks of me. From friends, family, work and acquaintances. Saying “no” is a sign of power and self-determination. It may sound mean, especially if there are longstanding obligations you are used to doing. However, following your passion or having goals that are going to push you to the next level in your life comes with practicing the art of saying “no”. You must learn to carve out time and energy in your routines that is uninterrupted. 

Even if it’s to sit down and do absolutely nothing so that you can relax or destress. You can’t do it all. Learn to say “no” by first doing just that, saying “no”. You also don’t need to qualify every no. Simply say, “I’m not going to be able to attend”. Or “Unfortunately that won’t work with my schedule”. These are acceptable. Above all, avoid being disingenuous or lying. It’s not necessary to lie. Also, being honest shows more integrity on your part.

#5 Learn to say “yes.”

In Shonda Rhimes’ book Year of Yes, she talks about the importance of saying yes to things that make you uncomfortable, stretches your interests, keeps you on your toes, forces you to be more engaged. Now, clearly if you are doing 1000 things already the last piece of advice I want to give you is to say “yes” to more things. But saying “yes” doesn’t have to come with it a new to do list. Saying “yes”, the art of the yes, is just as crucial as the art of the no. It’s setting aside things that you want and dream about. 

Saying “yes”, to the art show you’ve been wanting to go to for ages, “yes” to the aerobics class you’ve always said you wanted to join and “yes” to the 15 minutes of uninterrupted play or skill building time, can mean a lot in the long run. But yes can include many little things, too! Such as, “yes” to going out for a walk,“yes” to seeing a new movie, or “yes” to a new restaurant. In fact it’s the little “yes’s”that help us build the confidence for the bigger ones.

In Closing

Like art, your life may seem messy, dynamic and even unpredictable. Add to this, there may be many bumps and challenges that keeps you from seeing the big picture. The quote Edit your life frequently and ruthlessly. It’s your masterpiece after all, is an important life lesson that encourages you to be in control of your destiny and to do so unapologetically. 

Furthermore, it’s important that you seek tools to be successful while also having the courage to fail. A true masterpiece only comes together through exploration, challenges and taking risks. Ultimately, as you take on the next day in your journey of self growth, know that this is your life and you only get one shot —  so, make it worthwhile, make it daring, and most of all, make it yours!

[kimbachronicles]

Art & Protest

I recognize no dichotomy between art & protest

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

3.8.18

It’s 6am and I’m about to leave the house. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of starting my day at 6am in the morning if I had a choice. About 5 years ago it was normal to be up so early when I was a teacher. This time, I’m up a bit early to return a car rental before heading to work. Before heading out, I glance over at a book I bought about 4 months ago at a talk by Clint Smith. I opened the first page and it read “I recognize no dichotomy between art and protest,” a quote by Ralph Emerson. Immediately upon reading it, the quote connected with me. It wasn’t the first time that I had felt the connection of art and protest, but the words now seemed to reveal something that I had, until now, not yet personalized. It would take another two days before I revisited that quote and began to unravel it.

3.10.18

It’s 2am. The quote is on my mind. I am also thinking now, I start thinking about my passion for growth and yearning to be something, do something greater. I then start thinking about how it started when I was a young child. Where did my passion start?

For starters, I would listen to music or watch cartoons like most kids. But what I really liked to do was read books and watch the History Channel on TV. I was fascinated with the world around me. My mind shifts back. The quote returns: There is no dichotomy between art and protest. I’m reflecting on the resonance and the ways that art and protest represents itself in my life. Protest and the political is a key driving force. The political is the voice inside me. And the art, for me is art by way of expression.

But, it wasn’t the intimacy of classical art that excited me per se. Even expression of art vis-a-vis the arts, didn’t seem a reality for me. I didn’t see myself in this way; I took myself too seriously for that. And yet, deep down, I yearned to express myself.

I wanted a career in something like law at one point. Politics, history and the machinations of societal norms encouraged in me many questions. Why do we live in America, how much money does it take to travel to Italy? Why were Africans brought to America? I asked many questions in a feverish attempt at knowing more. If only I could learn more and more I would be smart. Like really smart. For me, knowledge was the highest form of greatness, intelligence was the pinnacle of success, and reading all you could was the panacea to all the ills in the world. Naturally, historians and teachers fascinated me the most.

But before long, I realized it was not enough. 

Whereas my first teacher, history, taught me the importance of knowing, poetry became my second teacher. It opened me to new possibilities by teaching me the importance of expression. I loved word play; I loved the freedom that words offered, the beauty of constructing something out of pen and paper. But initially I was uncomfortable with poetry. Sure, I had memorized Still I Rise by Maya Angelou, and had even recited it to her when I was 5. But I grew up very nervous pursuing it as a pastime. I felt poetry was for girls, wasn’t manly . enough. So until the 8th grade, when I stumbled to write a poem without calling it one, I relied on books and teachers for inspiration.

Once I discovered that poetry would fortify my passion for self-expression, it provided me a tool that would allow me to make sense of my world, my little world. Not long after, poetry would help me make sense of so much around me - more broadly, nationally and globally. I even joined a group in high school and we called ourselves the Runaway Slaves of the 21st Century. We were deep, we were inspired and we were proud to be black. But even with all this, I couldn’t seriously utilize my skills at writing poetry to make a living. What future could I have in the world of writing?

So instead, I went the traditional route: I graduated college, became a teacher and, after applying to be a teaching fellow, I taught middle school for 4 years.  When I became stagnant, fearing the impending malaise of not liking my job, not growing or developing and not being taken seriously, I sought another respectable route: work in higher education. 5 years later, here I am - I talk diversity, manage crisis situations, play counselor to students melting in a world that can’t seem to appreciate them for simply occupying space. I wear emotions and dress in empathy so that I can show that I care. No matter the stakes, however trivial in my eyes. I am Olivia Pope, a fixer, a Jack of all trades.

True - all of these jobs provide me an outlet to being knowledgeable, invested, even passionate about student development. I am able to explore intellectual pursuits, something as a child I craved. Furthermore,  it is this drive toward developing students and getting students to think about the world, that allows me to address societal challenges, allows for deep conversations that push the bounds and challenge assumptions in our society, given that the population of students I work with are college aged. Pushing us to grapple with strategies for addressing them as well. But with all the creative juices and robust conversations I have, even this isn’t enough.

I have too much to say. I have too much passion and desire within me to let whittle away. And it is the precipice of passion that jolts me to reconsider the path I have taken thus far; Jolts me to reconsider how I make a living, what it means to make a living and what it means to make a life. I shake my head profusely as I imagine it all - the traditional and respectable route is just not for me. My calling is becoming ever more clear. In order to ascend to my rightful place in society I need to dismantle and decolonize my conceptions of work, of life and of living. 

As I come to terms with my enormous sense of commitment to work and to feeling fulfillment and creative spirituality, I now speak what I knew intuitively all along - that my work must mimic my passion for living. The future that I ask in relation to the world of writing must be reconciled. My writing, and therefore my art can no longer be silenced or relegated to periphery. It must instead materialize in the service of stories. Journeys of a million black and brown boys whose stories are yearning to be told, whose passion for understanding, expression, mobilization and above all, connection ripples at the end, and roars at the source, at the belly, at the center.

Fundamentally, I believe that our society is wrought with ills that go far beyond you and I. And while we must protest them at each and every step of the way, I’m not naive. The truth is that these ills in the form of mass incarceration, unemployment, drug addiction, violence and inequality are far too powerfully woven in the fabric of our society.And yet while these conversations do lead to robust problem solving, they are often stagnant and abstracted for palatable bite-sized sophisticated conversation in stuck-up college towns. We need alternatives. 

Art offers the ability to disrupt dangerous elements within our society, always lurking in the shadows, in spaces that leave us shackled and lost. When art is in the absence of protest it wanes in the collective conscience of people. The systems do not change; entrenched, powerful and highly structured institutions don’t have an incentive to value change or challenge. 

But what is art? If I had to answer it in my own words, it is ability to make a statement, and to use whatever tool necessary to provide this avenue. Art offers us a place to refuge from the scary drudgery that is mindless living. It also offers a vanguard of immense strength and advocacy for our most marginalized elements, our most oppressed peoples and elements of self. Art in all its forms - poetry, blogging, narrative, takes us to depthful elements of our native and raw selves and then, if we are vulnerable and lucky enough, leaves us, self-destructed and exposed. (Even more fascinating, with my interests in writing in a variety of forms, I know that I will have many opportunities at death and rebirth.)

It is this self-destruction - the egoistic “self” that must be destroyed, that serves to (re)build and healthily develop a newer sense of self. For all these reasons, I am committed to an art that sees no separation from protest. This cannot be vanilla art, this cannot be low-fat art, this cannot be bourgeois, latte, palatable art. This can only be protest art. This art can only be full, free and fearless art. Here I am to stay, my new place, at the intersections of protest and art - fiercely loyal, always together, never inseparable.

[kimbachronicles]

A Rose by Any Other Name

The truth shall set you free, but first it will make you miserable. 

- James Garfield

 2.27.18

I glance at the SmartNews article and then chuckle to myself as I wake up. It isn’t particularly surprising coming from the Commander in Chief of the armed forces of the United States of America. I’m used to it now. But it remains disarming. The leader of the “Free World” says that he would have probably ran unarmed into the building where the Florida high school shooting occurred, just approximately 2 weeks prior. 

Presumably, he would be there to save the children from a murderer wielding an AR-15. And the patrol for the school, who obviously did not go inside with the weapon they did have, should feel real stupid: they clearly didn’t need any weapons at all. Since he is willing to sacrifice his life, unarmed, they should too. Apparently having a death wish and saying whatever comes to your mind makes you tough.

It’s 11:30am now and I’m rethinking the quote from the article I read. I then pull up the video. The video where the leader of the third largest country in the world, says “ you don’t really know unless you are tested, but I really believe that I would have run in there if I didn’t have a weapon.” He would sacrifice himself for a group of students that he is unwilling to support through meaningful gun legislation; legislation designed to limit the very kinds of mass murder he is willing to die stopping, and with which we are seeing weekly in our country.  I wasn’t reading it this time, I was hearing it.

For a man who is in charge of the largest economy in the world - it is more than reasonable to spout such incredulity in front of a microphone and camera that reaches the world stage -to be analyzed in the news media for days to come. This is perfectly legitimate. A chief of state who finds that any place he graces, becomes his theater stage. And every news story is but another attempt at relevance.

Ok. I’m not fooling anyone. I’m using euphemisms for what I mean in reference to this political figure. The reason: because calling this man, the 45th occupier of the white house, the word he is, is hard. I’m not avoiding calling the man who represents the colors red, white and blue, that word because I don’t believe he deserves to be called that word, per se. It’s also not because he’s the first white chief executive who arguably made being racist cool.  (And I’m not the only one. The reality is that many other people are having a hard time saying his name or office for a variety of reasons). But my reasoning is simple: I have a hard time accepting certain facts. The cold, hard kind.

Sure, it’s a fact that he says things that are mind-boggling - like “that nasty woman” in reference to a political opponent and national figure, “shithole countries” in reference to African nations.  It’s a fact that he regularly uses hurtful, and often racist, language to refer to people. At the same time, it’s also a fact that a lot of people voted for him, believe the things he stands for and frequently defends his brand of politics. 

But it’s disheartening, scary and dangerous. Normalizing it, even if it brings racism out of the shadows and shows people who they really are, doesn’t feel reassuring for so many oppressed folks. Such is true for so many people who refer to him as 45 - because they don’t see him as legitimate, or because they don’t want to accept him as that unuttered word. These people prove that they too are having a hard time with facts.

Nevertheless, if only but for a moment, I am willing to accept the fact that Donald J. Trump is the President of the United States of America. Sad, but true. And just as another president, James Garfield, once said: The truth shall set you free, but first it will make you miserable. I need to accept this truth if I am to fully accept the challenge to subvert him and end the misery. We all do.

There’s another truth: accepting, as true, a president who believes that he can say anything and not be held to account. #notmypresident seems appropriate here. But ours is a “Teflon Don” who can wiggle his way out of explaining how he supports policies that are antithetical to disrupting gun violence in this country, and at the same time declare himself superman by going into a slaughterhouse situation. A nightmare leading to the deaths of 17 people, with injuries to 14 others; Not to mention hundreds more traumatized. Ours is a president who thinks the next best step to addressing mass murder in school, is arming teachers so that they can now add first responder to their list of duties to perform. At least now he can take a break from unnecessarily using folks with mental health issues as a scapegoat.

And yet, many people don’t agree with my concerns. They find him to be raw, refreshing and real. Sure he has his detractors, but many others welcome him and his erratic behavior. They fawn over him. They are enamored. And they find him and his flaws to be human. But human is what we refer to the homo sapiens sapiens species of animal. We are all human. Except, what he represents in the media and in his role is a different kind of animal. But he’s the elected variant of animal in human/person form, who must be held to account if he’s going to be called president. 

And we must be brave enough, angered enough, passionate enough and yes, human enough to name what we see: the indignity, inanity, shock and trauma his actions and inaction bring to bare on the consciousness of the American citizenry. And who must endure the worst of all this? Women of color, black, brown, Muslim, queer, mentally ill, and disabled folks, as well as the victims of violence by the gun. And for them, the meek of them all, and for us, whosoever is conscious enough to see it - we must name, challenge and dismantle the pathology we see. Above all, the presidency deserves a citizenry who is armed - not with guns, but with strength of conviction in what we want from the current American president,#ours or #not.

[kimbachronicles]

I am brave

You aren’t your work, your accomplishments, your possessions, your home, your family… your anything. You’re a creation of your Source, dressed in a physical human body intended to experience and enjoy life on Earth. 

Wayne Dyer

2.27.18

I am not someone who feels particularly nostalgic. I loved some aspects of my childhood, but also had many aspects that were extremely undesirable and yes, painful. I don’t have any desire to relive it. Perhaps there are times where I feel desperately clingy, get that warm feeling about something that happened as a child. Maybe a song gets played, or I watch a particularly memorable show or movie and I am overcome with a feeling. It happens. It’s sorta happening.  

It’s 2:20am, and I’m watching a video rendition of the song This is Me, from the play The Greatest Showman, sung by Keala Settle. Probably the most inspiring part of the song:

When the sharpest words wanna cut me down. 

I’n gonna send a flood, I’m gonna drown them out. 

I am brave, I am bruised, I am who I’m meant to be. 

This is me.

The other part that really sticks to me:

I’m not scared to be seen, I make no apologies.

I’m sorta thinking about the pain of the past and it makes me tear. My notalgia, in a sense, is the reminiscent me, of which I am thinking of the young dreamer; the hurt, yet powerfully imaginative me, the suppressed. The sheltered me. It’s probably the 20th time I’ve watched it since my sister first shared the song and I found the YouTube clip to it. It still strikes. The melody, depth, effervescence, passion and emotion overcomes me. I am seeing and feeling a passion that calls me. And my body looks to me. It jolts me and awakens me. It surprises and propels me. What am I doing? my body asks me. It goes on.

Where is my passion and motivation for the moment? 

No, not this very moment of melody, but this very moment in life, where is the passion and motivation for this moment in my life? 

How are you harnessing it?  Who holds it? Where is it going? Where has it gone? Are you catching it? Are you going after it? 

What sacrifices would you make in the name of your passion? 

My body has a way with words. You don’t want anything to do with this body when it comes alive. I’ll tell you that. It also keeps me going and in the rhythm, and when that happens, nothing can stop me.

It’s 2:42pm now. I am reading a set of quotes from an article, a preview and motivation to read for the 2018 New Year,  I stumbled upon while quasi-stalking (ok, full-on stalking) a page of a friend of a friend, while up on Facebook. It’s titled: I hope in the New Year You Quit. Courtesy of Kristen Corley. Three lines in particular stand out to me:

I hope in the New Year, you quit being afraid and finally go after that thing that scares you.

I hope you quit hanging on to the past and letting it interfere with the present.

I hope in the New Year, you quit settling and wait for what you deserve, even if that means waiting a long time.

The first one hit my body like a prize fighter in a championship boxing ring. There was Muhammed Ali, and my body to the ground. It/he knocked me out. I was knocked out. But I got up, and realized the what really knocked me down was the realization that I’d been holding me back. Scared of my greatness, my enormous greatness, I was afraid it would be too much, the cost and benefit of greatness. I would either fail trying or it would be too much to bare. Both were false truths. What was standing in the way - my past. 

The second quote. Clinging to a past, bygone, and nostalgic sense of comfort, and yet a cautious and actually quite unhealthy unease. Unease with my past, the shell of my person, my beginnings and my ultimate shadow, a painful relic - I was clinging to the sense of comfort that comes from hiding, and unwittingly keeping myself away, tucked far away from others, and most importantly from me. The ugly parts, the messy parts, and the painful parts. All hidden. Not again.

And the third quote - quit settling and wait for what you deserve, even if it means waiting for a long time. I started to get emotional here. Which was weird because I actually found the first quote to be the most powerful. Alas, it was the last quote that was the most raw - settling, accepting, acquiescing, allowing, enabling, all synonyms for embracing a weakening of my true and abundant self. A self that is not content anymore with what is easy or what is convenient.

It was then that it all connected - this beautiful and inspiring story. These moving and meaningful affirmations. It all pushed me to stand ever firm: accepting a life path that doesn't fullfill or propel me was no longer an option. This was not going to be my story. This was not going to be my ending. This was not going to be my truth.

Not today, not anymore. Not for me.

[kimbachronicles]

God is a black woman, so keep your Jesus!

I met God. She is Black.

- Unknown

2.21.18

It’s 2:30pm and I am sitting and drinking a hot caramel macchiato, while working on some emails. Where am I? You guessed right - Starbucks. To my left comes two young men heading toward me. 

Me (in my head): No, you’re not getting this table. You can however, borrow a seat. Funny now that I’m thinking about it (You’ll figure out why later). 

Anyway, they don’t want to take the table. They just want to ask me a few questions. I figure they are probably doing some research and need my participation. I oblige. They introduce themselves and assure me they aren’t actually doing research, just “trying to get people’s views on things like faith and spirituality.” I look at them for a few seconds. 

Me: What group are you working with

Them: Cru 

Me: Oh, CRU, I’ve heard of that before. 

CRU is a Christian organization. But I know very little about it, aside from knowing students who were a part of the organization. They sit down and show me a set of cards that represent different images and then ask me to match the answer I come up with to the pictures. 

CRU Members: What 3 images best represent where you are in your life right now? 

There are at least 40 or so images. I choose a picture of a writer, a picture of a person with a ton of different tasks, written on small square tablets covering the persons face, to complete; and a picture of a person looking out towards water. I’m then asked to explain why I chose these figures. 

Me: I feel like right now in my life I am working toward my goals of being a writer and film maker. This is the path I’m taking in my life that means a lot to me. The picture of a person looking out towards water is contemplative and I’m very reflective right now on where I am in life. The picture of the person with tasks to do...well that is my job, how I operate in my life, always with many things to do - very busy. This represents what I want to get away from in my life. 

I do this several times to other questions.

CRU Members: What 3 images best represents where you want to be? What image inspires you to achieve more in life? What image represents God? 

I breeze through until the last questions. What image represents God? I’m stumped. I sift through all the images and finally I settle on an image of a sea, with the horizon stretched out with a bright light from the Sun and mountains ahead.

CRU Members: Why did you choose this image?

Me: Because I couldn’t find a picture of a black woman. Black women represent the birth of nations and that is the closest image in physical form. I then went through and could only find something that is natural, naturally occurring. Like water and the sun, represents light and future.

The CRU members then take a little booklet out titled Who is God? and ask me several questions.

CRU Members: Who is God? What is sin? Have you sinned? How do we receive eternal life? 

I answer the questions any spiritual agnostic would.

Me: God - the only way I know God to be, though I usually do not subscribe to it’s manifestations in the Christian sense, is a spiritual being that I cannot prove or disprove but with whom I believe there must exist.

Me: Sin, though an often misused term, simply means to do things that are not in accordance with what will advance humanity.

I move on to answer several more questions until I see two pictures, the last page in the booklet. The first picture has a chair and an “s” representing the self located on top of it. There is a circle around it with a “t” representing the cross located on the outside of the circle. The second picture has a “t” on the chair, and an “s” below the chair at the base.

CRU Members: The first image represents a person whose life is centered around himself. He is guided by himself and he is the driver. The second image represents christ at the center with the person at the base being guided by christ. Where do you see yourself now?

There is no question in my mind. Though I need a few seconds to situate the images.

Me: I’m the first image.

CRU Members: And which image do you wish to see yourself?

Me: Neither. I don’t believe either represents how I wish to live. I don’t see myself in the ways represented in either image. 

It’s now about 3:15pm. I thank them for their time and ask them a few questions about how they came to join the organization. They each talk about a desire to help others and lead others to the greatness of Jesus Christ and to accept him as their Savior. I then tell them that what they have shared is inspiring, and I wish them well in their endeavors and in their day. One of the members leaves his number on the little booklet and gives it to me to keep. 

I admit at first that there questions are important. Where I see myself? What do I want for my life? How is god or spirit represented in my life?

And then I chuckle a little. I think: Here I am worried that they are going to ask me to move to make way for them to use the table. All they want is to borrow a chair to sit on and to show me the way to Jesus (on a chair). How ironic. 

But I resolve that ever since I was a child I couldn’t accept Christianity, and felt something deeply wrong; though it was inspiring to hear their stories, no matter how compelling their journey, it is not for me. Furthermore, if I could have said one more thing to them it would be this: 

Thanks for the courage in following your path. But alas - God is a black woman, so keep your Jesus!

[kimbachronicles]

But now we have each other

“Most people are slow to champion love because they fear the transformation it brings into their lives. And make no mistake about it: love does take over and transform the schemes and operations of our egos in a very mighty way.” 

Aberjhani, Journey through the Power of the Rainbow: Quotations from a Life Made Out of Poetry

2.19.18

It’s 7:30pm, a Resident Advisor (we’ll call her Lindsay) at the University of Michigan addresses the staff of RAs to discuss an area of improvement. Without wanting to trigger fellow staff, she mentions the need to address current events during staff meetings. Everyone solemnly looks at her. The issue that is at the forefront of Lindsay’s mind? The recent killings of innocent students at a high school in Florida. And the fear the students and staff may be impacted or know someone who is. How can we support them? She asks. How can we be more aware in addressing these kinds of things? Everyone remains quiet.

It's 11:15pm and I’m thinking back to the earlier conversation. Seventeen. That is the number etched in my mind. It’s the number of people that were killed as a result of the gun massacre at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. It happened 5 days ago on Valentine’s Day - Wednesday, February 14, 2018. That this day of love, so characterized by hearts and feelings of connection, could be so marred with hate and death is disheartening. Heartbreaking. 

From the start, the news media are all on it. Questions abounding, they want to know exactly why would someone do something like this? What is the motive? In the days afterwards, it becomes apparent that the killer, a 19 year old who was recently expelled from the school, has returned to wreak havoc on the lives of hundreds of people. But why? So far, a fascination with death and killing. Maybe he has a mental illness, people ask. Maybe he’s crazy. I mean, he has to be mentally unstable. Only someone with a history of mental illness would resort to such ghastly violence. 

The usual media suspects on the prowl include CNN, MSNBC, Fox. Social media has their share as well, with Facebook, twitter and many other sites pouring in with articles and thought pieces, blogs and other social posts debating about the role of government, law and oh...whether or not gun control is the most appropriate response. Some, particularly on the political right, question whether or not gun control should ever be a response to gun violence. Out comes the trite adage: “guns don’t kill people, people kill people!” 

Worse, politicians engage vigorously, taking opportunities to relish in or repel against calls to make drastic changes. Many come out the woodwork with lengthy or savvy, curt, posts and tweets about the horrible state of our society. And then of course, thoughts and prayers are given with very little actual effort made to do anything about the impending doom that comes at the cost of guns. Held dearly are the freedoms of gun toting zealots. Babbling and pandering. Nothing new. 

In comes the memes. You know the ones I'm talking about. Like this one: 

step 1: a mass shooting occurs 

step 2: Congress sends thoughts and prayers

step 3: someone suggests gun control 

step 4: lobbyist contact congressman 

step 5: Congress says it's too early 

step 6: no one does anything 

step 7: go to 1

I have to admit I love memes, I am even tempted to post, like, and share them. I know I've shared or liked this one in the past, so I know it to be true for me. But as the day nears night, and time passes, I’m less convinced this is enough. Furthermore, while such memes help capture a reality that feels surreal, it provides an eerie entrypoint into sustaining the very normalization that it seeks to expose. Lastly, after so many likes and shares, it sorta sits on me.... “so that's it...we just shout and scream, like and repost, while nothing gets done?” And of course, no one, as in no politician, does anything so we just wait around for another mass shooting.

Then I chuckle a little. No one? Surely there are politicians that are invested in gun reform. And there are hundreds and thousands of people every day fighting for changes in gun violence. But we never hear about it. Some include Everytown for Gun Safety, Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America, The Brady Campaign, Americans for Responsible Solutions, and the Law Center to Prevent Gun Violence. But you’d think there was no hope or that there isn’t anyone who seems to be doing anything about it. That’s what meme culture and social media can do for you. Encourage you to be lazy, take everthing as the gospel truth, generate victim-mentality and foster hopelessness. But there is a lot of reasons to be worried. 

The stats are harrowing. Guns represent 96 deaths a day, 13,000 gun homicides a year, suicides account for 62% of deaths, 7 children and teens are killed every day, while black men are 13 times more likely than white men to be killed. Sadly, the National Rifle Association has made it their priority to fund politicians who will do next to nothing to change these statistics. For example, Marco Rubio, Senator from Florida and vocal opponent of gun reform, has been the beneficiary of $3,303,355 over his political career. In the 2016 presidential race alone, they paid $30 million into opposing Hillary and supporting then- candidate Donald Trump.

Now as president, and in the wake of the attack he’s declared support of arming teachers to deter violence. Sadly, our government leaders have gone from wanting to do next to nothing to prevent this from happening to possibly exacerbating the situation and giving one more training/expectation for teachers to worry about in addition to the myriad of problems facing them. 

The reality is that none of this seems right. Not on any planet, let alone planet Earth - where humans are threatened by any idea that challenges their nativist values, while being hellbent on destroying any form of life, especially their own. As I listen to story after story, post after post online, I can’t help but wonder when are we going to collectively agree that guns by their very design are destructive, dangerous tools. While anti-gun policies are well meaning they don’t address concerns about who is best to arm themselves? Is the answer police? 

If that is the case, clearly that hasn’t historically been the best for citizenry -especially minorities and the disempowered; even when they are unarmed. On the flip side, wholesale distribution with limited restrictions, constant flooding of guns into society and now the possibility of teachers carrying guns in their classroom is disastrous. We avert one set of problems (the police being in total control/killers having little to no detterent to cary out their heinous desires) only to take on another set (police/society fearing for their safety/over-burdening teachers). 

Yes we need more background check policies. Yes mental health may be a factor. Though apparently not by more than about 4% of cases, (thereby making this out to be a major player is simply wrong and unfounded.) Yes guns are bad AND there are people who have bad intentions. But none of this has to be an either-or kind of scenario. It’s possible to severely restrict guns in this country to certain types and times to use them. It’s also possible to find security measures that can be put into place to protect and support students in crisis. And yes, it’s possible to have more training for teachers to address situations like this without giving them a gun and asking them to play warrior police officer.  The stakes are high, probably higher than ever before. And there are ways that we can address gun control as a public health concern and not simply a political hot potato. It’s irresponsible, reckless, hurtful and insensitive to go on this way, pretending that if all we could do is get more guns into the hands of good guys, all will be well. This is a lie and a fantasy. Furthermore, we lose sight of why guns are dangerous and instead promote additional time/energy anxiety and fears. 

We have to end the cycle of violence, starting with the way we talk about guns, how we perpetuate and normalize gun violence and how we heal from pain. If we can be honest and authentic about the revolutionary thought processes behind reinventing the way guns are seen and used, we can peak into the window of possibility that comes with daring to be, by promoting life-saving and affirming practices rather than self-destructive ones. 

It starts with choosing life over death, love over hate, gun restrictions over gun proliferation. It also requires us to listen generous to the testimonials of survivors, along with the pain and the sadness that comes with it. Finally, we must have and show empathy and compassion - even to those we dislike or with whom we disagree passionately. My prescription: we must embrace a culture of love, so that we never need to rely on a culture of fear. And one day, we might be able to say, “way back when, we used to have guns. But now we have each other.”

[kimbachronicles]

Black Voices, Our Stories

“Faced with a collective forgetting, we must fight to remember.” ― Reni Eddo-Lodge

2.17.18

It’s 12:30pm and we’ve arrived at the Charles H. Wright Museum in Detroit, Michigan. It’s one of largest African-American museums in the country. This is my second visit, and I’m actually pretty excited. I’m with about 12 students and as we are entering the space, some of it is becoming much more familiar. As I look around, I can see that there are groups and families. All are congregating in the space. But there aren’t a lot of people, fortunately. I go to the front to figure out if there are any guides that would be willing to take us on a group tour. Unfortunately, we are instructed that we’d have to come back later. We have plenty of time to explore so decided that we would spend the first couple hours just walking through the entire museum. 

As we explore, we notice a lot of images, pictures and stories of Africans who were stolen from their native lands, dragged to slave ports and shipped off to various places like cargo. The images and sounds displayed would be harrowing if it were new. Though they strike in me many thoughts. What would it have been to live in the 1500′s, in, say, Benin or Senegal when this was all going down? What would it have been like to have been captured and enslaved by your own people or (quite often) neighboring tribes? What would it have been like to be uprooted, sold like an animal, treated worse than cattle, thrown aboard a ship with 8 inches of space above you? What would it have been like to barely be able to move, with feces, vomit, disease and urine all in your midst? Trapped and shackled, as you breathe in and out a sickening and disgusting stench?

All the walk, I wonder things like: what was in their minds? How did they have the strength to keep going? What is sacrifice? What does that look like in this situation? How do you sacrifice your life for someone you don’t know, someone you’ve never met, someone who is hell bent on destroying you, breaking you and using you to support their way of living, their sense of self? Their sense of hierarchy? It all just seemed so much too much to think of to bear, and there were moments that I was quiet.

Its 2:30pm now and I am going through the museum for the second time. This time we have a tour guide (her name is Janice, like my mom’s name). The tour guide is giving us much more insight, such as explaining the intentionality behind the design and architecture in the museum, pictures and paintings, some of which were throughout the lobby area,

As I continued through the museum - looking at the rich legacies of Egypt, Ethiopia, Ghana, Timbuktu and so many other histories of African peoples and contributions of civilization, as well as the struggles of Africans once they made it to the continent, in the form of slave rebellion and insurrection, civil war,  world wars and movements such as the Civil Rights Movement, I became more and more invigorated. Why am I waiting until Black History Month to come to this great museum? And I won’t! I resolve, before the day is over, to visit at least once before I move from Michigan.

Back to the tour. As time passes while on the tour, Janice gives more context as to things, sharing why, for example, certain tribes people were kept in certain parts of the boat. And the more I’m thinking, the more I’m listening, the more I’m allowing it all to sink in, as though a spiritual portal is opening up. I am also beginning to see the value of continued reading and learning of African history. I am seeing the beauty of listening of taking things in and the power that comes in reading and learning about your history, so that you do not ever forget it. And also, so that you are in tune and alignment with the universe of things. 

Because the truth is, if I’m being honest, I’ve forgotten a lot of these facts and information. By the end of the museum visit, I realize the visuals, sounds and stories and the vividness of it all, was needed. I needed to have this moment. I needed to come to this museum, and not because of anything specific to this museum, but because it is very essential that black people are continuously reading and processing the deeply painful and traumatic experiences of their ancestors to remain rooted in their self-awareness as a people. 

Furthermore, I resolve, it is imperative that African and African Americans, in particular, learn about the people that look and think, and come from spaces and places like them. I also feel like this was a reunion in many ways - of learning, processing and thinking regarding what it is to be black. Reunited with a spirit and passion for self-growth I hadn’t really felt since high school when I visited Senegal as a school trip. But it won’t be the last time (as I said, I’m coming back!)

We must be invested in always discovering how we got to where we are. And we can never forget. For, how can we ever overlook something as monumental as 400 years of enslavement in Europe, the Caribbean and in the Americas? So when I hear people question things about slavery or African/African American history, such as why are you always dwelling on the past? Or get over it, that was over 150 years ago!, I believe they are either racist or mentally ill. And I also believe that sentiment to be reckless, irresponsible and dangerous. Dangerous above all else, because this ignorance and refusal to acknowledge the past, is precisely why our world is turning on it’s head in America and outright racism is becoming chic in our society.

Instead, we (as a society) but in particular those of African descent, must embrace that history, giving permission to ourselves to be learners and teachers, archeologists and theorists, researchers and scientists in the discovery of the lush and powerful historical footprint of peoples from the African diaspora. And, yet even more importantly, we must be accountable and hold to account others to continuing the tradition of sharing our stories.

[kimbachronicles]

Deep Down I Do

“The golden opportunity you are seeking is in yourself. It is not in your environment, it is not in luck or chance, or the help of others; it is in yourself alone.”  ~ Orison Swett Marden

2.16.18

It’s 1:48 am. I am laying in bed thinking about where I am now in my life. I’m trying to situate myself for a moment. I start doing math to see how long my day and week has been. I say to myself: there are 24 hours in a day. There are 120 hours in a work week. Approximately 60 of those hours are spent at or doing work. That’s about 8-12 hours a day or 1/3- ½ of my week. 

I think: when you spend that kind of time each day, it wears on you. I investigate.

How is it wearing on me? Hmm… Physically I’m tired, my neck and back ache; an insomniac, I am stressed regularly, I drink coffee all the time to keep myself up. But just a few hours later I need more coffee - more caffeine, more energy, more, more, more….more to take, to make up for less and less - less energy, less fuel. Yet, it’s never enough. Mentally, I oscillate between high levels of excitement and high levels of sadness. Excitement kicks in for accomplishing tasks, helping others or putting a smile on someone’s face. Or helping someone through a difficult situation. 

Sadness, on the other hand, materializes because of limitations on my health, dreams and goals. And it almost almost always comes in packs - it brings alongside friends in the form of anxiety, worry or frustration. I never seem to have enough time for myself, so the other emotions join the mix. And as I never seem to have enough fuel or energy, I sometimes I wonder why? Why am I even doing this?

I wonder more broadly. How pathetic. Millions of Americans are experiencing this reality. The sucking and draining of all the positive energy; the turbulent winds of change. That is - for those who at least have a job. Those fortunate enough to have #workproblems or #officepolitics or #bureaucracy. These often coincide with #moneyinthebank or #ifyougotitflauntit. Like me, or others who work in a hierarchical industry, such as in education, student affairs or customer service - we know how it can feel to have opportunities with #stringsattached. As they say, nothing in life is free, and whatever frees someone from one burden (i.e. a crappy work environment or a negligent supervisor) won’t immunize them from the diseases of the ego, incompetence or cronyism as is so often plagued in the the world of work. And the benefit of Human Resources will always come at the cost of the human resources we provide - the physical, psychological, mental and creative labor.

But there’s never enough time or energy it seems, because the day never seems to be enough. 24 hours just never seems to be enough hours in the day to address all the tasks, favors, inquiries, needs and so on that come with the role.

Spiritually, I begin to wonder? Why am I here in this space? Is this fulfilling me? What is my future in this? And how is it allowing me to be a better person and reach higher goals? And then it gets real…how long do we have? How long are we prepared to invest? How much time is left?

I ask myself this question, the answer I have readily prepared for myself over the past several weeks. 4 months. Just a few months before I have to leave my job, and my home, and the place that I’ve only know to be mine, for the last 4 years… and as I’m saying this I begin to feel like I did when I was in college.. 

It’s the end of senior year, and I’ve just graduated…I’m looking at myself in the mirror now:  have you really done it?? Is this really it? Have you really graduated? What is the future? I have this budding yet increasingly strong sense of identity, something I have not quite felt before that is different from that of the past: an air and sense of comfort residing within me, my mind frame is different, my world view is sharper, clearer, different. And my spirit is in a different space… But before long, before my rose cheeks hit the air lingering outside this place of deep thought and reflection, all the doubts return.

If you are like me, you know that feeling, the inescapable, all embraceable doubt. I go through life wondering and wandering, chancing and trying. But then, as now, I begin to wonder if I can ever make it to that next great place, at least as much or as quickly or as smoothly as I’d like. I  feel like more time has passed. And so I wonder if the opportunity will be there for me to truly come in and out of this deja vu moment. I wonder if, 10 years later, at the reunion of my thoughts, wondrous and yet scary, I have what it takes. And I know, deep down I do.

But at 2:30am, I don’t feel it. And I’m so, so tired from the long day of work, weary by the long day that I know is ahead. So I disrobe, dropping all my clothes… dropping it like the weight of a thousand thoughts and feelings…I curl underneath my 2 blankets. The air is still hitting my naked body, warm air is then converted to cold air. Because that is how the energy saving, temperature control setting works in the apartment. Oscillating between cold and warmth, teaching me the beauty of seasons, of comfort and courage, of day and night, of safety and daring.

 And I lay there and I wonder. “I’m tired” turns to “exhausted”, turns to “completely drained”. So I leave these thoughts, so I leave these questions -these ever elusive, complicated, messy at times, stress-inducing questions for another day. When I have just a little more energy and a little more courage to find the answers.

[kimbachronicles]

Goddess in the Flesh

"She is both hellfire and holy water. And the flavor you taste depends on how you treat her."

- Sheba Pal

2.8.18

Person at work: Did you know the same black woman who invented the toaster, the staple, and staple remov…

Me: They also invented life, for everyone, like ALL humanity, but of course no one gives them credit for that so…*continues typing…*

Its 10am. During a conversation, an employee I supervise says the first statement, but I don’t allow her a chance to continue. I follow with the below statement. We chuckle a little. But it gets real for a moment. We talk some more about the ways that black women are undervalued, disrespected and often ignored. As we are talking, we are slowly realizing how limited our society is, still is, in this day and age, despite efforts at education. We start talking about other things but it still seems to bother me. It still seems to be on my mind and it lingers throughout the day.

2.9.18

It’s 4am the next day. I’m looking at the meme/exchange my supervisee has created regarding the contributions of black women and I am chuckling hard. I didn’t notice it earlier, since I was without my phone. Turns out she actually tweeted it to her coworkers. Funny, but not so funny at the same time.

I’m thinking: black women are goddesses in the flesh, though they sit at the margins of blackness and women-ness, a powerfully poignant and consequential intersection of identity.

I’m also thinking: A lot has been said about black women in the areas of desirability, as it relates to things like sex preferences, dating and marriage. Even more has been dedicated, sadly, to pervasively damaging narratives and incessant stereotypes. Examples include black women as representatives of a poverty of culture, lazy, overbearing, sexually wanton, immoral and angry. Such mythologies that are used as tools to pathologize, discredit, malign, undermine and attack black women as a sort of disease generator and undesirable element of society.

This all, despite one infallible reality and undeniable conclusion: that without black women, there would be no life. Just as without blackness, there is no life, and without women, there is no life. But where are the thought-pieces, intellectual debates and robust analyses that center black women in a space and place of greatness?; Where are the written pieces that explore and celebrate them vis-a-vis the origins of civilization, attributing to them, the womb of the oldest, most pain enduring subset of the worlds population?

This is not simply problematic, but symptomatic and even diagnostic, perhaps prognostic, of a world in shambles, in “sin” as some might use; a world awaiting a slow and perhaps even rapid death, because of this denial and this rejection of the very painful and obvious realities that black women must and have to always be centered in our discourse. These goddesses, in the flesh, must be at the helm of a discourse in what it means to be, to be a nation, to be a people, to be in communion with the higher energy, with one another - to live and breathe and grow: this is our charge.

This is the reality that we must face if we are ever to choose life over (the current course of) death, to live a long and prosperous life and expand and strengthen our civilization. But it is not that simple. White supremacist capitalism, and cissexist, patriarchal notions rooted in homophobia, sexism and mysogynoir, rely on notions of racial and gendered hierarchies.

Only when and until these hierarchies are sufficiently problematized, challenged, dismantled and uprooted, can we adequately provide the due respect and love all black women deserve. Thereby restoring to her what she is owed, and what she has been robbed of, day after day, over and again; and thus, killing ourselves, her children, our world in the process. Only when this is resolved can we honestly say, with fullness and purpose, vision and truth, that the collective and all inclusive "We" are truly...alive.

[kimbachronicles]

Mirrors

“Other people are the mirrors in which we see ourselves”

- Shonda Rhimes

January, 2018

I’m not sure what time it is when I hear the quote, but I’m listening to the audiobook verson of Year of Yes, by Shonda Rhimes and I’m starting to feel it. I’m not really sure which chapter, since the audio version is different, but probably about 2 or so hours into listening I’m starting to get it, starting to really like the book. It’s at some point that I hear the quote “other people are the mirror in which we see ourselves.” It’s a quote I think I’d heard before and it’s beginning to resonate with me. I write it down and file it in my drafts, I know I have something to say but I just need a little time to think about it.

2.7.18

It’s 8:15pm and I’m laying down reading about an upcoming workshop by one of the students I work with around disability and creative design. It’s at this time I’m sort of neurotically enthralled in my inbox since, after 30 years on earth I finally have developed a strategy for checking and processing my inbox, you know like normal people do. Instead of seeing 24,847 unread mail, after just 4 days I’m down to 5, fluctuating of course between 0 and however many I’ve obsessively tracked, read, converted to tasks, as needed, and archived. Dont worry I didnt read all of that mail. I just archived about 99.999 percent…I digress.

I’m looking in my Tumblr drafts and low and behold (ok, a bit dramatic. It’s not really that surprising, since I only have 1 other draft piece) I see the quote. And I wont lie- I’ve seen it before and not just before I wrote it. Like, I’ve seen it in my drafts, playing peek-a-boo about 4 times, not knowing what to write. But now I start writing….

What does this quote mean to me?….Well, it resonates with me. Umm…but that clearly goes without saying… How can I illustrate it?…

I used to think I was immortal. I could never die, like a spirit that can’t be killed, a larger than life story, a big boss, a top notch legend..but then life happened and before long the only words I could speak spewed out my mouth like the heaping pile of cow dung that just came out of my head and onto this blog.

I never thought I was immortal, or that I couldn’t die, or that I was a spirit, please: I thought about death almost as much as food and trust me - food and I have always had a sort of sordid love affair…and I didn’t believe in spirits, spirituality or anything mystical or arguably not logic-based. In fact, I never seemed to draw in people who were imaginative enough to woo me toward some fantastical other worldly sense of self. I thought too skeptically of religiosity and for me, spirituality was faux religion - an imposter; and terms like “god” and “angel” were really perversions to control the social order….ok, so I lied, but I’m not a liar…not just yet.

Words, like people, are mirrors- pathways into thinking, perceiving and being, that help us traverse and transcend, occupy and monopolize spaces and places of self actualization. In other words, we see what we want to see, we believe what we want to believe and we make sense in whatever language that makes sense to us.

The truth is a little more complex. A glass that is half full is half empty. And so is our understanding of things …And people… mirrors just help us to see that which is tanigible and yet intangible, similar, dissimilar, meaningful, beautiful…and ugly, complete and incomplete, resonant and disonant…about us in other things…people. The truth is I actually did feel immortal- living and breathing in day dreams, caught in futuristic things, thinking I was something so amazing that I didn’t have to be grounded in reality, while simultaneously fearing death….

The truth is…I was deeply anti-spiritual, anti any kind of deeper than surface understanding, deeper than the physical manifastation, deeply logical, fancying those who rejected any talk of deepness for fear that I may discover something amazing within….within me, yet within me, I felt this vibrational spiritual animal, spiritual creature, feeling so emotionally connected to others, so intensely connected that I would grow up to cherish the power of a spiritual realm that rivals the analytical prowess that my mind - so enthralled in the inner workings of the world, began to reject it’s sole application to all things provable and real, but now extending to that which cannot be experienced by the five senses..

And just like that, the words that seemed to spout out my mouth like cow dung (in the metaphorical, not literal sense of course,) have now become something different, something fantastical, something metamorphosed into something more… and I, in the face of my friends, family and loved ones, can be seen in more than one light. The confused, emotional, and disorganized guy I always imagine and am imagined as, becomes a free-spirited, passionate and adaptable creature who sees things beyond and below the surface.

I become the multidimensional, complex being that I am. Like truth, it requires believing in the beauty and courting with the curses of my existence. Seeing me and allowing me to be seen, seeing them as well through each reflection, each mirror. This is a dilemma for sure. But it is a messy, yet beautiful one, a pathway to our evolution, a re-imagining of ourselves and a fateful push to be and see the harmony within and without more gracefully, more fully and more abundantly.

[kimbachronicles]

No, actually fuck you

2.4.18

“If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible.” ― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

It’s 11:30pm and I’m talking about work shit with my close friend. But really mostly talking about the shitty way that she and I have to deal with crappy stuff, really cringe worth stuff, like disrespectful, privileged, entitled students whose generation demanded from us an order of “I don’t give a fuck, I’m doing things my way and you can kiss my ass” and supersized it. But this ain’t Burger World. 

It can’t be easy. it never is. Just waking up everyday doing a job you never dreamed of doing. Oh btw, I’m a residence manager at the University of Michigan. But who said dreams had anything to do with getting a job. Like I was 5 years old dreaming, “hmm if only I could be an adult hall monitor?” And, as if my dreams came true, here is a typical day of work: I wake up, thrust clothes on in a panicked frenzy, run to the first meeting of the day and the second and then the third, just to see some snooty (read: snotty) rights-wielding university student complaining about how his daddy and mommy didn’t pay good money to talk about how he was “adjusting” to college; 

Or how some other student is threatening to bring her lawyer mom up so that they can be told the same thing I told the last lawyer mom… which is that we DON’T. DEAL. WITH LAWYERS…people who deal with improper student behavior in the dorms don’t do lawyering. That’s a general counsel, a.k.a. J.D. a.ka, don’t fuck with the University, kind of situation. 

What do I deal with? bullshit, like drinking in the rooms, loud music…and how amazing!  I am the one who get’s stuck saying “so tell me a little more about your thought process when you brought your boyfriend over and slept with him in your roommates bed?” The best part is that I get to say this in a tiny space with white walls surrounding me. I’m like an investigator from the “First 48,″ investigating why Jeff can’t keep his shlong in his pants long enough to piss in a bathroom instead of in front of the dorm.

Please, I’m begging you to give me another reason to continue the cycle of investing day after day, hour after hour devoted to this shit-loaded porcelain toilet of a career. Because, of course, I love seeing my life swirling amidst feces down a toilet….shame on me… this vulgarity is unbecoming. I apologize for using tasteless filthy language, like “career.” That’s pretty tawdry… ears-aflaming even.

But honestly… a career is something you wake up for, you work for, you devise, organize and implement towards…this is just a day (and night) job. And, well it’s also a - benefits yielding job, a learn something new almost everyday job, a gets me a paycheck job. You could also say it’s a reflect on your shit job, a makes you want to be a better person until you realize that would require years of psychotherapy so you want to quit your day-job job… and yet….It’s still a job.

 I don’t want to do something with it…I don’t want it to be some kind of “stepping stone". Stepping stones are supposed to lift you up toward the next level, not make you question if you we’re stoned during the interview process…hmm, maybe it was something in the dining food I ate on my first visit?

Careers don’t make you think like that….make you think you were drugged or on drugs. They build you and push you and catapult you…jobs make you think and rethink and rethink the thinking you already thought you were thinking when you rethought the thinking that led to the thought…thats how much work jobs put you through…I’m exhausted just trying to make sense of what I just said…and it’s not that careers are not exhausting, worthwhile ones even. It’s just the exhaustion doesn’t always feel that way. The thrill of doing something that you feel is building you toward something is what I crave…what we all crave.

Instead, I am the one who must be nice, I am the one who must be patient , I am the one who must be empathic, and respectful, and courteous, and sympathetic, and culturally sensitive and socio-emotionally grounded and say “Let me see how I can help you,” and “It seems like you are having a bad day,” and “I can’t imagine how difficult things must be going on, as I suspect things are not going well for you,” in order to pacify the generation of Me, FIRST! and somehow not, miraculously, lose my damn job for telling silver spoon brats - No, actually, fuck you!

But I don’t… I don’t and my friend who actually doesn’t work with students but does work with entitled professionals, she doesn’t. We collect ourselves,our  space, we gather ourselves, we embrace the space as is… we use our inner voice, we refrain…and then reframe, we breathe, we surrender.

It’s not easy…

but we do it.

It’s 12:30am, the next morning and I and my friend, we, resolve to let this be, for now. We resolve that we will do this and the next this, and the next thing that comes our way… until the next thing comes our way and then the next thing comes along,…We resolve that we accept this and the next thing, until we are in a position to no longer accept this, until we are ready to flip the switch and tell each and every person who doesn’t value our talent, see our worth, pay adequately, appreciate generously, acknowledge more fully, accepting the lush beauty that is yearning to break free from the oppressive regime of systemic devaluation, anti-intellectualism, subservience and tomfoolery …

No, actually fuck you.