Karl Moody - A Ledbetter Street Legend by Jolivette Anderson

Karl Moody - A Ledbetter Street Legend 

by Jolivette 'Djali' Anderson (c) September 26, 2020

We all have a place inside of us that takes us to our childhood. The smells, sounds, tastes and other sensory receivers and perceptions offer comfort, solace, laughter, or even tears and a little regret. 

When I think of my childhood in Shreveport, Louisiana, my minds eye takes me back. My mind goes back to farm plows and steam rollers digging and pressing tar covered streets in my neighborhood- the segregated Hollywood Neighborhood on Ledbetter Street.

The families in the Hollywood Neighborhood had migrated from small rural communities to find work. They set about their day to day lives in what academics call "the heteronomative nuclear family. This is  a fancy way of saying a man, woman, and their children live together in a house, in a place that has certain rules and regulations that must be followed. 

We witnessed the good, the bad, the indifferent, and the ugly of the human experience, as all humans do, but there are moments, there are people that capture us, encapsulate us into a space and time that  help to define us and pushes us to imagine the possibilities outside of the places society carved out for our parents to be. Those families gave us what we needed to be good, decent, and kind human beings.

We had heroes and sheroes. We admired, respected, looked up to and loved them because they did something that made us proud to live in our little Black neighborhood. We were proud to say I played at Hattie Perry Park, proud to say I bought coconut cookies from Mr. Buck's front porch store, proud to say I used to wave at Reverend Gant at Calvary Baptist Church, proud to say I went to Hollywood Elementary School, and proud to say I lived on Ledbetter Street.

One of the proudest moments of my childhood, a moment that defined greatness in our imagination was when our neighbor who played basketball for the Woodlawn High School Knights under Coach Melvin Russell created what my dad called PANDEMONIUM in the C.E. Byrd High School gym. 

With seconds left on the clock, down by one point, long before the 3 pointer was a real thing, I sat in the bleachers with my head in my hand, crying because Woodlawn was about to lose a major game. It could have been a playoff, I can't recall all of the details, but what I do remember is that feeling of disappointment that we were about to lose this game. I glanced up through my tears to see my cousin Michael Smith - or that other really tall guy whose name I can't recall - get a rebound from a missed free throw, pass the ball to Karl Moody who took a few steps, aimed the ball for the basket, shoot the shot and the ball dropped with a 'swish' -- nothing but 'net' or ALL DRAWERS as we would say back in the day.

With that one shot, before the buzzer sounded, local TV station filming the final seconds, our childhood playmate and friend became a local celebrity to many, a hero and legend of Ledbetter Street for us. At some point, many of us tried to make the 'Karl Moody Shot' on a basketball court at school or in the gym at Hattie Perry Park.

On September 11, 2020, Karl DeWayne Moody Sr. died. He had been living in Nashville, TN for several years. My brother Jethro who lived in Clarksville, TN would run into him a few times over the years. Karl was four years my senior, the same age as my Cousin Michael and my sister Jackie who played on the girls team that year. 

According to my brother, Karl did not remember him without being prompted to recall his older sister, likely because Karl had gone off to college while Jethro was still in elementary school, but that is the beauty of being part of Black families that occupied a common space, who gave their children common experiences. We looked up to Karl Moody because of that winning shot at the game and the subsequent local fame, but most importantly, what he did with that fame, how that fame motivated all the younger ones in our neighborhood to try to be like him was something he may not have even known. 

He continued to smile, to joke with us and to laugh. He had an inner joy that exuded confidence, pride, self-respect, dignity, and human kindness. He was raised by a loving family and he spread love and kindness to others. These are my memories of the making of a local legend, a Ledbetter Street legend who through his actions gave little Black children in our neighborhood permission to imagine and seek out greatness in the world at home and the world at large.

Rest. Sweet rest Karl Moody. May your soul take flight and may angels greet you on your journey home. I pray the Creator be extremely pleased with your good works and say 'Servant, well done'.

The De-Valuation of Human Labor

We were so large in numbers we became expendable, easily replaced. A whole continent of people could be used to work the land, to be the tools used to get resources that create what human being need to live (stay alive) and to live well (in comfort). Then came greed as by product of human insecurities - the need to feel better than, more important than another. The best ways to feed ones greed is to control the source from which all things come. On Earth, those two things would be God and Land.

The land provides what we need to eat, drink, cover our bodies, protect us from the winds and rains of heaven. All that we put in our bodies to keep us alive come from plants and animals, in its rawest form. The plants and animals require fresh water as so do we.

The supply chain was designed and evolved to give life and sustain our lives and it has been disrespected, ignored, and taken advantage of. Rarely do we think about where our needs come from, the root source of the things we use daily. We have simply been getting what we need, often to the point that excess, because we arrogantly believe it is owed to us because we pay taxes alone.

Paying taxes is a function of every member of a society and each citizen member should have the highest of expectations for a return on the investment of their tax dollars into their local, state, and federal governments. However, the function of the government on behalf of the citizenry has always been fragile.

We are sliding deeper into the realization of our fragility as a nation, true. But, we are also falling deeper into the realization of our fragility as human beings - a fragility brought on in part by arrogance and self indulgence in our belief in American exceptionalism and our pursuit of an American Dream.

Individuals are a part of different kinds of groups. The first being the family.

Families form clans.
Clans from tribes
Tribes form territories
Territories become states.
States become nations.

Tribalism is used as a derogatory term.
American exceptionalism is an insidious form of tribalism. It says that being 'American' makes one special, better than others because material wealth and ideas that have not been fully enacted or attained.

The American Dream is the idea that all people can lift themselves up out of situations to live a life of leisure and comfort and make choices about how they want to function or exist in the world. One can dream while asleep or dream while awake. Sleep dreaming is random, uncontrolled thoughts and images that come to a person. Wake dreaming is (or can be) controlled thoughts and ideas had while eyes or open looking or staring at images. Wake dreaming can be what people with "vision" do when they are planning their next moves, their future. Some of us can see to the next hour, others the next day, and others to the next 10 years or the next 7 generations.

Some of us went to bed, fell asleep peacefully, with the hope of waking up from our sleep to a new day.

Others of us were knocked in the head, fell unconscious, to wake up to traumas of the unknown, not an unknown at the hands of the universe and its mysteries, but the unknown of humankind, the kind of humans that salivate to commit acts of savagery on the lives of those different from them.

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Turning 50: Lessons I Have Lived #2

Turning 50: Lessons I Have Lived #2

I have issues with Black People (Us) and how we think about each other, how we treat each other, in theory and in practice.

Our humanity has been in the crosshairs of a rifle scope. We have been targeted by political snipers, culture hunters, and games sportsmen and women who just want to shoot (insert n-word) for fun. Our humanity could be snatched away in real tangible ways with little care or concern-- beyond the pain of Black family and community, by White folks- in very concrete ways, backed up by historical documentation (lynchings etc).

I am convinced, after having listened to my elders words of wisdom, that we have to learn how to let each other as Black folk, 'fuck up sometimes', and keep our dignity, but deal with each other the way we deal with things to put each other back on a decent path.

I dont think we should allow White people to publicly humiliate or dehumanize Black folk, even when we don't like their (the Black folks) nasty ass ways.

There is a line, a code of honor among Black folk that must be defined, acknowledged, and maintained in the public sphere and public spaces.

Calling a Black person evil is not the same as calling her a "low-life dog"! Especially when she was being treated like a prize show dog in the first place.

Let's be clear, I don't personally know Ms. Omarosa Newman, and I don't want to know her. She is the kind of person my Mama taught me to "feed with a long handled spoon". I would not want to be in the same room with her based on what I have seen of her on TV. She bears the responsibility for her actions, she's a grown ass woman. She will be okay I am sure, but this ain't about her, it's about Us, and how we deal with each other.

We can not, should not allow ourselves to do to each other what was done to us by White folk.

If we say that the majority of White folk in the United States were poor whites who did not own slaves, we must also say they were complicit in how we, Black folks have been treated in this country.

If we say that the majority of Africans were sold into enslavement by a minority of elite Africans, then we must confront the evil within (how we see ourselves, our own humanity) and the evil without (how non Black folk have treated and still treat us).
- Jolivette Anderson-Douoning

On Turning 50: The Lessons I Have Lived

Lesson #1 - Order

I am divorced because I was not supposed to be married to that particular man. I know that and I own that decision. It has nothing to do with him personally, and it has everything to do with me and my preference for order over chaos.

Here is an example that many may be able to relate.

When married, my paycheck was once a month. Therefore, I would shop for groceries that would last the whole month, specifically meats. I would buy enough meats to cook each week with special packages for Sunday dinner.

I came home one day to find that my now ex-husband had cooked a lovely African meal, stew of some kind. It looked good, it smelled good and I was ready to eat.

Upon looking in the pot, I asked, "What kind of meat did you put in here?"

He replied, "Beef, chicken, and fish."

"In the same pot?!", I yelled!

I went to the freezer and he had used up two weeks worth of meat for one meal. I was livid. He was unemployed at the time so that made it worse.

I kept thinking, why? Why would he use up all the god damn meat in one stew. It made no fucking sense to me.

One pack of meat per meal and leftovers for lunch or dinner the next day.

Well, that is not how he grew up. Whatever pieces of meat you could find would end up in a pot is how he grew up. We had some serious Black Cultural Differences going on between his Ivory Coast and my North Louisiana.

What stands out is that I found and still find more than one kind of meat in a stew chaotic (unless it is Louisiana Gumbo) and he found and still finds that an orderly way to cook.

He was taking advantage of everything he had in front of him at that moment. I was planning for the entire month. He could not understand or appreciate my way of doing things until he started living alone, working, and figuring out how to enjoy good meals throughout the week without having to eat the same thing all week long.

I need order in my life. I have learned that about myself. Order has to be present in all of my interactions with myself and with society.

When I interact with other human beings, at first greeting, there must be a 'Good Morning' or a 'How do you do'. I must hold myself in a certain place to make the world less cold, more loving, and joyful to the senses.

The Universe is ordered. I want to find and define my place in the universe and do my job just like the planets and the stars.

Jolivette Anderson-Douoning

SPIES LIKE ME: Black American & African Identities in Black Panther, The Movie

Spies Like Me: Black American & African Identities in Black Panther, The Movie
by Jolivette Anderson-Douoning

T'Chaka and N'Jobu are not just brothers, they are two nations, two continents in a relationship that goes back thousands of years.

One brother (the older) stays in Africa to learn from their father how to become king. The other brother (younger one) ventures to America (Oakland, CA) to live and report back to his homeland what is happening. He becomes troubled with the state of those that look like him, those who like him are Africans.

Both brothers have the same mission, the same desire. They want to help 'their people'. However, there is a problem. Their people have been scattered far and long away from the peace and beauty that is their home. Those who stayed are calm, confident, rooted in their traditions with no feeling of obligation to those who are "LOST" to the outside world. Even with information being sent home by "SPIES and the spies sent to spy on spies -- those who know the truth of the homeland but who choose to live in other parts of the world, going on missions to assist the "LOST" ones-- the king of the fictional Wakanda, King T'Chaka and the kings before him chose to NOT use their resources to help those in America (and other places around the world). This becomes a "sin of the father that gets visited upon his son".

While no king is perfect, King T'Chaka's crime, his sin, passed down to his son T'Challa, comes back to haunt T'Challa and could ultimately destroy Wakanda and the world. Cousins would continue the war, the foundational disagreement between two brothers, that resulted in opposing forces claiming the throne. Without giving away details, I will simply say here that IT IS THOSE FORCES, the ones that live in each of us as human beings, that are at play in the movie Black Panther and in the RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN AFRICANS AND BLACK AMERICANS today.

T'Challa says to N'Jadaka, "We can heal you", but N'Jadaka refuses his help on his belief that he would be jailed for the wrong he has done. His next line made me groan and squirm in my seat in the theater to the point of tears. N'Jadaka says to T'Challa, no bury me in the ocean with my ancestors from the Middle Passage, they knew it was better to die than to be in bondage [paraphrase].

Of all the scenes in the film, this one is but the beginning of the pain felt by N'Jobu and I dare say, spies like me who see the pain of the Black American experience. Knowing full well there is a history untold that if / when embraced, can heal our souls because we are NOT the savages America has convinced us to believe we are.

We are what we have become because our humanity was challenged and after so many years many of us have succumb to the terror, torture and pain of generational trauma to the point of seeing the softer, gentler side of ourselves, in harmony with nature and each other, as something weak and powerless.

Now, in this day and age, America (through media, music, etc.) encourages Africans on the Continent to turn away from traditions-- to embrace the survivor's way in the land where they have been historically denied resources to fully uplift and reorient Black identities back toward a place of peace and confidence in knowing ones purpose found in thousands of years of being, quite simply, extraordinary human beings.

To be clear, the role of the colonizer of Africa, America, and other parts of the world were not lost on me as I think about what I saw. These are but first thoughts and are what sticks out as most important to me thus far.

The love story, beautifully built and executed. The honor and respect for elders and Ancestors and the keepers of the culture and traditions, yes, strongly and steadfastly represented throughout. Strangely enough to me, my favorite character was 'little sister' to T'Challa because she acted like I think EVERYBODY'S LITTLE SISTER ACTS all the time (smile).  The White folk not being the heroes and always questioned and not-fully trusted, yep that was in there too. Even the Jabari Tribe in the mountains representing our differences and a people, I felt it all.

But, most importantly, I witnessed the system, the CODES OF CONDUCT WE USED TO WORK THROUGH OUR DIFFERENCES AND DISAGREEMENTS WITHOUT MURDER -- until the 'lost one' brought that pain, that 'why didn't you come help us energy into what we held as SACRED.

Let's think about that.... taking my 11 year old again for a round two of this film to catch nuances we may have missed the first time.

(to be continued)  Love to All and WAKANDA FOREVER!

by Jolivette Anderson-Douoning aka JA the poet warrior

Pussy Peace

PUSSY PEACE (part one)

If you love everything about 'pussy' 

but hate the way it is packaged when it comes to you, 

YOU GOT PROBLEMS.

If you claim to love it, 

everything about it, 

the look, the smell, the taste, don't want one drop to go to waste, 

please explain, 

the chaos in your brain 

when you dread a conversation with the one in possession of 

what you say you need, 

damn near gluttony and greed best explain your appetite --- something ain't right!

How can you HATE everything about me, except --- (wait for it) MY PUSSY?

Misogyny is a much deeper beast than the common folk admit 

while the less common folk build systems that set them up to get all they can get.

I did not choose celibacy, celibacy chose me. I can go months, even years without sex, without the intimate touch of a man. I use to think something was wrong with me, but now I think that I have an allergy.

I AM ALLERGIC TO DICK THAT
DON'T KNOW HOW TO RESPECT MY
HUMANITY,
IN ALL OF HER
GLORY!

Love my brain, my ideas, my thoughts --- like you love pussy!

Love my emotions, my anger, my fears, my insecurities -- like you love pussy!

Love my.... you know what... I have said enough.... if I choose to finish this piece (hee hee , piece) you can read it in my next book of poetry.

I have officially achieved 'Pussy Peace' and I hope everyone who reads this can find 'pussy peace' and 'happy nappies' from this day forward!

Jolivette Anderson 'the poet warrior'

Mind Reflections: What Anita Hill Said at Purdue 9/25/2017

Reflections: What Anita Hill Said at Purdue
by Jolivette Anderson-Douoning

I sat with my daughter Nadja and listened to Anita Hill speak tonight at Purdue University. This is what I recall intellectually and emotionally about her comments on Thurgood Marshall and Clarence Thomas.

Thurgood Marshall laid a foundation for working within American structures and systems toward equality. He was the first Black Supreme Court Justice and when he retired many must have hoped that another Black person would take his place. Well, a Black man did take his place but the quality and character and racial consciousness of the Black man that took Thurgood Marshall's place on the SCOTUS did NOT serve the interest of EQUALITY for Black people in the manner, method, or memory of the late Justice Thurgood Marshall.

Marshall was a 'Race Man'. He acknowledged that Race, Racism, Racial prejudice and biases were present in society and were determining factors in the DENIAL of ACCESS to equal treatment under the law, and I dare say, in all manner of the lived experience in the United States. He worked toward what Dr. Anita Hill called the "Inclusive Community" and he believed that government had a role and responsibility to address the structures and systems that denied ACCESS TO INCLUSION.

When Clarence Thomas was tapped to take the place of Thurgood Marshall, he believed what Ronald Reagan had promoted during his time as POTUS in the 1980s. The now Justice Clarence Thomas believed that EQUALITY is about the INDIVIDUAL. He believed that Black folk should "pull themselves up by their bootstraps" ie work hard and you will rise and succeed, as if there are no barriers to you based on your Race (or gender, geography, etc.)

He believed that the Government should have no role in EQUALITY for individuals. His thinking fell in line with Ronald Reagan's announcement that he would NO LONGER FIGHT the 'War Against Poverty' that previous Presidential Administrations had fought. He then proceeded to wipe out funding for 'social programs' that affected after-school programs, child care programs, food programs, and more. These things should NOT BE THE BUSINESS OF THE GOVERNMENT (emphasis mine). Thus, 'government IS the problem, too much government, they wanted LESS GOVERNMENT in the lives of the INDIVIDUAL.

This 'less government' involvement cry is the gateway for the battle cry for privatization and segregation all rolled into one thing. Let's call it the INTERSECTION OF PRIVATIZATION AND SEGREGATION, but Dr Anita Hill said, you must know each one individually before you can understand the 'Intersectionality' of it all. (EX: I had to taste corn and lima beans separately before I knew they would taste good together in my succotash).

-- Thomas seems to have been and still is claiming that "advocacy for equality" was / is not a governmental issue.

-- Marshall seems to have been claiming that governmental systems and structures hold some people back from access to equality, equal treatment under the law, and the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness".

Clarence Thomas, at that time in history, was being used to prop up what the Reagan Republicans wanted to be a 'New Day on Race in America'. A day that did not hold them accountable, as White men perhaps, for what has been done to Black people since and before the beginning of this country.

The end. (for now)

Levels of Strength (for Jethro and Helen Anderson)

Levels of Strength (for Jethro and Helen Anderson)
by Jolivette Anderson

FIRST DRAFT

I woke up this morning with my mind stayed on THE FREEDOM. My mind is stayed, positioned, locked on the freedom that was created for me by mother based on how she raised me. It seems, it was her job to raise the girls as the chief executive parent while daddy focused on raising the boys, but we all were there together. Each person affecting and influencing both the girls and the boys. It seems they believed that the menfolk had a certain role in the life of the boys and the women folk had a certain role in the life of the girls neither being mutually exclusive because Daddies impact Daughters and Mamas impact Sons.

Back to strength and freedom. My mother gets a lot of credit for the way I think, the way I approach the world with a Fearlessness and Courage, being ever ready to put it all on the line for my people, Black people.

My father gets a lot of credit for the way I think about justice and the systems, the institutions structured to make justice accessible to every human being. The system had its place, it was to make right the wickedness of man against man, especially those wickednesses based on racial animist toward Black people. In short, to avoid the chaos that is always in the world, there needed to be rules to embrace the order that is always in the world with the key understanding that both chaos and order are first and foremost the internal human battle inside of every human and in my fathers view, that internal struggle was mirroring the struggle between God and Devil, good and evil. The church (Christianity) organized their lives to deal with and respond to God and Devil. The government (Democracy in America) organized their lives to deal with and respond to good and evil. One religious and spiritual. The other societal and governmental. Confirmation from BOTH were used in their personal beliefs about marriage, family, and parenting. In the Anderson home it was God and the Government that wielded out justice in different forms and together they represented the nature of God, they mirrored the male and the female aspects of God that make us human.

All of that to say this: Helen Anderson had a reputation for being crazy but strong. A woman who could demonstrate strength and compassion with the tone of her voice and her actions. She was feared by many. Her passion for doing what is right based on all the wrong she endured, the wrong she witnessed as a child growing up in rural Louisiana. The internal wrongs done by us and the external wrongs done to us left their mark on her and she tried to correct it by actively proving it wrong. She worked with children and adults but she focused on children. Things had to be done a certain way, it had to look good, it had to sound pleasant, it had to be respectful, it had to be filled with joy and passion and encouragement. We had to know that we could do things, we could be good at things, we could be successful, we could be better than our current circumstance, status, or situation and to Hell with whomever was in the way trying to block us from becoming better. They would be labeled 'the devil'.

While my words have changed, my attitude is pretty consistent with the way my parents viewed the world. The Devil is real in the workings of human beings, in our treatment of ourselves and each other, in our very inability to see ourselves and each other as humans, being.

My father and mother argued a lot about money. He liked holding on to it, she felt it should be spent on creating opportunities and joy for Black people, not just her own children, everybody's children. Much of what she did, my dad had to foot the shortfall of the finances. Our electricity, phone, gas, water.... NOTHING.... WAS EVER DISCONNECTED when my father was alive. He believed in paying his bills and paying them on time. Mama, not so much. There were always community issues, Black children and adults that needed help and Mama would help them with her monthly pay check. After Dad died, she had to learn how to live a different type of life.

All that to say this: Jethro Anderson had a reputation for being firm, loving, caring, rational, practical, steadfast, hardworking, and more but of all the words I can use to describe my father, the simplest word carries the most weight and intensity. My dad was 'responsible'.

for those that knew them, I wonder if they have ever asked themselves the question, 'If Mrs Anderson was so fierce, so strong, so courageous, so intimidating then what kind of man must my father have been to embrace all that my mother was to so many people? Or, perhaps, they were more alike than any of us realized.

My mother believed she should "obey" her husband. Deep down inside of me, I believe the same thing. It will take a special kind of person to understand what 'obey' means and still be okay with it. At my core,in all the ways I mirror my mother, I understand how deep and profound of a man my father was. He truly believed in God and the Bible as the teachings of how man and woman should behave toward each other. He believed in RULES. One should "know right from wrong and do right over wrong, no matter how difficult it may be.

To make it simple, all money ain't good money. All loving and good loving. There is some shit you just should not do, not say, not be part  or party to because of what will happen to you after you do it or what could happen to your children and your grand children if you do it. There were always consequences to every action and every opportunity.

Daddy did not spread his seed all over the planet. There were rules and consequences about this type of behavior. You lay with a woman you better be prepared to marry her if you get her pregnant because she and that child become your responsibility and they have to have your name.

Mama gave me advice on my failing marriage. She said, "you got a name and that baby got a name and that is all that matters." It took me years to figure out the culture, the codes embedded in that wisdom, and I am still searching for deeper meanings, but what I have figured out so far is that 'having a name', a mans family name meant you belonged not just to that man, you belonged to a group of people that would give you identity, purpose, and direction on your journey in life, if you choose to embrace who you are.

Cipher One: x + y^5 = self

Cipher One: x + y^5 = self
by Jolivette Anderson-Douoning

x= Jolivette Anderson-Douoning, the unknown pieces of She. y^5 = Who am I? What is my purpose? Where did I come from? When will I get to where I am going? Why do I matter?

Who am I?
I am spirit and flesh. I am a continuation and a beginning happening in each measurable moment in time and outside of time. I am energy trapped inside a vessel, moving, constantly, fighting to find the time to be still.

What is my purpose?
My purpose is to be, to embody, to exact, to exchange energy.

Where did I come from (from where did I come?)
Dark matter. The visible invisible liquid that hold the sun, moon, Earth and stars. I come from prayers prayed for better days. I am my Ancestors returned.

When will I get to where I am going?
I am already here, questioning while knowing.

Why do I matter?
I matter because dark matter made itself known to itself. As above, so below. We grow.

When a Women Dies (for Racheal Janet Williams)

A Woman named Rachael Janet Williams was Killed on Creasy Lane  in 2013 and I Heard Nothing About It

by Jolivette Anderson-Douoning

I don't run into very many Black men in Lafayette, Indiana and the ones I do run into often avoid eye contact with me. I assume because there are many interracial couples in this area, and  I assume that my dreadlocks, my cultural garments, and my scent of Egyptian Musk or Patchouli kinda gives brothers pause.

I suspect they think I will give them the 'What you doing with that White girl" look or energy. While I admit that energy has been and on some days still is a part of my thinking, I have matured enough to let people be who they are and not get into their business with my world view, regardless of how evolved or devolved I am on any particular day. But this is not about me, this is about Black Women in general, and what happens when we meet our demise.

I was moving my belongings out of my ex-husband's apartment. I called a moving company and scheduled a date and time. To my surprise, TWO Black men showed up to move my 30 years worth of stuff. Some furniture, mostly boxes of books, family documents, and memories. I was so energized when I saw them that when they asked, 'How you doing?", I said, " I'm Black, that is how I am doing. We all laughed because they were happy to see my big, black self too.

As we often do, we start to chat, the way Black folk chat. I am older than them by quite a few years, one brother was from Indianapolis, the other from Chicago. I said, that is all fine and good, but what part of the South are your people from. Their responses: Itta Bena, Mississippi and Jackson, Tennessee. It was a front porch, sweet potato pie, catfish, and collard greens conversation from that point forward.

Then things took a turn for the Ancestral. One brother told me he was displeased with the local NAACP because he felt they did nothing to help him. I said, well if you need me to do a workshop with some of the folk you know on how to respond to the things that happen in town, how to work the system to seek justice, I would be willing to have those type conversations.

The brother explained that his situation was unique.

My daughter's mother wall killed on Creasy Lane in front of the Discount Tire place. It was early  in the morning, before day. She was run over by a car. We put flowers and stuff out there by a tree near where it happened, it is still there.

I admit, I see street memorials all the time, I never thought I would meet someone who  actually put one up in memory of a loved one in a spot I pass on a regular basis.

Instead of arresting the man who ran over her, they came to his home and picked him up. The driver claimed that "she just came out of no where" so a Black detective put him under investigation for killing his daughter's mother. The man that ran over her never went to jail, no justice at all for Sister Rachel Janet Williams or her family members. This was 2013. I had not heard anything about it. That was a hard year for me too because my mother died in April so I thought that was why I had not heard about it.

The young brother told me there was no article in the paper, no news report, no one held accountable for the death of this woman who left a then 3 year old girl-child behind, the child he is now raising alone with the help of his family.

I was hit really hard emotionally. What if I did not come home to my daughter. Who would raise her? Most importantly, I kept thinking about a Sister I did not know. To my knowledge, I had never met her. A mother. A woman with a warm, loving personality. A woman liked and loved by many. This is how her man, the father of her child described her. I can only think and believe her to be someone special.

To be fair, I am assuming much. I never asked if she was Black, but no matter what, she needs to be acknowledged and remembered for who she was, how she died, where she died, and how sometimes justice does not get served. We all leave an imprint, an energy that says we have been here.

I pray for her daughter, I pray for her family, I pray for the justice she deserves.

Racheal Janet Williams, I speak your name in remembrance of your life lived in Lafayette, IN and anywhere you roamed on the planet Earth.  Who will remember us when we die? A very good brother loved you and he remembers the beautiful things about you. Rest in peace, Rise in Power, your energy lives on. Ase!

When Adisa Foluke died

Twenty Years Ago
July 29, 1997

By Jolivette Anderson-Douoning

On that day, he was sitting in front of me on a charter bus. We were in route to Washington DC to meet with the Congressional Black Caucus. We'd left South Carolina, Oyitunji African Village, the evening before. In retrospect, there were signs.

We were on Interstate 95. I remember Stevie Wonder playing on a boom box, "Hey, Love..."  before I went to sleep.

I remember, waking at some point in the middle of night, leaning forward to tell Adisa Foluke , "I love you Brother". He was staring straight ahead as if he was watching the road, watching our driver, Mr Oliver, or just watching and protecting us.

I remember, waking once again, the sun pierced my eyelids, it was golden, warm, rays on my skin.

Then. I remember. Bumpiness. Rattling sound. Feeling of floating in the air, like in an airplane. But. We were in a bus.  Then. We CRASHED. DROPPED. SLID. into the Nottaway River in Virgina.

My watch stopped at 7:07 am July 29.

That was the moment Adisa died.

Pathways to Freedom Underground Railroad Tour 1997, Rosa and Raymond Parks Institute for Self-Development.

Memories of Me and Love from Family

I was opening act for the Tom Joyner Comedy Revue back in the day (Thanks to Stan Branson )

My brother came to Jackson, MS from TN to support me. We got to meet Jay Anthony Brown backstage.

Funny, Jethro H. Anderson road tripped it to Little Rock, Arkansas to see me open for Patti LaBelle ( Thanks to Arden Barnett ) and Jacqueline Anderson road tripped it to Mississippi to see me open for Brian McKnight ( Thanks to Arden again)

Uh... Arve Anderson you got to catch up... lol.

Seriously though, Arve was stationed at Fort Belvoir on this day 20 years ago. He got the call saying, " Your sister was in that bus that went into that river near Stony Creek, Virginia"

The Army let him hit the road to come see about me. My baby brother held me while I cried, while I tried to process why Adisa had to die.

Jethro, at the time, was expecting his first born son with his wife Jamiletta Chestnut Anderson. They called me 2 weeks later, wanting to have a name with some meaning for that new baby.

I missed the call, but they remembered my pain, they wanted a name that started with the letter J.

I called Nikki Skies and she said  what about 'Jelani'?

I called my brother back he said, "You too late, she named him Jamir, but his middle name is Adisa, after your friend that died. Jamir Anderson middle name Adisa!

**crying**

All this to say, I am so grateful to God, Our Parents, our Ancestors, the community we grew up in and so much more because my siblings take care of me in the good times and the bad.

When I achieve, WE achieve.

When I get this degree, THIS IS OUR PHD!

YES, Jerene, I am looking for a JOB!!!

Tribute to Onyi and Esom (Thank you for welcoming Nadja and I into your lives)

A Tribute to Onyi, Mother of Three (and her daughter Esom)

Sister Friend Onyi and her daughter Esom moved away to Georgia this morning.

Esom showed up one January as the new little Black Girl at school, so Nadja was not alone anymore.

Nadja immediately stepped to her and asked, " Do you want to be my friend?" Esom agreed and they made 'Little Black Girl History' for the past 4 years.

They laughed, argued, cried, consoled, developed crushes, watched their Mamas struggle, bonded in battles against their brothers, yelled and screamed at each other.... the regular journey for girls their age for sure.

But, what makes me cry the most right now is knowing that those moments will stay with them. They cried and hugged last night. I got to crying too, oh it was a mess, but it was progress.

I had no idea that during all the times I was driving these Little Queens-in-Training around that they were actually LISTENING to me.

For the past few days, Esom has been saying, "Tell me a story, you know, like the time Nadja was born or the time you were young, and speak Louisiana" (side eye, I think she means Southern).

I had no idea she loved my southern... accent and stories, just as much as Nadja loves them.

May we adults never underestimate the power of human contact and conversation.

Children still watch and listen and try to become the best ... or the worse... we demonstrate to them. (Which means neither of these Baby Queens will be at a loss for ways, methods, and means to give someone a good cussing out cause they were around me for years, but only when all other methods of sanity and common sense have failed).

Most importantly, I required them to be more than they wanted to embrace. They could say 'hello in about 5 or 6 different languages, but could not say 'hello' in Bété  (Nadja) or in Igbo (Esom) not even in 'Colored or Negro' but that's another Black Culture story.

So, I made Esom get her mom on the phone and Nadja get her dad on the phone to learn how to say hello in their African Ethnic (some say Tribal) tongue. It was so foreign to them they laughed and giggled so I made them put the words to beat with a rhythm.

The next day, they did not remember.... but the fact I made them do it, THEY WILL REMEMBER.

Nadja, you are a Bété / Tikar child, you have an African identity, you are not the empty- headed, souless savage your American identity claims and still tells you to be.

Esom, you are an Igbo/Iduma child, you have an African identity, you are not the empty- headed, souless savage your American identity claims and still tells you to be.

I pray to the Creator that every second you were /are in my presence that you learned how to Love and how to Survive.

Take it to the next level, learn how to thrive, in your skin, in your African Heritage, as it is experienced, as it is lived in America.

I love yall (and your brothers too -- Onyeddi, Ebube, Jean Yves Boa, Djolo, and Jalen and the newest sibling, girlchild, Little Awa too).

I love you all, remember to Love yourself and to be 'YOU',
Mama Jolivette

Twenty Years Ago,
July 8, 1997:

I boarded a flight from Jackson, MS to Detroit, Michigan to work for the Rosa and Raymond Parks Institute for Self Development.

Mrs. Parks liked a poem I had written and recited in her honor when she traveled to Jackson a year earlier (1996) and sent me a message via Theresa, the then manager of Smith Robertson Museum and Cultural Center, offering me an opportunity to work with her youth program, Pathways to Freedom' the next year, if I was interested. I was interested. During her 1996 visit, she requested information about how to reach the Attorney Chokwe Lumumba. She had followed his career from his time in Detroit. Since Nubia Lumumba had taken me under her wing when I was an intern at New Stage Theater, I had his phone number and Mrs Parks had dinner with the Lumumbas while in Jackson. Rukia Lumumba and Mayor Chokwe Lumumba may have memories and images from that dinner.

Flash forward, back to July 1997 --

My Aunt Rosie picked me up from the airport and took me to the Institute. It was on Wildemere Street, the same street name my Aunt Rosie and Uncle George had lived on for decades. I had spent a few summers with them and my cousins Belinda Rogers and Anthony, since I was 3 years old.

This would be a bus tour  from Windsor Canada into Detroit and through several States in the U.S retracing some places and spaces on the Underground Railroad. This would be a 30 day bus tour with Black children ages 11 to 17 whose parents entrusted the Institute with educating them about their heritage as Black American and Black Caribbean children ( two students were from the Bahamas).

I was to be artist, educator, and the person Jethro and Helen Anderson raised. And that is who and what I was.

35 of us set out on this glorious opportunity. Only 34 of us made it back to Detroit alive.

Twenty Years Ago,
July 7, 1997:

I witnessed the first Black Mayor, Honorable Harvey Johnson, be inaugurated in Jackson, MS. I remember two things very clearly about that day.

One, I wanted to read a poem but was told no by the organizers, only to realize why on that day. I witnessed Dr. Margaret Walker Alexander recite a poem for the occassion. I was so humbled and grateful to even be taken seriously as a poet in the same city as Mother Margaret. I bowed down in full genuflect to her with a smile on my face and in full acceptance of my place as one who wanted to be one of her 'literary children'.

Two, the White man with a sign, a placard, that said "No good ever came from letting the slaves take over the plantation!" He was being protected by two JPD police officers, I suspect so no one would whip his ass. Both officers were Black.