2014, Conversation on Race, Thoughts

Ferguson, MO

(AP Photo/Jeff Roberson)

A friend calls

White, blond, Iowa bred

‘Can I ask you something political?’

She tells how her 

sister-in-law-to-be posts

a picture on Facebook.

“She does not understand how one shooting

causes riots. She calls me “liberal”

What do I say? How do I get her to understand?”

The pause is ache. 

“I know from college that to shop

while black, to drive while black,

to live while black is hard.

What do I say? I am so angry with her.”

The silence covers the years of no 

conversations on race. 

A nation inflamed – 

Hands up, don’t shoot 

erupts like a pimple that ached for weeks

on the tender skin that is the American soul.

We don’t talk about it.

We cover it over with accomplishments.

We are post-racial 

(Thanks to a black President 

who is really bi-racial for those who care and black for those who don’t.)

Yet, upstate New York conservatives don’t 

get why one shooting 

brings out what brown skinned folks have known 

for years:

Life while black 

from birth to death.

We are one of two nations with race on the birth certificate.

Marked from the womb to the tomb

You are black whether rich or poor.

The darker the skin, the more easily marked

Yet light skin does not help

When the cop stops you for driving a 

car that is “too good” for you.

“How I got over” – Clara Ward

knew this.

Three women in a Cadillac in Georgia

White men who didn’t like it

Fake possession to avoid

the lynching, killing, robbing

of what was theirs.

Oprah knew this

from Swiss sellers 

who thought she could not afford

the bag, maybe $10,000

A worldwide phenom billionaire

with smooth mocha skin

supporting her sister Tina’s wedding

shut out.

Apologies don’t cover

the race realty for living while black.

No one mentions how media 

makes living black hard,

even among other brown skins that are black

but not born in America.

I tell my friend this. 

She knows she has privilege, 

that no one will follow her out of fear,

but only out of lust or desire.

She has a kind heart and empathy.

It is a hard conversation to have at 9:30 in the morning

when you been up every 90 minutes since 3am

and sleep has granted you reprieve for another 85 minutes

before the phone rings.

How to convey a lifetime of blackness

in twenty minutes before she has to go.

How to say – give your sister-in-law-to-be Peggy McIntosh, 

tell her to read W.E.B. Dubois, 

the story of Matthew Perry, 

Benjamin Baneker, Madame CJ Walker,

knowing that until she has lived as black

she can never know the true depths of 

why Ferguson was not a wake up call

but a reminder of what we fear most:

walking down the street unarmed

and being killed outright for who we are

not what we have done.

We know that if Michael Brown were white

“unrest” would be short

Darren Wilson would have been named in the first 12 hours

arrested

charged

exposed as killer

Not revered as a hero in hiding

Facebook posts asking for protection of his family

as though he is a victim.

We know that if Darren Wilson was black

someone would have taken care of him

and his family

and the media would say nothing

the law would do little

and upstate New York sister-in-law-to-be would say 

justice has been served.

August 24, 2014 – by Clio Ajana

Standard
2014, Ancestors, Sabbat, The Gods

Through the Veils of the Ancestors

cauldron

            As the flavor of smoke and crackling leaves fills the air around my home, I listen to the silence. Halloween is here. I am witch enough to enjoy the secular nature of the holiday; mageia enough to remember with sadness and awe what this time of the year  means to many, myself included. This is a time of remembrance, sometimes with joy, occasionally with tears, but always with the knowledge that the ancestors who have bequeathed us blessings are nearest during this time.

This is the time of the year for Hecatia and Pomonalia, festivals to honor Lady Hecate and the ancients we adore. We honor She of the Crossroads, the path to the Underworld, the revealer of what is hidden. I hear the voice of my grandmother. It is ten years today, since she made her presence known as a Samhain ritual.

I had often wondered whether my devout Baptist grandmother would understand my calling and love for the gods and a type of worship that was far from the monotheism of my childhood and adolescence. Samhain, 2005 answered that question. It was my grandmother’s voice through which Lady Hecate called me to the Craft.

In a nondescript suburban apartment, wreathed with the shadows of the setting sun,  I joined a group of six people from a local eclectic group of pagan students. We gathered around a cauldron, resting upon a low coffee table. The host, Jim, asked me to act as priestess to his role as priest for the reading of the ritual. It was my first time, and I was not sure whether anything would happen. No longer a seeker, I was still skeptical about the visible presence of magic and the ancestors at this time of year. My dreams had been no more vivid than at other times of the year.  Although I prayed daily and talked with the Gods at my altar regularly, no spirits knocked on my door or messed up items in my home or mark my consciousness in any way. My ancestors were silent. The one thing I do remember about that evening, was asking for a sign. I just wanted to know that I was on the right path as a witch. Was this a phase with people whose company I enjoyed, or was there more to it than that?

After lighting the candles, closing the drapes, and circling the cauldron, the host, Jim, asked me to act as priestess to his role as priest for the reading of the ritual. The presiding deities were Isis and Aphrodite. Being new to the Craft, I did not know yet which deities were called for which purpose or at which time of the year. This would be the first of three rituals in three different traditions that I would attend in three days to honor the season and my ancestors.

As I read the words on the sheets, I felt a keen wind and silence, even though the room was warm with carpet fibers nestling between my toes and the candle flames barely flickering.  Jim had paused to start some music, a type of keening wail reflective of the evening. We gathered in a circle and held hands to open the portal. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure about what would come out or even if we’d done it correctly. We each stared into the black murky liquid for several moments before stepping back. Others looked quickly. When I gazed, with fear, into the cauldron, I thought nothing was happening.

Then I heard a voice from my past.

“Don’t forget the old ways.”

The gravelly whisper with a whine, a particular drawl born of Smithfield, Virginia and a later life lived on the Chesapeake Bay, took me back to 1999, when she died.

Grandma? I remember thinking that of all the ancestors, she would be the last one to expect. Looking back now, I can see that my grandmother’s presence was perfect: she was the one who gave me advice to love and enjoy life, from menstruation, through sex through marriage, through children, family and finally death.  She also loved to talk, so if any other ancestor was attempting to get through, I could hear her pushing them aside.

“We love you. You need to write about the old ways.”

I was startled.  Her voice was warm and real, as if she was in front of me. I felt her touch on my arm. I looked up to see her face, and she was gone. I touched my face. The tears flowed so hard that Jim came and asked what was wrong, quickly guiding me to a chair. I looked around. Everyone else seemed unaffected, as though they saw nothing unusual.  For a few moments, I thought I was going crazy.  Did it  really happen? Had my grandmother just given her blessing to my new life as a Pagan? Or was I just hallucinating because I wanted to believe so badly in the ancestors and their presence at this time of year?

That night, after a very quick feast, I went home where my dreams were smooth, restful, and filled with the voice of my grandmother. Although it has been ten years, I have heard her at times of spiritual dis-tress, in the fall, in the season of Hecatia and Pomonalia. She continues to reassures me that the job of remembering the old ways, and the ancestors is an honor that does not end. I shed tears freely when I hear her through the veil. Now, I put a bit extra out on the altar to honor all my ancestors, including her.

11/2/2014 by Clio Ajana

Standard
2014, Prison Ministry, The Gods, Thoughts, Uncategorized

Memories, Apologies and Veneration

As the moon continues its waxing course, while the chronological year draws to a close, there is much in the air to remember. Today, on my way to my regular prison ministry visit, a local talk show aired a segment about the most memorable public apologies made during the year 2014. Often an apology can range from the “Don’t do as I did, learn from my mistakes” category to the “My bad” non-apology apology to a nagging silence that can a gaping wound in the psyche of the one who needs and deserves the apology.

Photo Dec 31, 6 24 13 PMThis is the time of year when many look for new paths, beginnings or a fresh start. Apologies can be brief, with the saying “off with the old, on with the new” being the catch phrase to absolve our own conscience or those of others who might not want to reflect upon the pain or unresolved issues of 2014.  Yet, this should be the very time that we consider apologies, those others gave to us, those we made to others, and most of all, those we wish we had made, but did not. Perhaps we ran out of time through the death of a loved one. Others could not turn back the clock due to a move to another locale, hundreds or even thousands of miles away.  Some chose the “let sleeping dogs lie” rationale to counter the voice of one’s own conscience that reminds the heart of a needed apology.

One lesson that I have learned through my visits to men, incarcerated for years, and sometimes decades, is that an apology is not just a saying or a brief “I’m sorry” hastily given.

Instead, these men have reminded me how in Paganism, in the Craft, or in any tradition, self-reflection and self-accountability are key to a strong religious practice.  Yes, many will say that they came to a particular aspect of Paganism because they hate organized religion; however, I have not yet found a Pagan path or tradition that does not emphasize some aspect of knowing the self and making amends, either through action, words or both, as a part of an ethical framework. There is something in the human condition, regardless of religious or spiritual path that cries out for fairness, balance and redress when a perceived slight has occurred. For most of us, that comes down to a sincere act of reflection and awareness of the impact of our words or actions on others. An apology can be the very act that demonstrates to the recipient the true nature of the giver.  When we apologize in sincerity, we are saying that we know and are aware of our flaw in a certain area, that we publicly declare our remorse for said action, and that we intend to change our future behavior to reflect this newfound recognition.  This is also a lesson that is given in many so-called “organized” religions.

Today, I saw men who were attempting to grapple with the depths of human emotion for actions committed years or decades earlier. Their reflections on 2014 were based in part on improvement in their relationships with each other and their families. Some placed their remorse on the page, while others recollected their successes trusting others to accept their verbal confessions. These mens’ lives are incredibly structured and at times, it is only the perceived sincerity of an apology by those around them that will help to move them a fraction of a step closer to eventual release. Some crave the freedom to do what many of us are able to do freely: demonstrate awareness of our remorse publicly with the knowledge that our apology is received and accepted in kind.   Others remain haunted by the first step towards a genuine apology: remembrance of the words or actions that require the apology.

It is in memory that we reflect and grow as humans.  For those who are on Facebook, there is a commonly seen item on news feeds of late:  X’s Year in Review. You are invited to see your particular friend’s year in pictures and quotes. In a way, Facebook is allowing its users to take a step to see the good and bad of a particular year. For those who live on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat and the like, technology provides the tools either to recall good times or to express a sigh of relief at the “oops” moments swiftly deleted from public memory – and ours.

courtesy of pixabay.com

As the year closes, we can see our memories and make promises to do better. This brings to the surface the matter of veneration. We honor and revere our Gods and our ancestors through the acts of memory, acknowledgement and apology. Regardless of one’s path, the ethical and personal connection with the ancestors and Gods is strengthened by the choices made in these areas. This year’s Winter Solstice on December 21 (in the US, December 22 01:36am GMT) was also a Dark Moon at zero degrees Capricorn, an auspicious time to sweep the slate clean and to begin major undertakings for the year 2015.  Capricorn signifies, among other things, discipline and commitment.  We do both when we choose to remember and to apologize.  I am grateful to the men who shared freely of their own remembrances of 2014 with honesty and the understanding that trust and faith in the Gods means being ready to move forward in awareness and apology.  May we each have the same courage as we begin 2015.

12/31/2014 by Clio Ajana

Standard
2014, 2015, Conversation on Race

Ferguson, MO

A friend calls

White, blond, Iowa bred

‘Can I ask you something political?’

She tells how her

sister-in-law-to-be posts

a picture on Facebook.

“She does not understand how one shooting

causes riots. She calls me “liberal”

What do I say? How do I get her to understand?”

The pause is ache.

“I know from college that to shop

while black, to drive while black,

to live while black is hard.

What do I say? I am so angry with her.”

The silence covers the years of no

conversations on race.

A nation inflamed –

Hands up, don’t shoot

erupts like a pimple that ached for weeks

on the tender skin that is the American soul.

We don’t talk about it.

We cover it over with accomplishments.

We are post-racial

(Thanks to a black President

who is really bi-racial for those who care and black for those who don’t.)

Yet, upstate New York conservatives don’t

get why one shooting

brings out what brown skinned folks have known

for years:

Life while black

from birth to death.

We are one of two nations with race on the birth certificate.

Marked from the womb to the tomb

You are black whether rich or poor.

The darker the skin, the more easily marked

Yet light skin does not help

When the cop stops you for driving a

car that is “too good” for you.

“How I got over” – Clara Ward

knew this.

Three women in a Cadillac in Georgia

White men who didn’t like it

Fake possession to avoid

the lynching, killing, robbing

of what was theirs.

Oprah knew this

from Swiss sellers

who thought she could not afford

the bag, maybe $10,000

A worldwide phenom billionaire

with smooth mocha skin

supporting her sister Tina’s wedding

shut out.

Apologies don’t cover

the race realty for living while black.

No one mentions how media

makes living black hard,

even among other brown skins that are black

but not born in America.

I tell my friend this.

She knows she has privilege,

that no one will follow her out of fear,

but only out of lust or desire.

She has a kind heart and empathy.

It is a hard conversation to have at 9:30 in the morning

when you been up every 90 minutes since 3am

and sleep has granted you reprieve for another 85 minutes

before the phone rings.

How to convey a lifetime of blackness

in twenty minutes before she has to go.

How to say – give your sister-in-law-to-be Peggy Macintosh,

tell her to read W.E.B. Dubois,

the story of Matthew Perry,

Benjamin Baneker, Madame CJ Walker,

knowing that until she has lived as black

she can never know the true depths of

why Ferguson was not a wake up call

but a reminder of what we fear most:

walking down the street unarmed

and being killed outright for who we are

not what we have done.

We know that if Michael Brown were white

“unrest” would be short

Darren Wilson would have been named in the first 12 hours

arrested

charged

exposed as killer

Not revered as a hero in hiding

Facebook posts asking for protection of his family

as though he is a victim.

We know that if Darren Wilson was black

someone would have taken care of him

and his family

and the media would say nothing

the law would do little

and upstate New York sister-in-law-to-be would say

justice has been served.

Standard