Clever Disguises

I was speaking with an old friend today; a friend that I have known since I was an idealistic twenty-something. We had been through the end of the 60’s, the hopeful 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and onto a new millennium. This morning, while a downpour kept me from weeding my garden, we reflected upon the fact that nothing has changed…not really and that sometimes the labels we give things change but we need to look more deeply into the TRUTH of what they are.

For instance, I lived in Liberia, West Africa for 11 years and escaped during the early months of the tragic Liberian Civil War. People call that heroic, I certainly didn’t feel hero-ish. What I felt like was a person responding in the best way possible to protect my family. And while that experience, at least on the surface, seemed unique at the time; I don’t see what happens in West Africa and South Africa worlds apart from the happenings on the West Side and the South Side of Chicago.

Is there really a difference between the disregard for the development of “ethnic” human capital in Liberia and colonial South Africa to what is happening to youth in Chicago, particularly on the South and West Sides? HOW can the crime rate be at its lowest in 14 years according the superintendent of police, while residents of the South and West Sides of the city live in constant fear? That not only points to, it screams, at something deep and systemic that needs addressing. More police can’t fix this.

By systemic I mean, the school system, the social services system, the system of state, county, city government and the criminal 'just us' system need fixing. I would submit that what is happening on the West and South Sides of Chicago (and elsewhere among people of darker hues and lower class) are really cups of “the same soup being poured deceptively into different bowls.”

I am DONE TALKING.

What I have decided to DO is:
1. to snitch on anyone hurting my community that I’m aware of
2. to continue to inspire and educate my older children and to support them in raising my grands
3. to work with others that want to reclaim the south side community that I call home
4. to help the young men that live nearest to me to find a better path forward

Perhaps crime will continue to rise (on the South and West Sides of the City), and perhaps our children will continue to be fed into the system of slavery that is cleverly disguised as the criminal “justice” system. But at least I will be able to rest my head on my pillow at night knowing that I DID what I felt capable of DOING.

For every person that reads this post, I would challenge you to look into your life and decide not what you can say, but what you are willing to DO.

Leap Forward...Alone!

The idea for this blog entry stems from a text I got from one of my daughters last night asking simply, “Can you skate?” Wise sage that I am, I saw beyond the simplicity of the inquiry to my daughter’s wish to find a fun activity and someone with which to share this activity. I responded, “yes I do skate a bit, do any of your friends skate?” The answer was “no.” Now I hear the real issue which is “Mom, there is something I think I want to try, but I’m nervous about doing it alone. Bingo! My sons each have their own hobbies. One is an inventor, and car refurbisher, the other is an accomplished body builder. But, alas, my three daughters inherited my shyness DNA. This blog is for them. Even as I approach the mid-point of my sixth decade, I totally understand the desire to have a companion, a road-dog, a sister friend, a partner, as you uncover life’s delights. Women, at least some of us, like to do things together and tend to avoid doing activities alone. Haven’t you noticed that we often go to the bathroom to tinkle, hair-comb and reapply our makeup together! However, I have learned to follow where my inner voice leads, even when I have to do it alone. The funny thing is I’ve always found friends along the way. In the 70’s as an aspiring young poet, I wanted to take writing /acting lessons and there was no peer support. I moved ahead and landed in the inaugural class of Ebony Talent Theater(renamed eTA), and in that artistic incubator, found mentors in Harold Okoro Washington, Walter Bradford, and friendship in artist/thespian and eta creative director Runako Jahai, and fellow writer Dexter Johnson. Relationships that shaped my creative life. The lynchpin for my book, Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot, came from reaching out in 1980 in Liberia, to work for the Liberian National Red Cross, outside of the safety and comfort of the African Hebrew Israelite Foundation, the group through which I came to Liberia. It meant embracing the challenge of working alone in the Liberian community for over 10 years. Again, my inner voice as my north star, provided me a life enriching opportunity. Around 2004, when I wanted to take riding lessons, my friends were not interested. So off I went alone on an enchanting six lesson journey to feeling very comfortable around horses. That was not an area of mastery for me but I know that if I choose to focus on riding, I’d enjoy it. There have been many instances when no one else was interested in things I wanted to do. Somehow, even though I was reluctant, often fearful,I ventured forward alone. I’ve tried tennis, became a runner, learned to step, and even most recently, developed a passion for swimming. When I think of how uneventful and frustrating my life would have been without each one of those side trips I cringe. So to my daughter(s) and to anyone who hesitates to take a journey that their inner voice has placed in their heart, for fear of taking the journey alone, I say take a chance! Journal about that journey, savor your bravery, and finally, reflect upon the power being willing to walk a path alone brings to your life. Leap forward, even if you have to do it alone! visit my website at www.sweetliberia.com or purchase my book on www.amazon.com

GIVING THANKS

SOMETIMES you need the luxury of time to realize just how far you have come. November 24, Black Friday, as others were shopping for deals I realized I finally had sufficient time to comb through my junky basement and organize the tools, paint cans, assorted hardware and boxes of books, ceramic dishware, personal writings and photographs that form the substance and clutter of my life. I made three piles: •Items for the trash •Items for donation to the Salvation Army •Items precious enough to keep. I found myself reliving some wonderful poetry that I had written several years before and found that years later it still touched my hears and reminded me of a delightful experience that I had lived or lived through. KEEP. I found the old water pump for my boiler and college term papers. TOSS. I came across books that I had purchased and would never read and books that I had used extensively with marked up and folded pages. DONATE. And in the midst of the boxes I had packed up and removed from my kitchen years ago I found five boxes of beautiful white ceramic formal dinnerware of assorted sizes that had been given to me from the Salvation Army. August 1990 we had been repatriaated to America after eleven years in Liberia. April 1st, 1991 we moved into our own home with donated cots, a few items of clothing from the resale store and the joy of being together. The dinnerware set about a chain of memories that helped me to remember what having nothing really means, or does not. AFTER months of living in fear in Liberia, we had finally escaped to the American Embassy, been taken to Sierra Leone and then repatriated to New York (read my book “Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot,” if you want to know how and why we got out of Liberia in the first place). When we got to New York I had $10.00 U.S. That was all the money we had in the world. As we waited at JFK Airport for a connecting flight to Chicago’s O’Hare airport, the three bedraggled children that repatriated with me from war torn Liberia saw an ice cream vendor and their brown eyes looked at me without asking. The logical response for a woman with only a $10 dollar hole card would have been “NO.” However, my babies had survived a war, they had lived with the sound of gunfire as their lullaby, toted water on their heads while hearing gunfire in the distance. They had shared their food with a friend starving from malaria. They had left behind everything they knew in the world, except me. In that moment I knew that my children deserved security, safety, love, and they damn sure deserved ice cream. I took not only our last money, but our ONLY money and bought us Ice cream! TWENTY-TWO years later, we are all in such a different place. My five children, the three that repatriated with me and the two that had come ahead of us, are wonderful productive adults with beautiful, smart children of their own. My family is blessed in measurable and immeasurable ways. Black Friday, as I combed through my basement, it brought sheer joy to my heart to label those five boxes of cherished white ceramic plates; plates upon which I had served my family and friends, DONATE. I AM THANKFUL to be able to return the dishes and many other items to the Salvation Army to provide to others who will need them. To God Be the Glory. visit my website at www.sweetliberia.com

Liberian Independance Day-A Perspective

Saturday, August 4, 2012

As the woman who has lived in Liberia, West Africa for eleven years and the author of "Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot", a 318 page memoir about that life, I have a close and fairly unique vantage point of Liberia. As a matter of fact, I was born on the south side of Chicago at a Catholic Hospital that no longer exists and if it did, they would be chasing my daddy to pay for my birth because, as my mother tells it, my dad sneaked us out without ever paying the bill! He was a wonderful, adventurous man, but, well, bill paying wasn't his thing. But I digress, the point of this post is that I'm going to claim the right to speak a bit about Liberia because after living and working and bearing three of my children there, I have put something good into that pot. Some of my Liberian friends may be annoyed by what I'm going to say next, but friends speak the truth to friends, or else they are not really friends. I see the civil turmoil, ignorance, poverty and lack of economic development that the President of Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, is struggling to overcome and it seems so simple to me that Liberians, in the interest of progress need to find a way to overcome the bitter divisions that led to a war that began in December of 1989 with a 'rebel incursion' and spun into a horrific civil war, from which Liberia is struggling to recover. There is much work that needs to be done to help Liberia and I know many Liberians and Americans who feel that way. But, but the plain truth is that the greatest barrier to Liberia's rise is Liberians! With a Liberian community in Chicago of thousands, the Community would not, come together to host a unified Liberian Independence Day celebration. There was a celebration hosted by the Liberian Community Association of Illinois (LCAI) in one part of town and another hosted by the Organization of the Liberian Community in Illinois (OICI) in another part of town. Last year when I learned there were two celebrations, I was a good soldier and hauled my daughter and her Liberian partner to both celebrations. I'm not saying that there can't be two celebrations, but I don't get a sense of Unity and cooperation between the two groups. Whenever I ask my Liberian friends about the division I get a polite answer that shifts the discord to the other group and the responsibility to bring unity elsewhere. This year as I was preparing myself to attend both Liberian Independence Day Celebrations I stopped in my tracks and just could not do it! If we can't create a vision of UNITY here in Chicago, how can we ever expect to see that out pictured in Liberia? I have great respect for the leadership of both groups. They have lovingly embraced me as their sister, validated my experiences in Liberia and helped me feel a part of a beloved community. I care for them very much and so I say to my friends in both groups, "having different goals and a different focus is sometimes necessary, but not working collaboratively to create an event that lifts the celebration of your countries Independence Day to a higher more dignified level, not setting the example of UNITY is, in my opinion, just plain wrong. I'd be happy to have Liberians push back on me here, I actually invite it because I'm not judging, I'm seeking information. Last Saturday, as the Republic of Liberia celebrated its 165th day of Independence in two separate gatherings in Chicago, I lamented the fact that with the thousands of talented Liberians in Chicago a really unified effort around this important day, could make a splash in this city! A multi-day event that could command television news coverage, perhaps featuring a cultural extravaganza, showcase West African Cuisine, offer a day or two of seminars on investment in Liberia, showcase the reports of various successful development efforts in Liberia, draw Liberians from other parts of the country, and reenergize the Liberian community spiritually. But an event like that would take UNITY. On behalf of myself and my family I will say that I will not attend another separate Liberian Independence Day event in Chicago.

What is a Global Life?

One of my important long-range goals is to ultimately have a Global Life. That to me means learning another language and feeling comfortable traveling back and forth between this country and other countries to do some work.

To me embracing a global life is different than taking a vacation to an exotic destination. It means figuring out how to make a contribution here (in the U.S) and also in another country. I've not figured out what that means, but I am clear that broader solutions are always stickier that the 'black and white' truths we often come up with, and I have some time to ponder the idea.

I'm sure that many others have an idea of what a globally relevant life is. I'm interested to have you share your thoughts.

Box of Chocolates...What's Next!

I will take a few words from Forest Gump and say that, "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get."

That's so true. January 1, 1990 I was absolutely convinced that I was going to be able to remain in Liberia, West Africa, despite the fact that Charles Taylor and his army of 'rebels' had crossed over into Liberia and were fighting their way towards Monrovia, Liberia's capital. Then, I was sure that my future and the future of my 5 children lay in Liberia. In the school we were building, in the life we were planning. However, that was not the case. I eight months I would be once again living on the South side of Chicago, looking for my daily bread.

August 8, 1990 I got one of my many wake up calls proving to me that life is always changing and to be successful and happy you/we/all must change with life. I could have refused to leave Liberia, because after all, I HAD A PLAN! or I could do as my spirit led me... submit and go with the plan that my God had for me and my family. That plan, once I got in tune, brought us out of an escalating Civil War, through armed check points and rocket blasts, safely back into the arms of my loving family and friends. I am so very blessed to have listened to God's plan. One of my favorite thoughts about change and seeking to understand, comes from a song that jazz singer Dianne Reeves sings, "Be Still, Stand In Love, Pay Attention." Blessings for the New Year.

FREE Chapter of Sweet Liberia

Beginning At The End

August 8, 1990, Liberia West Africa


Massive Embassy gates clanged shut behind us. My heart filled with joy. In several weary steps, my family and others with the good fortune of surviving the trip to the American Embassy in Liberia, had instantly been transported from the barbaric civil war in West Africa, to the United States of America. Throngs of starving, ragged, and terrified Liberians, along with Africans from various tribes, clamored outside the gates. I could only say a prayer for them.

I am not sure what made me—maybe the adrenaline from fear and anxiety—but I looked up, and out of a dozen faces, I focused keenly on one particular marine perched on the perimeter wall of the Embassy. I was struck that he looked more like a red-faced teenager than a soldier. In the next instant, I saw him transform from a relaxed young man into a man preparing for battle. A shrill alert blared from the siren, his eyes widened and jaw hardened. The sound of speeding jeeps and machine gun fire permeated the air. The rebels were boldly attacking the Embassy of the United States of America!

Instinctively we hit the ground. Crawling along the concrete walkway toward the U.S. Consulate’s office was no easy task. The sound of machine gunfire assailed our eardrums. When all was quiet, only the coppery smell of spent ammo prevailed, we received the “all clear” and rose cautiously.
“Ms. Rahm!”
I spun around coming face to face with Ray, a Peace Corps worker once assigned to the Liberian National Red Cross. Today, he was dressed in civilian clothes, but wore a sidearm and the hardened gaze of a man accustomed to killing. Secretly, I had always believed he was CIA. Grinning, he revealed the familiar cracked front tooth as he waved a quick hello. Dazed at seeing him out of context, but relieved at the renewed feeling of safety, I feigned a smile.

Once inside the U.S. Embassy Consulate’s office, he lingered, personally expediting our group’s paperwork. His rank spared us the bureaucratic cruelty of repatriation, ordering that my children and I were not to be separated under any circumstances. Good never loss. I reflected upon the Liberian adage which, simply put, means the good you do comes back to you.

Ray had been a complete asshole as a Peace Corps worker. Supposedly, he had been stationed at the Red Cross Headquarters in Liberia to help develop additional revenue flow to confront our ever- growing financial problems. He came in like a whirlwind and was quickly promoted to Senior Staff where his brashness and lack of tact wreaked havoc on everyone’s nerves. Yet, whenever he visited the Red Cross Day Care Center, he seemed to transform into a softie, displaying a gentle, patient attitude. I was the Director of the Center, and during the children’s naptime, he would often stop by my office to sit and express his frustration with Liberia and its people. We would chat about the things we missed about good ole America, a place I had secretly vowed to leave behind forever.

Today, Ray’s face and squinting brown eyes brought a feeling of relief and gratitude for his influence.
Ray, with my youngest daughter in his arms, led my bedraggled family to the ocean side of the Embassy.
“Well, now I know the answer to why you aren’t married, dude,” I quipped.
“Yep, war is what I do.”
“So what now?”
“I’m on my way to Somalia,” he said, instinctively feeling for his holster. Our final words were clipped short as two C-130 military helicopters landed, making the palm trees bow low and our clothing blow against our bodies. As we boarded, I looked back one last time and thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

The copter crew was swift, outfitting us with helmets to protect our ears from the deafening sound of the propeller blades slicing through the humid air. Relieved and unafraid, I peered through the portals as we took off, looking down on the ground and then the ocean below. It was unlike any experience my children ever had, but then the last few months had been full of uncertainty, most of it terrifying. My youngest son, Zefron, dressed in a yellow and black Haywood Academy uniform that complimented his honey hued skin, sat wide-eyed, scanning the inside of the copter. The gunner, positioned to squelch enemy ground fire, added to the surreal effect.

In moments, we were flying over the Atlantic Ocean. A crewmember mentioned that two rescue copters would be making multiple trips to airlift delinquent refugees out of Liberia that day. I was grateful that Ray had used his influence to enable my family to leave together since that was not always the case. A woman and her son were huddled across from me, he seemed like just a baby compared my children. The child gagged, then vomited, perhaps from motion sickness, but more than likely from fear; while my girls, EliTikvah and Zevah, sat poised. I could only wonder what they were thinking.

This morning they had risen, like any other day, with the sun shining through their window of our cozy home on Chubor Road. Would that be the last time they slept in their beds in the place they had called home for so long? Where would we go from here? What was in store for our futures? War had changed us. War had changed everything.

Occasionally one of my children would look around; anxiety in their dark brown eyes, and in the tense set of their young shoulders. “Are you all right, baby?” I would ask. They would nod and all would be fine until their next anxious moment.

Sitting in the copter, I bore the full burden of my decision to remain in Liberia when all other American citizens, including my eldest son, daughter, and granddaughter, had been evacuated two months prior. How had it come to this? Amidst the relief I felt for my family, I also harbored deep feelings of remorse and shame for leaving friends behind, including “Ma Seeton” who had been like a mother to me; my granddaughter’s father; my business partner; and Chris, who was so much like a son to me.

Several months earlier, Liberians listened by candlelight to a man describing the fate of their beloved country. Rumors abounded that a U.S. submarine was harbored off the coast of Liberia. The people hoped and prayed that America would intervene in the war and spare their country, colonized by free Blacks from America in 1821, from a Civil War that would catapult it backwards fifty years. However, trouble had erupted in the Middle East and America rushed to protect its oil interest in the Persian Gulf, turning its back on its friend, Liberia. Now months later, I closed my eyes and thought of the ancient Ghanaian symbol, ‘Gname,’ that means, “No one knows the beginning or ending of anything except God.” For the remainder of the helicopter ride, I repeated the mantra over and over, trying to find a sense of peace, which would take years to come.
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Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot is for sale at online bookstores in paperback and electronically formatted for the Kindle, Nook and Ipad. You can also purchase autographed copies of my book and get additional information about the author from my website at www.sweetliberia.com. Follow sweetliberia11834 on twitter.