A HYENA TALE

The scent of the dying wildebeest drove the hyena pack deep into open fields near the river.  This was where the lionesses hunted.  If she hurried the pack could bring down the animal, eat most of it and scatter before the pride arrived.  There were pups to be fed.

The wildebeest was thrashing about, trapped in a mud hole. White Spot, the leader, divided the pack into two groups.  Her group attacked from the front, the other group attacked from the rear. The kill was over in minutes. 

Split-Ear, the oldest and slowest of the pack, would be among the last to eat. She stood at a distance from the others watching them tear chunks of flesh from the wildebeest carcass. While they fed, Split-Ear nervously paced in a small circle, sniffing the air. This was lion territory. If game was not so scarce in the fields north of the river, the pack’s traditional hunting grounds, they would have avoided this place. Split-Ear’s low-pitch cackling reassured the pack nothing was amiss; they engorged themselves, leaving very little for the lower-ranking hyenas.

Split-Ear heard the snapping of dry grass; she stood up on her hind legs sniffing the air. Lions! She screamed an alarm, a series of screeching cackles that sounded to the human ear like bouts of hysterical laughter. The old hyena ran toward the pack but was cut down in mid-stride by a lioness that leapt from the darkness sinking her teeth into Split-Ear’s throat.

White Spot rallied the pack with combinations of growls and shrill cackles.  Unlike Split-Ear, her alarm was not one of fear it was a reminder the survival of the pack depended on each animal’s will to fight. White Spot knew there was a good chance the pack would not prevail against the lionesses. What hope there was depended upon the ferocity of the pack. She greeted the lionesses with a defiant deep-throat cackle and charged.

Tarabu heard the lionesses’ roars come across the open field into the low mountains where he was resting. He stood up. Something was wrong. He started down the mountain at a fast trot.  As he drew closer he smelled hyena and heard the cackling of the retreating pack. His trotting run turned into a fast gallop. By the time he reached lionesses he had passed the remains of Ijoma, the lioness who raised him after his mother was killed by poachers, and two young, hyenas. His mate, Alele, was standing over Ijoma licking the dead lioness’ wounds.

Tarabu ran past the pride in search of White Spot, He and the hyena leader had crossed paths before. He had let her live this long because of the great deference she showed to the pride’s territorial boundaries. Tonight White Spot had broken the truce. Tarabu could not allow her to escape punishment, too much damage had been done. White Spot would have to die.

Once he found White Spot’s scent, it was easy to track her. She had been moving toward the den, a cave hidden behind a patch of jarrah trees, but suddenly veered away from it. She was moving slow. Tarabu smelled blood in the air; the hyena leader was injured.

White Spot waited for the lion on top of an abandoned anthill. She was bleeding too heavy to outrun him. If she was lucky, she might inflict enough injuries to convince Tarabu to leave her pack alone.

The lion saw White Spot standing on the anthill, snarling in an attack position. He rushed toward her. Using his speed and weight he slammed into her, knocking the injured hyena off the mound. Before White Spot could recover he attacked, breaking her back with a single swipe of his great paw.. 

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The Hyena Tale is a modern fable, a story that illustrates what it is like being a woman running counter to a male patriarchal system. Hyena women are females who either by genetics or circumstances spend a good part of their lives laboring under the weight of negative perceptions and labeling. Like White Spot, the hyena leader, these strong, assertive, independent and immensely capable women live in a state of “high anxiety”, always aware of the fact male dominated cultures will tolerate their non-conforming lifestyles and behaviors only to a point; incurring the wrath of the lions, strong males in positions of power, invariably places hyena women at great risk of having their backs broken.

There are stories and songs I would love to share with a pack of hyena women; I envision the pack sitting around a campfire, eating and drinking, singing loudly and dancing until we drop from exhaustion.

That’s when I would share my tales of life, love and loss as a hyena woman living among lions. It would be my way of embracing each one and saying, “the world is a far more fascinating and vibrant place because you are here.”

The Organic Garden Acolyte: Sowing Seeds

Today my stepfather, Pop Lyles, and I will seed our garden. Although I originally planned to grow okra, collard greens and chili peppers, those plans changed. Pop Lyles bought packets of mustard greens and carrots instead of okra and chili peppers because he said the latter require more water and, therefore, more gardening time. His explanation makes sense to me. I am an eager apprentice. I want to soak up as much of his knowledge as I can..

When we arrive at the garden, it is late afternoon; the sky is clear and the autumn sun is kind to us--there is plenty of sunshine minus the usual scorching heat. The compost-rich, dark top soil from our last visit is greyish-brown and dry looking--not exactly ready for planting.

"Pops," I say anxiously , "I think we are going to have to water first."

"Oh, no, we're okay," he replies using the spade to make a 2 inch deep gash in the top soil exposing the dark, moist earth beneath it. He makes three identical length furrows with the spade, creating three long garden rows. Tearing open the packet of collard seeds,  he drops to his knees and inches down the furrow closest to him dropping seeds into it. I open the packet of mustard green seeds and  emulate him, dropping to the ground on my knees. Almost immediately a sharp pain radiates from my knees to my thighs forcing me to change positions.  I stoop as close to the ground as I can and begin dropping seeds into one of 2 remaining rows. A gust of wind jettisons the tiny seeds from my hand into the air. Most land in the furrow but some are carried away. My back aches from stooping so close to the ground. I pause to take a rest break.  Glancing over my shoulder, I see Pop Lyles sowing carrot seeds at a steady pace. He makes it look easy. I shake a few more seeds into my hand and realize I am almost out of them.  "Oh no!" I think to myself, "I still have about 5 feet of furrow left to finish." I decide to increase the spacing between my seeding drops and to use fewer seeds. The strategy works. I am relieved when I drop the last of the seeds into the ground at the end of my row.

Pop Lyles covers the seeds in each furrow with top soil and uses the rake to level the ground.

Satisfied with our work, Pop turns to me and says, "Okay we're done. "

"The timer will keep the water going and the ground wet. We'll check on things a couple times a week but for now we just got to wait and let nature do the rest," he says picking up the spade and rake and heading toward the gate.

I look at our plot and smile. I picture the newly sown seeds germinating beneath the ground; shooting thread-like-roots into the earth to absorb the rich nutrients needed to grow, but then I think about how wild and random my row of plants will look when they finally sprout.  I suppose that's how it should be. I am an apprentice for a reason.

The Organic Garden Acolyte: Tilling The Soil

I am not a gardener yet. I have a lot of ground to cover before I am confident enough to go it alone. Yet, I cannot hide my excitement at being here, in this place of secret desire, stooped over close to the ground, pulling weeds and tilling the soil. There is something powerful and primal about working a piece of land. No artist's brush can capture the vitality of spirit, the deep sense of belonging I feel standing with a rake in my hand. rooted to the tiny plot of land I intend to turn into a garden.

 I am a knowledge junkie so my gardening journey began in the pages of books a decade ago. At the time, I was troubled by the fact I couldn't seem to grow anything except tumors. Beautiful plants brought home from the nursery soon withered and died. The more I studied the relationship between humans and plants, the more convinced I was the toxicity of my lifestyle was responsible for both my health problems and my killing way with plants.

I made an immediate decision to change my life, to figure out how to create a nurturing environment that could sustain me and my plants. I am still learning to "cha-cha" through this work in progress, 2 steps forward 1 step back, but I have slowed down enough to be more consciously present and connected to my life. I pay attention to and care for the plants in my home and they in turn care for me. Walking into a room with lots of green foliage is life affirming; the mood shift toward calm, positive thoughts is a gentle reminder of nature's hold over us. 

My step-father and my mother are my gardening partners.  My mother's expertise is more in the food preparation part of this project; she knows a lot about making things grown in a garden taste great on your plate. My step-father, Pop Lyles, has a 100-acre farm still in production so he knows his way around a garden. I simply follow his lead.

The first step in preparing our garden is clearing out the debris from the last growing season. Armed with rakes and hoes and a bag of compost, we turn up the ground, chopping up weeds and carting away dead vegetation in a wheelbarrow. Next, we lay down a layer of organic compost and rake it into the top soil. After leveling out the ground, my step-father turns on the water spout so the narrow delivery tubes stretched length ways across both sides of our plot, can saturate the top soil.

"Once the ground is watered good, we will be ready to plant the seeds," Pop Lyles says  surveying our freshly tilled plot.

I stand next to him beaming. Although I am sweaty and dusty from raking the ground, I feel good. "Just think," I say to myself, "The next time we tend to this garden, it will be time to sow some seeds."  I am becoming a gardener. Awesome.      

Big Bertha's Return: Tribute To A Well Made Umbrella

Bangkok, Thailand is a densely populated city of about 12,000,000 people. It’s a city in constant motion, full of sights, sounds and smells uniquely southeast Asian: the sea of food stalls along busy streets fill the air with the heavy perfume of aromatic spices; nightclubs from the fancy to the sublime, pounding crazy beats into the wee hours of the morning for writhing throngs of revelers; and, the glittering skyline of the “Big Mango” on the banks of the Chao Phraya (TAO PRE’JA) river at night.

Like most, large, international cities, Bangkok has a soft wormy, underbelly, too: child prostitution, human trafficking and extreme poverty. Still, it’s one of the safest places I’ve ever lived. Somehow Thailand, “the land of a thousand smiles”, has embraced the modernity of the west while managing to preserve its native soul. Even in Bangkok, a city with a sizeable population of foreigners, the Thai soul shines through--sometimes in quiet, little ways.

School children will tell you Thailand has three seasons: hot, cool and wet.  Always a planner, once I knew I’d be relocating to Thailand during the rainy season (May-October), I purchased a travel umbrella I thought could the handle the torrential rains I’d heard so much about. 

However, since I’d spent most of my life in the southwestern deserts of the United States, I had no real world experience with “tropical rain weatherizing”. I actually purchased my umbrella from Walgreen’s. While there were plenty of high-end, designer umbrellas to chose from, I didn’t want to pay a lot of money for a product I considered strictly utilitarian.       

In spite of the limited supply of umbrellas available at the neighborhood Walgreen’s, I got lucky. I found a black, telescopic, double-canopy umbrella with an automatic release and a no-slip handgrip. It had a sturdy metal frame and came with a handy mesh carrying case. Best of all, it was under $10.00. The only downside was its weight. When packed tightly into the mesh carrying case, the umbrella weighed over 1 pound. I thought it could double as a club in the event I ever needed to escape from a would-be mugger or other menacing street thug.

I dubbed my hefty, new traveling accessory “Big Bertha”. To my surprise, I didn’t use her at all upon my arrival in Bangkok. The heavy rains had subsided and I got through the occasional light shower with the help of my trusty rain poncho.  

The next’ year was different. Torrential rains battered me and I was happy to take refuge under “Big Bertha”; the expression on people’s faces when I “popped her open” was priceless. There were admiring “oh’s” and “ah’s”, coupled with the occasional “Oh my!” gasp which invariably led to the burning question, “Where did you get your umbrella?” My usual response was, “I bought it back home in the U.S.”     

This answer really seemed to please curious Thais who’d nod their heads knowingly, as if to say, “Yes, of course, such a magnificent umbrella would be made in America.”  However, the unspoken truth was probably the opposite of what they assumed.  “Big Bertha”, given the inexpensive purchase price, was more likely manufactured in China not the United States.

One rainy, Saturday morning, my friend Julia invited me to join her at a Thai massage parlor for a stress busting “spa day” to be followed by a healthy vegetarian lunch. I met Julia at the massage parlor with “Big Bertha” in my hands because heavy rains were expected later in the afternoon.

The massage was so relaxing I almost floated out of the parlor.  Julia and I caught the Bangkok Transit System (BTS) skytrain to one of her favorite vegetarian restaurants where we had a lovely lunch.  It was at the end of lunch that I noticed “Big Bertha” was missing. I panicked.

“Julia, my umbrella is missing!” I said, ‘Have you seen it?”

“No, I haven’t,” she replied, “When was the last time you remember having it?”

 “I had it on the skytrain,” I responded and my heart sunk.

The BTS skytrain is an above-ground-metro that winds its way around Bangkok. It serves about 600,000 passengers each day. The train had been quite crowded on the way to the restaurant, which wasn’t unusual. On the weekends the number of riders increases significantly so it had been standing room only. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t recall putting “Big Bertha” down while I was on the train. Even so, I told myself I must have felt so relaxed after my massage, I forgot I had an umbrella with me. 

Although I didn’t hold out much hope of finding “Big Bertha”, I had to try.  I said goodbye to Julia and caught the southbound train to our original boarding station. Then I rode the northbound train back to the restaurant. I searched high and low for my umbrella but it was gone. I knew that in the rainy season, a lost treasure like “Big Bertha” would have been an unexpected find for just about anyone.

It was with great sadness that I accepted the loss of my wonderful umbrella. All I could do was bless “Big Bertha” and the person who found her. I hoped whomever it was, he’d or she’d get as much use and enjoyment out of my umbrella as I had.

 A month or so after I lost “Big Bertha” I decided to treat myself to another “spa day” at the Thai massage parlor Julia had taken me to previously. I had no trouble finding my way there once again. When I reached the front door, l took my shoes off and left them outside on a mat, as is the Thai custom, and entered the parlor.

A male masseuse immediately greeted me with a cup of tea and a big smile.

 “Welcome, back Madam,” he said, “You left your umbrella the last time you were here. We kept it in a safe place for you.”

The man gestured toward a wooden-peg coat rack attached to the wall behind him.

 There hanging from a single, wooden peg was “Big Bertha”.

                       

                             

 

 

 

 

       

IT'S THE 'FRO STUPID!

Some people will tell you it’s Angela Davis’ gift for words that made her a cultural icon. There’s no doubt this well educated sister can blow. Her words flowed from a new black consciousness, one that elevated the minds of black workers the same way the notes from Miles Davis’ horn did in the smoke filled bars where they gathered at the end of their shifts.  Long before “Occupy Wall Street” became part of pop culture vernacular, Davis, an outspoken socialist, linked the oppression of workers globally to the social-economic inequities African-Americans labored under in the civil rights era. Her willingness to boldly speak truth to power catapulted her to national prominence and gave her a powerful voice among the mostly male leadership of the Black liberation movement.  

While these accomplishments alone are sufficient to make Davis an iconic figure for some, it’s not the reason I admire her.

There are others who marvel at her exploits. Outside of comic books, rarely has a black woman’s struggle against the forces of class power and privilege been so deservedly labeled “badass”. Davis took on the prison-industrial complex, challenging them both with her words and actions. Unwilling to play it safe, she stepped out of the ivory tower of academia onto the battlefield; advocating on behalf of prisoners and drawing intense fire for her views. As if imbued with special powers befitting a “for real” superhero, Davis overcame seemingly insurmountable obstacles:  she was placed on the FBI’s “10 Most Wanted List”, arrested and incarcerated for an extended period of time then tried on capital murder charges. Yet, in the end, she was victorious, winning both an acquittal and her freedom.    

For many, Davis’ exploits are part of a modern mythology that inspires and instructs the masses on how to challenge “the man” and live to tell the tale; in their opinion, this feat alone makes her an icon. However, it’s not the reason for my “girl crush” on her.

The thing I remember most about Angela Davis “the revolutionary” was her ‘fro.  Like many young, black girls of the 70’s, her politics eluded me. It would be years before I grasped the significance of her role as a black activist. Davis’ statement hair was both frightening and alluring to those of us in the button-down world of the “press and curl” set. Frightening because her huge, gravity defying ‘fro was a public proclamation of the natural beauty of Black women which was the opposite of the “Eurocentric” beauty standards we followed back in the day.  Alluring because Davis, standing before the international media in her glorious ‘fro, brought a “sexy”, “coolness” to the civil rights movement that black girls like me identified with. Her nappy crown was a black “thing”. Something we all could do simply by putting down the hot comb and abandoning perm kits. While we may not have understood Davis’ politics, a lot of us copied her look. To our mothers, Coretta Scott King, represented the ideal woman of the civil rights era but Angela Davis with her wild ‘fro and lack of regard for fashion—embodied a different choice. Women who chose to follow in her footsteps would place greater value on what they said and did than what they wore. Still, even Davis, a savvy political figure, used the media to cultivate a look that became a successful, international brand.

The Angela Davis ‘fro stands on equal footing with the Che Guevara beret as a signature look for young, revolutionaries of color. It’s Davis’ iconic look and what it meant to me as a young black girl coming of age in a time of great social and cultural change that I celebrate.

When the documentary film, “Free Angela”, comes out in April, (for more information go to:​ black bloggers connect  ), I plan to attend wearing a big ‘fro wig in keeping with the “retro” revolutionary look we’ll see on screen. It’s not Davis’ politics alone that will make me buy a movie ticket; I’m going to sit in the theater remembering the power of her visual--for me it’s the ‘fro stupid!

Black Bloggers Connect

The Power Of A Talisman

If your life is in flux and you're feeling overwhelmed by the pressures change brings, consider wearing a talisman to remind you of your innate strength and resilience. "What," you ask, "is a talisman?".  Well, it's a sacred or fetish object believed to possess special powers. A talisman may be a charm used for protection or to ward off evil. An object with natural healing or aura-enhancing properties, like crystals and gemstones, may also be used as a personal talisman. One of the most important characteristics of a talisman is that it's usually worn on the body because intimate contact with the object is considered essential for a positive outcome.     

I started thinking about using a talisman after a budding romance came to a messy end. The drama left me feeling emotionally and spiritually ragged. I thought  a talisman would help to fortify me against the worst aspects of this personal storm. I wanted something I could discreetly wear on my body. A waist chain appealed to me because it could be worn under or over my clothes.  After settling on what I wanted, I had to find the materials to make it. I went to my favorite bead store to search for what I needed.  The owner keeps his shelves stocked with a wonderful  assortment of eclectic pieces from around the world. The first item that caught my eye was a handcrafted silver, fish from Thailand. I spent a few memorable years living and working in Bangkok, this fact made the piece really special to me. It would be the main charm on my waist chain, therefore, it made sense to go with an underwater theme. I selected beautifully, hand etched silver beads to represent delicate air bubbles and sparkling, blue-green crystals as symbols for water. The last item I purchased was a length of silver (antique) chain with a matching toggle closure. The total purchase price for all of the items was $125. Happily, it took me less than an hour to make the chain.   

 I wear my waist chain talisman everyday. It's a constant reminder of my spiritual and physical resilience. Whenever I feel anxious or overwhelmed by a situation, I touch it and imagine myself as a big, silver fish swimming confidently through the sea. My eyes fixed on a shining new horizon.. It helps to keep me spiritually and emotionally centered.           

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