An open letter to Chris Rock from Dr. Goddess: How dare you demean Oprah

By Dr. Goddess, aka Kimberly C. Ellis, Ph.D. She hurls some righteous fury at Chris Rock for depreciating humor about Oprah Winfrey during the Kennedy Center Honors (Oprah was a well-deserved honoree).

Read her full post here.


An excerpt:

Dear Chris Rock,

Like America’s conscience, I want to erase this moment in history but I can’t.

You’ve disgusted me to no end. I cannot believe I just witnessed your tasteless, callous, immature, disrespectful and unfunny “comedic tribute” to Oprah Winfrey. It was already borderline for you to joke about her money on such an occasion but you went way too far by cracking a sex joke about Oprah on the day she received her highest honor for the arts in the nation, by the President of the United States of America, in the Kennedy Center Honors…

…How dare you disrespect a woman who has given America and the world so much spirit, hope and humanity even with the cars, sweaters and ipads via her medium of communications? How dare you, the only Black man, aside from Sidney Poitier, allowed to even give her such a solitary honor, take your short period of time in which to honor her and choose to focus on her body or make ANY type of sex joke to her at all, let alone in front of her peers and the world!!! You inappropriate imbecile!

Not only would that have been inappropriate to do to ANY woman but to be so disrespectful to Oprah Winfrey (!!!), under the guise of comedy…??? I don’t even have enough adjectives to describe the depth of Oprah’s beauty and humanity and how you trounced upon it. I’m aware Oprah is not perfect; but in the hour of her ultimate tribute, why, why, why did she have to be made to feel uncomfortable and why did it have to be YOU to do her so wrong? Were you somehow UNAWARE that Oprah is a survivor of child sexual abuse and that, MAYBE, just MAYBE your sex joke might be inappropriate? Did you, for a fleeting moment, give any thought to America’s sordid racial history and abuse of Black womens’ bodies, in particular, to consider that making an interracial sex joke about someone with whom she’s clearly not engaged, would be unacceptable?…

Amen!


Here's a video that captures the heart of being a Kennedy Center honoree:

Kwanzaa was a chosen (interracial) family affair

My chosen family. We banded together over time beginning in about 1985 as a potpourri of multiracial families who mostly lived in or near the Powderhorn Park area of Minneapolis. 

Twenty five years later we still connect. Our now adult kids consider each other "cousins" and we adults "auntie," "uncle," "friend." And the grandkids are hatching. Some of them are friends, and even call each other "cousin." Our chosen family is now three generations strong. 

We still camp together once a year on Memorial weekend - the original parents, now in our fifties and sixties; the "kids," now in their twenties and thirties; and the next generation, who are toddlers, preschoolers, and grade schoolers. We've added new families along the way - the circle is ever expanding, ever welcoming.

But back in the day one of our most important times of celebration was Kwanzaa. We gathered yearly on New Year's Day and embraced all of its meaning and all of who we were. I wrote the piece below in the early nineties as a celebration of us, my chosen family.


Happy Kwanzaa! 

~~~~~

Family


It was our interracial families that brought us first together, but it's our history that binds us still. I feel drenched, no quenched, as I watch us at our annual Kwanzaa gathering at Karen's house this New Year's Day. We draw together in ritualistic ways, each year a rhythm of camping, storytelling, of gathering up this chosen family of ten families, our Kwanzaa ritual embedded at the center of the cycle. It's like the Thanksgivings of my childhood family, the cousins, aunts and uncles gathered 'round, each meal the same — turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, a salad with pomegranate seeds, cranberry sauce, two pies for dessert, pumpkin or mince meat, cool whip or ice cream, a comfort to be counted on.


Kwanzaa is an African American celebration, by black people for black people. But we claim it too, all of us, together. It's a refuge really, no one staring, no one glaring at our vibrant messy mix — black, white, Puerto Rican, Mexican, married, single, divorced, widowed, straight, lesbian. Our rowdy children flow among us, a striking swirl of texture, line, shape and hue.


We bring food and gifts to share. Black beans and rice, chicken wings, Pamela's Florida gumbo, my spicy black-eyed peas, sweet potato pie, Kathy's North Dakota double chocolate bars.


The gifts, called zawadis, are songs, games, crafts, stories or poetry. Tonight each zawadi seems a perfect reflection of the giver. Like Katie's, who's a social worker, who loves anything that helps us share our feelings. Tonight she gives each of us a page of mailing labels and a marker. She tells us to write down "people praises" on the labels, then walk around and stick them on each other. Soon our shirts are covered with stupid, corny messages that make us laugh, make me cry.


You're nice.
I like your style.
Your feet are cute.
You dare to be different.
You make me smile.


Even the boys play. Usually they circle around the edges of our gatherings, hanging back, hanging tough, hanging cool. But tonight, Oberika, who is fourteen and obsessed with slasher movies, slides past me and slyly slips his praise on me — Thanks for being nice to me. And from my son Anthony — You're the best mom in the world.


We catch up on our lives and offer up our pain here. The daughter who ran away, the failing marriage, the struggle with MS, the house lost to unpaid debt.


I remember the night I read some of my secret lesbian poetry. Still married, still not out, I chose to break my long silence here.


The Kwanzaa after Karen's husband Donnie died, his best friend Terryl read a poem for him and we all lit candles for him. Then, to honor him, we put on some funky funky funkadelic music and danced and danced for him.


Tonight we're funkified again. We line up for Jr. Walker and the All Stars and as the saxaphone blasts and the beat slams down we clap and shout while each dancer takes a run down the chute. The little kids jump up and down, teenagers do the tootsie roll, and we parents bump and grind the best we can.


The house fills with our noise, every corner, every inch awash in us. It's chaos — too many kids, not enough room, too much motion, but we don't care. I close my eyes and zoom away high into space like a camera for the closing take. I look again and see us still, a little speck of light, sparkling in our corner of the black black night.


January, 1995


(Quilt painting also by me, 1987)

Don't Ask Don't Tell: Repealed!

Thank you, President Obama.


In signing the bill into law he said it all:

"We are not a nation that says, 'Don't ask, don't tell,' " Mr. Obama told the audience. "We are a nation that says, 'Out of many, we are one.' "

Amen.

Thank you, Senator Hendon

Illinois Senator Ricky Hendon voicing his support for legislation to legalize civil unions. Amen, Senator Hendon, and thank you.

In honor of Rosa Parks

In honor of Rosa Parks and the 55th anniversary of the day she took a stand by taking a seat and changed the world.

The Neville Brothers: Sister Rosa

Yes. Thank you.

Hallelujah - Annie Lennox Style

Breathtaking. Been loving Annie Lennox since the Eurythmics and Sweet Dreams. The Leonard Cohen original of this song is like no other, but this cover will make you weep all over again. "Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah"

Give to the Max

Today is "Give to the Max" day in Minnesota, a terrific initiative led by GiveMN to encourage giving to your favorite causes and organizations. The biggest challenge about the day is seeing plugs to give to so many great organizations. It makes me think about how much fun it would be to be rich and give so much to so many. But did you know what on average, lower income people give a higher percentage of their incomes to charity than do rich people? You don't have to rich to give.

So this year I decided to contribute a little more to two organizations than a small amount to several. 

I chose the Minnesota Citizen's Council on Crime and Justice (CCJ). Here's why:

A message from CCJ's president Pamela Alexander:

Frederick Douglas said, “Where justice is denied, where poverty is enforced, where ignorance prevails. . . neither persons nor property will be safe.” While these words are more than 100 years old, they resonate against all the complexities of the 21st century American legal system. The Council on Crime and Justice stands as a bulwark at the crossroad of law and justice.We work to address the racial disparities in Minnesota's criminal justice system, improve school performance among at-risk students, and explore how restorative justice works within families where domestic abuse is present.

CCJ continues its comprehensive advocacy efforts to improve employment opportunities for people with criminal records, address the urgent and increasing need for victims’ services with particular focus on children exposed to domestic violence.  By helping to keep incarcerated fathers connected to their families and children CCJ can prepare these fathers for a successful release.  Our continuing legislative efforts focus on shaping the public and legislative debate on issues of import to both victims and offenders. Through these efforts and with your help we can demonstrate the value of action-oriented research, effective demonstration models and outcome based programs that make a positive difference in people's lives. You can help to make the difference between recidivism and reintegration, between childhood and child horrors, between a handout and a hand up. Your support is critical to the success of these programs and projects. Thank you for your interest, consideration and continued support.

In other words, a place that cares about and advocates for people most others could care less about: the disenfranchised and those who love them. Like my son. Like my family. To donate go here. 

I also chose the Minneapolis YWCA Early Childhood Programs. Here's why:

The YWCA of Minneapolis believes all children deserve a high quality early childhood education. This belief is backed with over 30 years of proven excellence and measurable results.

100% of YWCA preschoolers test ready for kindergarten surpassing the state average of 60%. And 96% of children, infant through kindergarten, are on-track with age appropriate development.

Last year the three urban YWCA Children’s Centers served:

• 435 children from 307 households

• 67% of families were low-income households

• 60% of all households are at or below poverty level

• 56% were single parent households, primarily lead by mothers

• 79% were children of color

(And they have cared for my grandchild since she was a toddler, providing safe, affordable, loving care, and the preschool program she needed to be ready for kindergarten this fall.)

To donate go here.

When it's dark I get SAD

When it's dark I get sad. Seasonal Affective Disorder, that is - SAD. Such a clever acronym for this thing that feels so heavy, like someone poured molasses on my normally sunny, sparkly soul. 


SAD is a recognized mood illness that happens for most people during the late fall and winter months, especially in winter climes like Minnesota. You can read all about the symptoms and more here.


People used to think it was fake, probably because it mostly women are diagnosed with it. It takes the medical community a while to take us seriously sometimes. But it's in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV), so it has been anointed as real.


I'll admit that I was personally skeptical about SAD and resisted the diagnosis when my doctor made it about five years ago. In my childhood family rules for living included, "Just snap out of it," "Don't cry over spilled milk," "Mind over matter," and "When the going gets tough, the tough get going." 


So I blamed myself for my fall and winter low energy, for the overwhelming urge once home from work to get into "comfy clothes," get under a blanket on the sofa, pour a glass of wine, ignore phone calls and texts, and watch bad TV. (I actually voted more than once during American Idol last winter. Now that's depressing.) 


I never got "SAD" until recently. At least I don't think I did. I grew up in Minnesota and when I was a kid, winter was my favorite time of year. I loved skating, sledding, skiing, and snowball fights with the neighbor kids. My mom believed getting outside was good for us and I remember being bundled up and sent out for hours at a time. We had fun.


As an adult I was a single parent. There was no time to be "SAD." Exhausted and stressed maybe, but lethargic and withdrawn? Not a chance. I'd get home from work and start my second job which included cooking, cleaning, and arm wrestling two kids through homework they had no interest in doing. Maybe I had SAD then but I was stretched too thin to notice (and clueless that feeling so stressed could have indeed been a symptom).


It's probably no coincidence that I started noticing the symptoms for SAD once I was an empty nester and had the time and space to melt on the sofa at night.


I'm coming to accept that I indeed have SAD. If I look back at my journal entries, every year they start to get gloomy around November and lighten up by mid-February. I am a child of the sun and light. During the heat of summer I'm my own comic midsummer night's dream, twirling in the giddy glow of a happy, satisfied soul. 


It's hard to come down from that summer high every fall.


I do stuff to deal with getting SAD. I have a light box (it's actually called a "Happy Light") that sends 10,000 lux of simulated daylight my way 30 minutes each day as I drink my morning coffee. The light is bright and annoying. I'd like it better, I think, if it also gave off heat and actually felt a bit like sunshine. I take a Vitamin D supplement (though sunlight is the best Vitamin D therapy), and work on eating right and exercise. And having fun, the best Rx of all. If all else fails, I add a low dose anti-depressant to the mix.


But this year, as we passed the Summer Solstice (meaning the days were going to start getting shorter), I went back into denial and was determined to be the master of my moods (mind over matter, remember) and to keep that easy, breezy, summer girl feeling all year long, without any help, even as we haplessly cascaded toward the fall and winter, the monochrome gray, and the long, dark nights. 


I held on valiantly until daylight savings ended, despite all the tell-tale signs that SAD was creeping around the bend again. Once I admitted the comfy clothes, blanket, sofa, and lack of desire for a social life had gripped me once again, I capitulated, and am back on my anti-SAD routine for yet another winter. 


I'd like to think I could will my winter blues away. Maybe I'll move to the desert some day. But until then (or maybe just in general), I have to accept when it's dark, I get SAD.

Transgender basketball player makes history

Kye Allums

When I first read about this, I was moved to tears by the bravery and guts of Kye Allums, the first openly transgender player in NCAA Division I women's basketball history. And I feel an almost maternal, home-state sense of pride in this barrier breaking young person since Allums grew up in Hugo, Minnesota, and was a star on the Centennial High School basketball team. 


Big props also to George Washington University for their support of Allums as this wall comes tumbling down for athletes. The locker room closet is still fierce. 

While Allums wants to be identified as male, he is not taking any hormones or doing any medical protocols in order not to risk eligibility to play. Read the whole story on outsports.com. A few excerpts here:

"Not many people noticed a slight change on the George Washington University website earlier this year. It concerned a player on the school’s women’s basketball team named Kay-Kay Allums. Just a couple letters were taken away, a Y was moved and an E was added to form the player’s new name: Kye Allums. To most people it was meaningless, but to Allums the change was the most significant of his lifetime.

“A name is just a bunch of letters, but the letters make up a word and the words that make up my name have so many more emotions behind them,” Allums said. "My old name, that’s just not me. When I hear Kye, everything feels okay, everything is right.”

For the last 20 years, Kay-Kay Allums had appeared to the world as female. She was born with the anatomy that other women have. Her mom tried to dress her in only the most feminine clothes. But inside was a man waiting to burst out of the female body he was born in. 

On Nov. 13, Kye Allums will introduce himself to the NCAA basketball world at the Best Buy Classic in Minneapolis in a game against the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay. When he steps foot on the court, Allums will be the first publicly transgender person to play NCAA Div. 1 college basketball. 

Allums grew up in the small town of Hugo, Minn., a half hour north of Minneapolis. Head coach Mike Bozeman scheduled the tournament appearance as a homecoming for him, long before he transitioned to male. The junior guard’s inaugural game identifying as a man will also be the first time he has played in front of his hometown crowd. While Allums is making a change now, most of his family and friends will recognize him as the same old Kye..."

Here is a video that shows a self-assured Allums talking about being transgender:





You go, Kye! 


Related recently released report: "On the Team: Equal Opportunities for Transgender Student Athletes" 

Marvin Gaye live: "What's Going On / What's Happening Brother"

Amazing live performance of music that defined my generation and is still hauntingly relevant today. Sing it, Marvin Gaye! Beautiful, beautiful video that intermixes live performance clips with scenes from those times.

She's covered it all: the hajib as power

Last month when I posted "I don't know my Somali neighbors," I never imagined the outpouring of positive responses. I did not imagine Somali and other East African people reaching out to me (and my readers) with information, perspective, and with open hands of friendship. But they did. And my world is forever changed.

In particular I've met and embraced a kindred spirit - Nimo Farah - a young, fierce, open-hearted woman who reposted my blog, offered up her wisdom, and then invited me for coffee. Since then we have begun the journey of real friendship, our commonalities of the soul far outweighing the differences of culture, age, religious practice, and lived experiences.

New friends, old souls, kindred spirits

I had the chance to hear Nimo read her poetry recently and she lit the room on fire with her passion. I am very excited that she has agreed to guest post one of those poems here.

So please welcome Nimo Farah. I invite you to find a place to sit down, perhaps with a cup of tea, to take in this amazing poem.

~~~

Covered

by Nimo Farah

She's covered it all

Draped body dancing freely

The breeze moved her layers of colorful textiles

Intermingling with the air

The trees embrace her

And the sun baths her

She belongs with them without a battle

But in the gray concrete jungle, she does not blend

You spot her from a mile, get nervous by her style

She doesn't pretend

You wish she did not stand out or blend in

There is no pleasing you without baring the skin

You want her to be normal

to blend with them

You think you are the judge of normal

But she's got a normal all her own.

She's covered it all

You wonder who this woman is

And who does she think she is?

She's covered it all,

And you want to be the judge of her beauty

So you scan her up and down

Fashion foreign to you

Her style flows like the Nile

No price on her apparel

No names or nouns for her attire

You see nothing familiar using your eyes

And you're not really concerned with who she really is

Or her intelligence

If every you're willing to spot her soul, she's willing to wear a smile

But you'd rather strip away her garments

Like a peeled fruit you want to leave her naked

But she knows the fate of a peeled fruit

Caressed by the air it is delicate and darkens

You want to caress her with your eyes

Spoil her with your stare

You wonder who this woman is

And who does she think she is?

She's covered it all.

You spot her in the hot summer sun

She continues not to share her skin

You wonder how she withstands the temper of the sun

She's brave with her ways but you want her to be free

So that she can dance in your dreams

You want to separate her body from spirit

Have one without the other

She resists like leaves resisting the wind

You wonder who this woman is 

And who does she think she is?

She's covered it all.

And this you should know

Her garments are powerful!

They connect her with her mother

They're holy scripture

Linking her to the essence and strength of her creator

She loves the texture

And when she ties her scarves with her dresses

She makes strong ropes, escapes wars

Covered up she is superwoman

Walking through violent raindrops, sandstorms

And even bullets.

Her garments are more than material

They tell the stories of her struggle

As she roamed the world chasing peace

Her garments covered her scars

And healed her battle wounds

It is the hijab that was her shield from fear

The hijab that was her security blanket as an infant

Sentimental and sacred

And a test and a protest!

And if you are really wondering who this woman is

She is a woman warrior

With her hijab as her cape!

She's covered it all.

And honestly you don't care to know the depth beyond her exterior

So you bully her with your gaze

Til she shows you inches of her skin

But she's not

Not that kind of woman

She's a woman warrior with her hijab as her cape

And her powers remain a secret

She's covered it all.


~~~


Nimo Farah embraces her experiences as a refugee-Muslim-woman living in America but believes the human spirit it too multi-dimensional to categorize and classify. Exposed to many cultures and struggles, she is inspired to write about and celebrate the resilience, complexity, and compassion of the human spirit. She aspires to be a keeper of her ancestors' rich oral traditions and mother tongue; both are at the brink of being endangered.

Fierce poet, Minnesota style 

Dancing at the Red Sea

"She is a woman warrior with her hajib as her cape..."

NAACP and school choice in the Mpls Public Schools

A story in today's Star Tribune talks about NAACP and their how their efforts to fight for quality education for children of color in the Mpls Public Schools has a double-edged sword, as school choice options may have contributed to the current problems leading to the recommendation to close North High School:

The Minneapolis branch of the NAACP on Wednesday urged parents to consider pulling their children out of the Minneapolis School District in response to Superintendent Bernadeia Johnson’s recommendation to close North High School. Citing multiple school closures on the city’s North Side and low test scores in those that remain, Minneapolis NAACP President Booker Hodges accused Johnson and school board members of failing to educate north Minneapolis’ children, most of whom are black….

 But…. 

As the engine behind the “Choice is Yours” program, the Minneapolis NAACP may have unwittingly played a role in the mass exodus of students from north Minneapolis to suburban districts.

In the late 1990s, the organization’s local leadership sued the state, arguing that state policies and practices concentrated poverty in Minneapolis, making it impossible for Minneapolis schools to adequately educate students.

A March 2000 settlement allowed more Minneapolis families access to suburban schools and magnet programs.

Interest was minimal at first but has increased in recent years, with hundreds of families leaving city schools for neighboring districts...

My perspective: The option for poor urban families of color to choose higher performing suburban schools for their children is only fair. The likely closing of North High is a sad unintended consequence. If the Minneapolis Public Schools were given adequate funds to address the educational needs of its very diverse, mostly poor student body, families would not have left in the first place. Who wants to send their child across town if you have a great school right down the block?

I love my (curly kinky) hair, Sesame Street style

A wonderful celebration of fierce, curly, kinky hair and loving its beauty and all you can do with it! How I wish this had been around when my daughter was small...but it's in the queue to show my granddaughter, who I think has worn every style sported in the video.

DADT rightly, boldly put on worldwide halt

As a lesbian I've heard more than a few stories from women who have been forced to leave the military because of who they love and how they love. I know women whose plans for a military career were needlessly cut short, my spouse included.


I've heard horror stories - told years later, yet still so charged with emotion that tears flow - of being found out, of standing in front of a commanding officer who is demanding to know, "Are you a homosexual?"


Law abiding citizens willing to put their lives on the line for their country being treated as less than, as not normal, as deficient, as a threat to their country's security.


Shame on you, U.S. military.


I can't imagine the sheer amount of talent, drive, and contribution that's been lost to the armed forces because of policies based on fear and ignorance, created and enforced by those who would think that lesbians and gays in the military would weaken, not strengthen us.


Since I'm older, most of those stories precede the military's current "Don't Ask Don't Tell" (DADT) policy, established in 1994, which essentially says you can serve if you are gay, but you better keep it quiet or out you go. Some saw DADT as progress but it is not. It still treats gay and lesbian people as less than whole, as if something is wrong with us.


So I applaud the injunction ordered today by U.S. District Judge Virginia Phillips ordering the military to immediately halt worldwide its ban on gay and lesbian people openly serving in the military, boldly declaring that DADT is unconstitutional. 


For me, this has nothing to do with whether or not you or I oppose or support any current wars. This is about the constitution and supporting equal rights under the law for all.


So I cheer the ruling as a step in recognizing gay people as full citizens in this country, with all the rights and obligations that come with that privilege. I feel a sense of redemption for all who have been hurt or demeaned by the military's fear and ignorance.


And I hope, really hope, that the Obama administration - my president's administration - will not appeal it. President Obama, you told us on the campaign trail that you opposed DADT. As President you have yet to show us that you mean it. 


Change. Hope. Remember all that?


Mr. President, now is your moment. Now is your time to walk your talk.

The History of Rap by Two White Dudes

The history of rap by two white dudes. Really. Does anyone recall that MTV once banned rap. I don’t care if Jimmy Fallon and Justin Timberlake are famous, or even if they are good. Can’t lose the smell of appropriation. Like dead fish it stays with you.

FBI raids of antiwar activists challenge First Amendment rights

American Jewish World published a very thoughtful editorial by editor Mordecai Spector about the recent FBI raids on the homes of antiwar activists in Minneapolis and Chicago. It gets what I think is at the heart of the issue -- which is that those raids represent an attack on our supposedly protected constitutional rights to free speech. I mean it's a loooong stretch from antiwar activist to terrorist, right? And lest we forget, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights were written to "protect the minority from the tyranny of the majority." 

This quote from the editorial sums it up well, and is also a cautionary note to those who would support this action because they may disagree with the views of the people who were targeted.

Applying the rubric of “terrorism” to the exercise of rights that most people take as protected by the First Amendment represents a dangerous trend. The FBI raids last week in Minneapolis and the upcoming grand jury proceedings appear to be a further attempt by the federal government, and law enforcement at all levels, to conflate homegrown dissenters with terrorists. The “war on terror” apparently has come to roost in our domestic political culture. And Jewish World readers should take no satisfaction from the fact that pro-Palestinian solidarity activists are being subjected to this treatment by the FBI. This is the scheme of things right now; but if our First Amendment rights are whittled away to nothing, who can say that at some point, in a future Orwellian version of America, gathering to support Israel will not be declared out of bounds?

Paying Attention Now

I've made a "micro blog" on Tumblr for stuff that is "quick, fun, breaking, beautiful, outrageous, political, politically incorrect, quirky, visual..."  Check it out and feel free to follow me there too, at Paying Attention Now.

(screen grab, not a link)

Justice for Fong Lee rally on Oct. 2

From the Facebook group Justice for Fong Lee: 

On July 22, 2006, Hmong teenager Fong Lee was with a group of friends riding bikes near the North Minneapolis Cityview Elementary School when Minneapolis police officers chased them across the playground. Officer Jason Andersen shot Fong Lee eight times, in the back, side, and then five more shots into Lee’s chest as he lay on the ground. Andersen stated he was justified in the killing, claiming that Lee pointed a gun at him. He was cleared by the MPD’s internal investigation even though neighborhood eyewitnesses were not interviewed, many of whom contradicted the police officers’ version of events in community press reports.

In 2009 the family of Fong Lee brought a wrongful death lawsuit again the City of Minneapolis and Jason Andersen, citing surveillance cameras that showed Fong Lee did not have a gun and evidence that demonstrated that the gun found at the scene had been in police custody, suggesting that the gun had been planted. When an all-white jury found that Anderson had not used “excessive force” in killing 19-year old Fong Lee, community members held numerous rallies to continue to demand justice in what they saw as a police cover-up.

The family has since appealed to the U.S. Court of Appeals for a new trial, which has been denied. Now, under the representation of Hilliard, Muñoz, and Gonzales, the family of Fong Lee is taking their case to the Supreme Court, in hopes that national attention will result in a new trial.

Happy Fall Equinox

I love the fall and spring equinoxes. A marking of the place between the time of light and the time of darkness. The passing though time.


I'm reminded every fall of that old poem by Robert Frost, Nothing Gold Can Stay. The first poem I memorized in elementary school. Still beautiful.


Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay. 

All photos by Ann Freeman

I don't know my Somali neighbors

I live in the Twin Cities, home to the largest Somali population in North America. Specifically, I live in the Seward neighborhood of south Minneapolis, a place many Somali families call home, and next to the West Bank, a neighborhood that is sometimes called, usually in a  disparaging way, "Little Somalia." The majority of black children attending our neighborhood elementary schools are Somali.


But I don't know my neighbors. I know next to nothing about Somali-American culture, the intersections of being Muslim and African, or what it is like to be a Somali immigrant or child of immigrants in this state and country.


I am around enough Somali/East African people to observe some differences in custom and dress but I don't know what the differences mean or why. What determines if one woman dresses American style, wearing whatever's hip with her head uncovered, while another woman wears a hijab and traditional clothing? Is it religious, personal preference, family values, or a combination of each? And what is the difference between public presentation and home life?


I worked at Minneapolis Community and Technical College for a couple of years and had the chance to observe and sometimes connect with the large number of East African-immigrant students who attended school there. I noticed many variations in what the young women wore. Some rocked designer t-shirts, shoes, and scarfs, integrating western fashion into traditional Muslim dress. I saw many young Somali women who were proud Muslims and outspoken leaders, respected by their male peers, shattering my stereotypes of oppressed Muslim women. But mostly I saw hard working students with big plans for their futures.


I've kept in touch with one of those young women, mostly though Facebook and the very occasional face-to-face chat. She is currently applying for grad school, wants to go to Japan, but plans to live in her mother's house until she is married as that is their custom and she would not want to disrespect her mother or family by doing otherwise. That is about the most in-depth relationship I have with someone who is Somali.


The Starbucks near my house is a gathering place for Somali men. I have no idea what they talk about in their loud, intense conversational groups. A Somali cab driver in San Diego told me he had been to that Starbucks and that it's a place where people who hale from various tribes in Somalia get together to talk about the news back home, and to debate different issues. That could be true - or not - I have no idea. They could be talking about the upcoming football season for all I know, or whether or not to replace the storm windows on their homes. Or all of the above.


Last January, a neighborhood grocery store that caters to Somali and other East African neighbors was the scene of a robbery gone horribly bad, resulting in the murders of three innocent people - all East African, as were the shooters. It was all over the news. I soon got a few phone calls from family members and friends who live outside of Minneapolis wondering if my neighborhood was going downhill, if I was safe. Me?! What about the people who were victims of this crime - law abiding, contributing East African immigrants who represent the majority of families living here.


I also know too many people who are afraid to go to the West Bank because of all the "African gangs and crime" there. Yet those same people have little fear of walking downtown late at night, or in neighborhoods with just as much if not more crime than is happening on the West Bank. 


I'm sure you've heard about the young Somali men in Minneapolis that were recruited to go back to Somalia to be part of radical, terrorist organizations. The focus of stories in the media and in some conversations seemed to be more about fear of "home grown" terrorism rather than fear for vulnerable young men at risk to be exploited by a radical fringe. 


That is a new turn on an old song - fear of the other. Racism in a new form. Anti-Muslim furor. Anti-immigrant sentiment. The ugly crap that the conservative right is capitalizing on right now to try and win elections.


I feel complicit with my ignorance. If we don't really know our neighbors, how do we stand as one, united in our commonalities? We don't. We stay divided and fearful - and vulnerable to propaganda and fear mongering from either side of the chasm.


A shining light of exception burned brightly in the aftermath of the Seward grocery store robbery and murders. As neighbors we came together in outrage and concern. We lit candles and held a vigil. We held up signs that said, "Seward Stands Together. No More Violence." Shopkeepers put those signs in windows all over the neighborhood. Some signs are still there.

                    photo via jenniferlarson.wordpress.com

                          photo by Peter Fleck via http://sewardprofile.posterous.com/?page=23


But what did we do with that opportunity to step toward really becoming neighbors? I personally vowed to regularly shop in that grocery store. Since then, I've bought one can of pop there. So much for neighborly progress, at least on my part.


I remember when Somalis and other East Africans first came to Minneapolis in the nineties. Suddenly our public schools had whole new cultures of students to deal with, and it didn't take long until my children were coming home saying "I don't like those Somalis. They smell." This from children who were raised to have a broad and open view of the world, who as multiracial African American young people understood their own sense of otherness, and also had an uncanny ability to cross cultural boundaries and play well with others. How was this particular bigotry and hatred infused so easily into them and their peers that they would dare say such racist nonsense, openly, to me?


A generation later my granddaughter just started kindergarten at one of those neighborhood schools where most of the black kids are Somali. As an African American child she is a minority within a minority. Yet the world is different for her than it was for her mother. Somali and other East African people have been her teachers, classmates, neighbors, and playground friends all of her life. She is less ignorant than me and her worldview is already broader than mine or her mom's. She knows more. But there are no guarantees her generation will bridge this gap. Or if they do, that there won't be a new one to divide us in ways we can't even imagine today.

                          photo by Ann Freeman. "Playground friends"