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On Saturday, we took our kids for a walk along Forest Park. We walked along the path leading to the planetarium until we got to a very tall stainless steel sculpture looking up to the sky. I stood for a moment, wondering what it would feel like to always look up to sky, the way the sculpture did. What lessons would I learn and how would I pass it on to my children? In the course of trying to take a picture of the sculpture, I tilted my head and looked up to the sky. The sculpture itself has a way of making you gaze up to the heavens. So when I did, all I saw was blue, the perfect shade of blue sky. Saturday was a clear day and all that was visible on this perfect day, were brilliant skies full of grace, every angle full of hope, every angle, still the perfect blue, and so full of love.

“Looking Up” Sculpture by Tom Friedman

Skies have a way of making you fall in love with life. Skies have a way of making you see a life truly worth living.

The ‘Looking Up” Sculpture at Forest Park

Maybe it’s the embrace. When you gaze up to the sky, it’s like the sky gazes back down and gives you a great big hug. You then begin to converse with clarity in a language understood only by the sky. Gazing up to the sky was peace, the perfect peace that only the heavens can offer. Gazing up to the sky was like music to the soul, the perfect song that only the skies could sing. Gazing up to the skies was freedom, the perfect freedom, strong enough to set every captive free. Gazing up to the skies is perfect, eyes meet eyes, gently inviting you to come in, and rest, the perfect rest. Gazing up, swallows you, the perfect food, shared in communion, in union with a sky slowly swallowing an imperfect you.

The “Looking Up’ Sculpture at Forest Park by Tom Friedman.

Once you tilt your head and stay there for a moment, that moment becomes eternity. Like the sculpture, we are destined to look up to the sky, if only for a moment. You will feel loved, protected, profoundly seen by a sky, the perfect shade of blue. The perfect embrace, the perfect rest, the perfect song, all in perfect union with a sky gazing so lovingly at an imperfect you. Once you look up, you will become dangerously free to roam this earth with your truth in perfect harmony with a sky so profoundly perfect. So keep looking up.

My daughter by the Looking Up Sculpture.

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Last week I went into my local Sams club in search of children’s books. I had spent the early part of the school year getting books that would help us succeed with homeschooling. We got brainquest books for each child’s grade and everything in between for math and language comprehension, even carton-like stories that my daughter loves.

No representation-Books at my local Sam’s club.
No representation- Books at my local Sam’s club

Despite all the purchase, I left the store feeling empty. With the exception of a Kobe Bryant book, none of the books represented me or my children. There were no story books or stories, no workbooks or brain-quest type materials, not in math or language, early-child or middle age reader, or even non-fiction materials that represented what it means to be black or brown at this present time in our country. They say representation matters. It matters not only at the ballot box but also where we eat, pray or shop. That day, I left the store making a solemn promise to myself that I would do my part to work to tell stories our way. It’s the impetus behind encouraging my daughter to write stories the way she wants them told to her. Its the fuel that keeps me writing these keep lists because someone, no matter how small, needs to create a list of what makes us who we are, a list of our existence, a list of our dreams, our hopes, our impediments, the hard, but true and lasting truth of what it means to be black or brown in today’s America while raising children. Representation is why I write everyday.

I write so that little black and brown kids can believe in their abilities and dreams, whether it’s flying kites or making scary monsters. Adults too can dream even if is through the lens of children. I write for little brown and black kids everywhere and the adults also so we never forget our worth or what it means for be young, or old, gifted and black. I write because writing, especially our stories, are the measures of our lives. A gathering of our wisdom, our way, in words that make sense to us and our children is a necessity for today. I write because our stories, our experience are enough. Even if only one person reads whatever we write, that’s enough. Our stories, our language when it is represented is force, stunning forceful language full of audacity, clarity and wit.

Today I went back to the local sams club and lo and behold, our stories were everywhere. Our authors were represented and I felt like I was finally seen and heard by the world especially Sam’s club. Thank you to who ever fought for this to happen. I bought all the books i didn’t have in my collection because I wanted Sam’s club to know that black and brown books matter and black and brown people have purchasing power too. We need representation not just at the ballot boxes but at our stores too. Our stories matter and so keep fighting and insisting that we are represented. Representation matters. Keep seeking it everywhere including and most definitely, the places where we eat, pray and shop.

With representation-Books now at my local Sam’s club.
Books I purchased for my kids from my local Sam’s club.

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There is something sacred about dying on Fridays. The most holiest of all, Jesus Christ died on a Friday afternoon. My father died on a Friday evening in 2009. My little 10 year old nephew, just died on a Friday morning this past July. Everyone’s hero and Black Panther legend, Chadwick Boseman, died on a Friday evening. And now, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg is resting in a well-deserved peace following her death on a Friday evening. Deaths on Fridays are sacred. Deaths on Fridays are profound. Deaths on Fridays are hard. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death is especially hard.

Maybe it’s because Fridays are the end of the week. The end of weeks full of joy or weeks full of agony. Weeks full of amusement or weeks full of dread. This past week has been full of hope, and most certainly confusion on the impediments of the state of our great nation. To end the week with her death adds to grief many of us already feel for this country at this very moment where death is in the air. The death of 200, 000 and counting Americans. Death of one towering figure and icon to many women in America. There is something so hallowed about death of Fridays.

Maybe it because Fridays are right before Saturday’s, when everyone looks towards their rest. Friday’s are full of feelings, very strong, pulsating feelings that evoke rest or never ending restlessness. Friday’s are sometimes the beginning of rest, but also the start of restless trouble. Friday’s are the only day of the week that starts with F, and Friday’s F could mean Freedom, like the saying, Thank God it’s Friday. Friday’s F could also mean F**cked, like what a F**cked up night, as with Justice Ginsburg’s death last night or Boseman’s death just the other day or with Friday night firings or massacres of late. Friday’s F could also mean faith as in, on this faithful Friday we can not mourn as if we have no hope. Friday’s F could mean fight, as in we should all get ready to fight from this Friday until November and beyond, as if your lives depended on the outcome of this year monumental election.

There is something indeed sacred about deaths on Friday, they keep us vigilant and alert, hopeful but ready for a fight, especially a fight till the end just like Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg did this past Friday. Here death is the fight we all need. Here is a woman who fought bouts of cancers while still serving at the highest court. Here is a woman who fought for women’s liberties as if her life and the lives of many other women depended on it. Here is a woman who stayed alert until the end, urging us all to fight as if our lives depended on it. Her death means she is finally free to rest. Yes this is now a f**cked up situation, but we should never forget the faith we all have and believe in this country and fight like she did as if our lives are ending too. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg is now resting in a well-deserved peace. But she was a fighter until the end. We should all keep fighting like her.

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Doors open when we let our minds wander. This is a precious gift worth nurturing and protecting at all costs. Imagination is a precious gift. To be able to dream about places far and wide, to focus on what is within our control, our own recollection of what matters most is a gift. Imagination is a sacred gift. To be able to hold hands, one ours, the other our mind, together we invent, together we dream, together we are appalled, together we are amused. Imagination is a sterling gift. Our own freely given to us to make use or take part in, however we see fit. Imagination is our gift. Becoming the highest version of our selves even if in our dreams, is a gift. And it starts with our imagination, or in today’s post, being scary monsters.

A scary monster

Yesterday and thanks to an empty Amazon box, my kids used their imagination to make the head of a scary monster. The monster had big red eyes, with black eyebrows, blue teeth and green ears. Every detail with this monster head design was specific. Their perception of a scary monster, informed by their imagination was enchanting. It’s wasn’t something they did, but what informed their sensibilities. In their mind, scary monsters could be playful, but still scary, could be colorful, but still scary, could be amusing but still scary, could be made out of boxes, and still scary.

This sweet, intimate connection with the mind is full of intelligence, full of grace. The grace to see scary monsters in all their vivid humanity. It is a total communal experience with the mind. There is something so marvelous about an unblinking mind that wanders, and their effect, their gaze whether through art or the written word is something really divine. We can all go there, to that side of our humanity, that requires, no demands that our minds wander, if only we keep being scary monsters.

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There is something so special about drawing, especially like a child. Like the drawings on my children’s kite from yesterday’s post or the stick figures my daughter drew last week of herself and her brother. To see life celebrated through their drawings is always sterling to me. Everyone has art in themselves. Yet, drawing is an art form we adults loose on the journey to adulthood. Everyone is able to understand, use and even take part in making art. But, it’s so profound to see art from a child’s perspective, how they draw their world in ways that make sense to them, in ways that are truly wise. There is no apology at all when children draw. Drawing is a serious matter to children. No need to be perfect or subscribe to what society dictates as the norm. No need to limit yourself to any standards as it blinds you to reality. Art from the perspective of a child is often easy, not difficult. Often simple, not hard. Often colorful, not bland. Drawing will always remain serious to children.

Lotanna’s art

I wonder why I no longer draw as freely as my children. When or where did the assignments end? Why didn’t I enjoy them the way my kids do. Granted, I grew up in Nigeria and truly not surrounded with as much crayons as my children. But I was also exposed to art. Granted I wasn’t expected to practice art. But the joy to even draw isn’t in me the way I observe it in my children. Yet, I wish we could all draw like children. That I could draw and love it the way my kids do. If one looked at a child’s drawing and compared it to what we adults do, you will understand why life is meant to be easy not hard, full of hope, not impediments.

My children’s paper kites

Children are indeed blessed with a sense of creativity that should be nurtured and protected with vigilance. They instinctively feel life and supply it in any art form they engage in. They know who they are even if it’s in stick figures, why they exist, what is the meaning of life, and why we should celebrate our existence. And drawing is the medium that is most serious to them. Their art is in service of simplicity, it’s in service of joy, it’s in service of humanity. We cannot be apologetic about the way children draw. Their art makes no apology to the world. They show us what is permissible in life, the good and the bad, within the margins or out of it, the richness of life, they celebrate it all in their drawings. Which is why we should all keep drawing like children.

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I love Toni Morrison. One of my greatest regrets for my life is that we never met. We never had a face to face chat about her brilliant, most sterling mind. We die, that may be the meaning of life, she once eloquently said, but we do language, that may be the measure of our lives, is probably the most poignant thing I have read. It is also my life’s quote. No one personifies this quote better than Ms. Morrison and boy did she do language during her life on earth.

For the past year since her death, I have been devouring any and everything Ms. Morrison has every written. Not her fictional literature that many of us love, whether it’s Beloved or Sula or the first book of hers I ever read, The Bluest eyes. No, her fiction was sterling, awe inspiring and downright brilliant. No, I haven’t been reading her fictional books. I have instead been reading everything non- fictional that this brilliant woman ever wrote. She wrote so many and my go to bible now, her last, ‘The source of self-regard’ is quite simply divine.

But the latest in my possession, a very short acceptance speech she delivered in 1996, on the acceptance of the National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, is by far one of the most brilliant essays I have ever read. This particular essay is a masterclass on brevity as well as the passion, pleasures, difficulties and necessities of the reading/writing life. It is the inspiration for this blog.

Toni Morrison’s The Dancing Mind.

In the essay, Ms Morrison speaks about peace, not just peace as a result of war, but the peace that comes with engaging with other’s mind when reading/writing. She described this as the dancing of the mind and asked all of us to become vigilant about preserving this peace from the peril it faces.

‘The real life work of creating and producing and distributing knowledge…the ability for the entitled as well as the dispossessed to experience one’s own mind dancing with another, in essence the real life work of the book world is a serious feat that warrants vigilance.’

When writing and writers manage to touch another’s mind through reading, the intimate, sustained surrender that is felt, without fear or interference, this dance of an open mind, fosters a particular kind of peace that requires vigilance. Securing that peace, the peace of a dancing mind, is our work. ‘There isn’t anybody else’ said Ms Morrison and I totally agree. She may be gone, but her words, are my source of inspiration. I hope to use this blog to help you experience your own mind dancing with my own. Securing this peace, the peace of the dancing mind, is now my life’s work. Rest In Peace Ms. Morrison. The dance continues…

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There is something so amazing about flying handmade paper kites. Maybe it’s the colors used to make them standout or the lines cut neatly in diamond shape. Even the strings attached to the kites have lasting significance for strength of the kites, the strength to withstand even the most gentle breeze, strength to just simply fly in a finite direction no matter where the wind blows. The end product of a flying kite, a handmade paper kite is always sterling, always satisfying, especially when flown by the children who made them.

Last Sunday my kids and I went to park to fly their handmade kites. My daughter got the idea to make kites on Saturday and proceeded to make one big kite for herself and her brothers. At first they were all happy to have their one big kite and ran around the house with it all Saturday. Then Sunday came and she had the brilliant idea about going to the park to fly their kite. The happiness the boys all had for their one big kite evaporated. Now they wanted their own kites and not one big kite. I told them not to worry that when I go to the store I would actually buy simple kites at Walmart that they could all fly.

But the boys had their own ideas. How about we make our kite? I looked puzzled. It’s Sunday morning and the last thing on my mind these days, especially on Sunday is more work with the kids. I simply said sure, that means no park today. But the boys had a will and they determined to persevere. They went back to the basement location of homeschool and proceeded to make their own kites. I honestly laid in bed. About 30 minutes later, they ran upstairs with their handmade kites. All three of them had kites made with paper and they were now all excited for the park. I looked at them in awe.

To be a child is an amazing gift. They see the world in ways we adults have long lost on the journey to becoming adults. Nothing is truly impossible for them. The end product of flying kites, especially flying handmade paper kite at the park on Sunday with all the things that could have gone wrong with paper made kites, was indeed sterling and extremely satisfying.

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I hate Zoom, especially for children. I hate that it’s the new way to teach. I hate that this pandemic has forced all of us to incorporate it into our daily routine. I hate Zoom especially for my children’s learning. It’s sounds contentious, I know, and hostile, I know, and defensive, I know and old-fashioned. I know that. But I am the parent that prefers learning the old-fashioned way. Not from tablets or online, but from books and outdoor exploration, like with butterflies perched quietly on a grass or books that make the mind dance.

I am not suggesting that Zoom does not have its benefit but I hate how it’s forcing my children to sit still and learn via a screen rather than from one on one interaction with their peers and teachers. Teaching my children is not something I take likely, it is the essence of their life and the tools I must use to do so must make sense to them. Zoom doesn’t. I can’t say no to tablets and somehow allow Zoom. No to TV or all sorts of distractions online, but then transport them to a Zoom utopia. Rational tools for homeschooling with our children during a pandemic are a necessity these days and it’s only September. Parents like myself eager to construct meaningful learning in the face of our country chaotic response to the pandemic must be nurtured, protected. And it’s our right to hate Zoom.

It’s vital therefore to know the consequences of the Zoomification of learning. The erasure of face to face learning, whether in math or social studies, recess altered or denied for fear of succumbing to a virus, canceled soccer games, unstaged children’s play, the peeling away of normalcy even for children, the thought of this pandemic never ending is frustrating. I hate Zoom, but I hate the pandemic even more.

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There is a childlike innocence I wish as an adult I still possess. It’s in the way they see the world. It’s how the feel the world with clarity and ease. It’s in the simple ideas they have, not abstract, just simple, like abc. It is freedom, this childlike lens, just as free as flying birds in the sky. It is a freedom that I wish I still had.

Yesterday my daughter gave me a copy of the storybook she wrote. She started writing it on Friday and showed me a copy of it then, although not completed. I asked why was she writing a book, she said, because I write all the time. She felt if her mother was writing, so could she. I smiled and walked away. Her freedom with writing was divine.

What she didn’t know was that lately her mother has been struggling to write freely. I have always said to myself that if I didn’t go the route of academia, I would write as freely as I could, with words beautifully put together in a deeply satisfying and profound way. Granted, I have written plenty abstract like publications necessary for my academic journey, but I miss the other style of writing not confined to the pressures of academia. The style free from abstract thoughts, abstract objectives, abstract methods, with abstract results and conclusion. The style, clean and clear with concrete ideas and images that evoke emotions. The style, simple and profound, like proverbs that nourish the soul. The style full of vivid stories like in Antoine de Exupery’s Little Prince or Chinua Achebe’s Chike and the River. The style my daughter had freely.

This style of writing is something I have longed to do for awhile now. It’s the fundamental reason for this blog. I have started the journey to that style of writing in the past but stopped numerous times. So when my daughter shared her completed story yesterday, I was in awe and amazed of what she was able to do in 24 hours. My daughter produced a short and completed story in the style of writing free from abstract thoughts. There was indeed freedom to her writing. A freedom she knew she had. A freedom that allowed her to start and complete her story the way she wanted to. A freedom that she claimed, she owned, all to tell a story with clarity and ease. I have lost that freedom. But we should all keep writing like a child.

The reason why I started and stopped that style of writing is because the freedom to do seems so distant. It’s the reason why I still can’t call myself an author despite all the ideas in my head. My impediment, abstract thinking, abstract writing, with all its demands gets in the way all the time. My hope, the freedom I saw with my daughter’s writing was satisfying and sterling. She was not afraid of being judged or perfect. She was not focused on society’s standard of what writing should entail. She wrote freely. She knew her story. She claimed and owned her story and wrote it as clear as she could. Even naming me her publisher. I am inspired by my daughter’s writing. It’s the freedom that I need these days. It’s the freedom that will set me free on this journey to become an author.

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I started to run again. It was favorite thing to do during graduate school. Life since graduating got in the way so I stopped running. Sure I run occasionally, but not as consistently as I did during graduate school. Since homeschooling started this fall, I wanted something that I could do consistently so that I keep up with the demands of teaching 3 kids at home. Running was the only thing that made sense again. I set a target to run 10 miles at least 3 times a week. I have consistently met the target except this week.

This week, my second child started his own Zoom lessons. Imagine keeping a 6 year old 1st grader focused on Zoom and doing school work at the same time. My 8year old is a pro now and is enjoying every moment of it. My three year old loves his worksheets and reading time with no Zoom. But my 6 year old who was fine at first with just doing the worksheets, became tired of learning all together when Zoom began. I was tired too. Adding Zoom this week was erratic not just for him but for me also. And it almost stopped me from running mid-week to achieve my goals. I came up with every excuse I could come up with to justify why I shouldn’t run and it all made sense. I was tired and I needed a break. I was tired of waking up earlier than normal to start the Zoom process for him. The weather seems to be changing and Fall is in the air and I am tired. All of the excuses are okay these days. Yet I knew that running was for me.

Running has allowed me to stay focused. Running, especially running consistently with a goal in mind, has allowed to see homeschooling from a different lens. Running allowed me to choose joy this school year. Even when I get tired with the first mile of every run, I keep running. Even when the skies are gray and pelters of rain are felt on my skin, I keep running. Even when my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of my never ending to-do lists, I keep running. Even when my knees start to hurt by the third mile all the way to the end and I feel like giving up, I keep running. I keep running so that I accomplish my own goals. I keep running so that I stay sane through homeschooling. I keep running because it’s my favorite thing to do once again. I keep running for the flow of it. I keep running because I choose joy. I keep running for me.

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Yesterday award-winning author, Dr. Ibram Kendi lectured on ‘How to be an antiracist,’ at Saint Louis University as part of our college’s Social Justice Annual Lecture. In his book of the same title, Dr. Kendi talked about how antiracist must remain ‘fighters, tireless, durable,’ but fight in other to succeed.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask from the book but we only had one hour with Dr. Kendi so I’ll ask them here. What if we fight and still have knees on our neck? What if we fight and still get colon cancer like you did or breast cancer like your wife did all at a young age? How do you fight a system truly rotten to it’s core with tumors in some cases or no chance at life in others, not for George Floyd or Breonna Taylor and the list goes on and on? How do you dismantle the system of its racist policies with tools that are off the system, tools that are focused on self-interest? Audre Lourde said it best, ‘we cannot use the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s house.’ Can antiracists still hold conservative views in 2020? Dr. Amber Johnson’s eloquent question still rings bells in my hears and I am not sure what your actual response was (not your fault my kids were listening too with my 8year old daughter inspired to see a real-life ‘book writer’).

You shared a W.E.B Du Bois quote where he asked Black people ‘How does it feel to be a problem?’ To that you replied and in 2020, ‘How does it feel to be a solution?’ I am guessing this is what you mean by antiracists must fight. Antiracists are the solution and the only way solutions have a chance to survive is to fight.

Antiracists fight so that opportunities and outcomes are equal between groups. Antiracists fight so that policies, not people, are blamed for societal problems. Antiracists fight so that nearly everyone has enough. Antiracists fight for power to become mainstream and ideas common sense until success is achieved. Success, Dr. Kendi noted, will be based on what antiracists are ‘willing to do.’

We can survive metastatic racism just as you survived metastatic stage-4 colon cancer and your wife with stage-2 breast cancer. It will take a fight for us all to treat racism like we treat cancer. Listening to you last night, gave me the hope and believe in the possibilities of fighting to become the solution. Fighting to transform our society. Fighting to give humanity a chance to survive. It will take a fight for us all to survive and like you, I am ready to fight.

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My son loves egg crayons. Not to color with them, but to roll them on the ground or down the stairs. It’s his favorite thing to do and my least favorite thing to watch. After each rolling session, I am right behind him picking each crayon up one by one to put them neatly back in their box. But just as soon as the box is neatly packed, my son would start the process all over again, rolling the crayons on the ground or down the stairs.

Today, I watched and listened as another crayon rolled on the ground and down the stairs and landed with a heavy thud, and continued to roll on. I saw the happiness on his face and how he just stared at the crayons mesmerized. For the first time, I saw with a childlike eye, why my son enjoyed rolling the egg crayons on on the ground. They never stop rolling! Even when things got in their way or they experienced a heavy thud, the crayons kept rolling on. It’s was as if the crayons were really meant to roll, not to color or be kept neatly in a box, just roll and roll and roll. I finally got it.

Life is not meant to be neat. Life is not meant to be colorful either. We are all going to experience challenging times, but the key to overcoming whatever problems we experience is to keep rolling. I learnt that today from my son and his rolling egg crayons. With life, no matter the circumstances, keep rolling.