Chicken Soup for the African American Soul

by Jack Canfield

  And secretly wish they possessed her beauty.

  I am her child, her father, her brother, her lover.

  God is the only thing I can place above her.

  I am the past. I am the present. I am the future.

  I am the beginning. I am the end. I am what moves you.

  I am only beginning to understand truly who I am.

  I am God’s glory and God’s love. I am the black man.

  Anthony M. Moore

  More Alike Than Different

  I never considered my race as a barrier to me. In fact, it’s become an asset because it allows me to have broader perspective.

  James Kaiser

  I met Calvin at Camp Unitown. He was our leader. At Unitown teenagers come together to participate in activities that focus on how we are all more alike than different.

  Calvin was 5'7", medium brown skin with “locks” to his shoulders and the teens loved him. Calvin possessed a calmness that made you want to be near him. Where you felt okay to be yourself. Calvin spoke straight from the heart. His voice thundered when he told the group stories about acts of racism.

  It was a cold and snowy February in the northern Arizona mountains. About sixty kids attended that weekend. Half came from an inner-city school in Phoenix. The other half were from a low socioeconomic community near the camp. Probably about 40 percent of all the teens there were white, 20 percent black, 20 percent Hispanic, 10 percent Native American, and the other 10 percent of the kids were of varied ethnic backgrounds.

  They were typical teenagers: loud, unruly, having fun. At first the students didn’t mix with each other. The Phoenix teenagers stayed with their group; the rural kids hung with their friends. Everyone was in their own cliques.

  We participated in large groups led by Calvin and broke into small groups of six to eight to share individually. The first evening Calvin led us through a scenario of racial injustice and violence. Calvin’s story appeared so real in our minds that most of the teens were in tears. Tenderly, Calvin assisted the group in personalizing the inhumanness of any kind of prejudice.

  One white girl sitting next to me pushed her head into my chest. She was sobbing. When she lifted her head to look at me, her sky-blue eyes were clear and wide and full of compassion. I kissed her forehead.

  In the morning we discussed our different heritages. Calvin told us about individual cultures and described admirable qualities about each one. As he expanded on the honorable attributes of varying ethnic groups he would ask students of that ethnicity to stand as he described their heritage. The last group he asked to stand were kids of mixed ethnic groups. Calvin’s voice was passionate. “Here we have brothers and sisters who come from more than one racial background. These individuals came from two parents or parental lines that had different races. Look each one of them in the eyes. See their beauty. Here, my brothers and sisters, is the future of our world.”

  By the afternoon we heard and watched each other reveal our best-kept secrets. We all shared. No one was left out.

  That night we went through a litany of exercises to demonstrate how we discriminate against each other based on sex. Calvin showed us how the belief systems we had been taught verbally or nonverbally affect us. Surprisingly we saw that the girls were just as guilty as the boys in stereotyping others because they were male or female.

  Calvin told the boys to stand in rows so that they were facing each other. The girls made a circle around the perimeter of the room. Then Calvin played soft music on his CD player. The music was from cultures around the world—drums, flutes, chants. The directions Calvin gave to the boys were: “Look into your brother’s eyes. Do not say a word to him. But with your eyes tell your brother, ‘I am there for you. I care for you, and I understand. You don’t have to be tough anymore. You can come to me if you need someone to help you remember your commitment.’”

  To the girls he said, “Please silently witness the boys making this commitment to each other.”

  Calvin gave each pair of boys time to connect their eyes and silently make their vow. Then he announced, “Change,” and the boys moved up one space to encounter a new person in the row. A few of the “tougher” boys laughed. It didn’t take long, though, for them to honor the seriousness of this event. Outside snow fell swiftly as if to solidify their vows to each other. The girls watched in awe as boys became men that day.

  Afterwards, Calvin told these young men to hug every person in the room. With each hug I said a silent blessing. Earlier that day most of these guys had been strangers to me. It felt to me like they each received my blessing with honor.

  Now it was the girls’ turn. Calvin instructed us to take the men’s place in the middle of the room. The men encircled us. As Calvin played music created by great women from all around the world, he told us, “Look into your sister’s eyes. See her beauty. Tell her how beautiful she is. Tell her with your eyes, not words. Promise her you will be there for her when she needs you. Remind her to respect herself.”

  Powerful emotions built up inside of me as I gave each girl a silent message using only my eyes. I felt such compassion.

  Calvin called, “Change,” and I met a new pair of eyes. I looked into brown, black, blue and green eyes that evening; each time I saw beauty and grace. I felt proud to be among these girls, like I was taking part in a sacred ceremony. The snow kept falling.

  As the weekend came to an end, I felt like I had grown two inches taller. Before we boarded our buses to go home, we made a large circle and stood in the snow hand in hand. There was no separation of skin colors, schools or cliques. Calvin, with his openness and tell-it-like-it-is manner, had somehow transformed a group of immature teenagers into men and women of integrity.

  I thank Calvin for the gift he shared with us that weekend. In my mind he is a real twenty-first-century hero.

  Mary Cornelia Van Sant

  The Nod

  True friendship comes when silence between two people is comfortable.

  Dave Tyson Gentry

  I got it this week while attending a workshop at the University of Iowa. I hadn’t gotten it in such a long time; it refreshed me, the way a cool douse of rain in summer, the first lick of a Popsicle, a smile from a baby refreshes.

  The nod.

  It came from a gentleman about five years my senior. His russet face was splattered with tiny brown freckles like my grandmother’s. He offered it to me as we passed each other on the stairs.

  I did not know him. I had no idea if he was an instructor or student or the parent of a student. I didn’t know if he was a maintenance man or a scholar on loan from another university.

  But I knew the nod.

  I knew it from working in corporate America for some twenty-plus years. It’s the acknowledgment African Americans of my generation give in passing when we don’t know each other, yet do. We don’t know each other by name, age, social security number or any other demographic you could select on a page or check in a box. We know each other through mutual troubles, collective struggles, shared triumphs.

  Once when I was running an errand at work with my coworker, she noticed the nod.

  “Do you know all of those people?” she asked.

  The quip at the tip of my tongue was a popular phrase of the time: “It’s a black thang. You wouldn’t understand.”

  I didn’t say it, though. Instead, I just said, “No,” and kept my black thang to myself. But it truly is a black thang—an African American thang.

  There’s reverence in that thang, that Black Thang. That nod.

  There is respect, reciprocity and recollection as long as the middle passage. That nod remembers that before there were suits and paychecks, there were chains and marches. Before there were fringe benefits and paid time off, there were sit-ins and freedom rides. Before there was EEO, affirmative action and sensitivity training, there was the lash.

  There are black codes in that chin. The amalgam of Martin and Malcolm is in that gesture. There are big black fists saluting
in Mexico City in that movement. That nod.

  The kids nowadays have an up nod—a quick jerk from the bottom to the top. It’s hip like, “What’s happenin’? What’s up?” I like ours better. It moves the same way a prayer moves, down toward the soul, toward the Earth, toward the heart. It’s slower, more dip than scoop as if we’re laying something down rather than yanking it up.

  The nod is a signal, an acknowledgment. It answers yes, yes, yes to unasked questions: Were you there when it became illegal to discriminate? Do you remember when they wouldn’t hire us? Was it hard for you to climb the corporate ladder?

  It is the celebration of an incredible feat. A monumental undertaking. That, despite everything . . . we’ve made it this far.

  This week, on the stairs, I returned the man’s nod and smiled, knowing that even on an Iowa campus, like in corporate America, our connections to each other thrive.

  Kim Louise

  Soothing the Soul of Racism

  It is critical that we take charge of our own destiny and stop waiting for some unknown being to come along and wipe racism from the face of the Earth.

  David Wilson

  As an activist, someone who is constantly on the front lines for racial equality in the world, my spirit was tired, overwhelmed with the work, hopeless that a real change would ever manifest. In an effort to recharge my spiritual battery, I registered for a cultural retreat, Moonsisters Drum Camp for Women in Northern California.

  I believed being around the sacred instrument would renew me, connect me to the ancestral energy I needed to continue my work. I’d be around other black women who were doing similar work. Perhaps they could offer some suggestions on how I could serve my community without depleting myself on every level.

  When I arrived, I became immediately resentful. Over 70 percent of the participants were white women. Here I was in my late thirties, and this was the first opportunity I’d had to develop a relationship with a major part of my ancient African heritage: drumming. The term “white privilege” spun in my head until I found out that in order to attend the camp, white participants had to attend a special antiracism training workshop. I was impressed that these women were willing to do this, to pay for it even, to ensure that they wouldn’t bring overt racism into a sacred healing space.

  The white women offered to help with my bags, show me to my cabin. Although they were kind and welcoming, I wore a scowl on my face: a mask for the fear and mistrust I felt.

  We each went around the room introducing ourselves, explaining why we had chosen to attend the drum camp. I told the group I came to try to find a spiritual solution for the race problem in America. After the introduction, two white women approached and said they wanted to support me in any way they could to end racism in America. I was moved but not convinced.

  I am what my ancestors called a “seer.” I have always had the ability to hear the voice of spirit. This is not a 1-900 kind of connection with the spirit world; it is a gift from God to help me in my journey. During a drumming session, a young woman asked me to do a spiritual reading for her. I’d never sat in spiritual counsel with anyone white. But I intuitively felt led to work with this woman.

  She came to my cabin at the arranged time. During the reading, my ancestors directed me to wash her feet with sage and holy oil. I thought I was hearing things. They couldn’t be serious. After what her ancestors had done to mine, she should be washing my feet! I followed the directive, reluctantly. Later it was revealed to me that her ancestors were among the whites who helped free the slaves through the Underground Railroad. My lesson was in motion. The spiritual reason I’d been brought to this retreat was steadily being revealed.

  The camp workshops included various drumming sessions and collective healing circles. We built a community altar, and each woman placed a sacred object on the shrine that represented her vision for personal healing. It was a powerful altar that embraced practically every religious belief system and cultural background. Our altar was a bridge to healing across the races, a bridge we would all cross before the weekend was over.

  The closing ceremony was a culmination of the stories and lessons we had exchanged throughout the retreat. The woman whose feet I had washed was giving her testimony on how the retreat had changed her. Suddenly, she looked over at me and apologized for what her ancestors had done to my ancestors. In all my thirty-four years, no white person had ever acknowledged my pain as a black woman in relationship to the enslavement of my ancestors. I fell to my knees and sobbed uncontrollably. So did every black person in that room. One by one, each white person apologized to every black person in the room for what their ancestors did. We hugged each other, linking arms and bodies. I felt a white light surrounding us. And for that moment, we were no longer white or black, Christian or Yoruba; we were human beings united under one God.

  There were ten watermelons on the shrine. The organizers cut and distributed slices to refresh us from our intense healing session. The woman I’d bonded with over the weekend brought over a slice to share. When she handed it to me, the watermelon slipped from her hand. We caught it just before it hit the ground. However, it split open in the process and when it did, a perfect heart fell out and sat between our fingers.

  The entire group sighed in awe of the way that spirit recognized the healing we had brought about. We cried again. The healing was complete. I took off a beloved cowry shell bracelet that I’d been wearing the entire retreat and placed it around her wrist. Cowry shells are a symbol of African wealth; worn to symbolize the return to our original greatness.

  “Sisters forever,” I told her as I fastened the bracelet around her wrist.

  We smiled and parted, connected forever by the drums, our human hearts and the spiritual soup of God. And today, I don’t assume anything about a person because of their race. I wait for their spirit to show me who they are.

  Ta’Shia Asanti

  Cold Hands, Warm Heart

  God did not create two classes of children or human beings—only one.

  Marian Wright Edelman

  Lottie slowly shuffled into the multipurpose room of the nursing home where I conducted weekly group therapy sessions for women having trouble adjusting to their new residence. Lottie looked especially down today, and I wondered whether she was feeling uncomfortable after having shared some very personal experiences the previous week. “Airing one’s dirty laundry” was considered taboo in her generation, perhaps even more so in her particular culture.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she mumbled, almost inaudibly. “My arthritis kept me up all night. And I’m so tired that I’ll probably nod off during group. Maybe I should just leave.”

  “That’s okay, Lottie,” I responded reassuringly as I patted the empty chair next to me. “I saved you a seat right here, and I promise if you start snoring, I’ll give you a little nudge with my elbow.”

  Everyone laughed . . . except Lottie. She didn’t even smile. Gosh, I thought, She really does seem depressed. This tall, matronly woman was almost fragile today. Her eyes pleaded for something I could not comprehend.

  “Please join us,” I implored, patting the seat again.

  Lottie hesitantly ventured across the room towards me, turned, and lowered herself cautiously into the chair. She let out a gasp of pain that made everyone wince.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said. “You really are having a rough time, aren’t you?”

  She looked at me and raised her two dark gnarled hands for me to see. They were shaking. In fact, it seemed as if her whole body was almost trembling.

  “My hands are soooo cold,” she whimpered like a little girl, “and they hurt soooo much.”

  “Let me warm them up for you.” I scooted my chair even closer, took both of her hands in mine and laid them in my lap. To divert attention from her, I began talking to the other women in the group about how they had been doing this past week. I gently massaged one of Lottie’s hands, then the other. My instincts told me something was going on
with her—something far more serious than arthritis and a sleepless night. I made a conscious decision not to ask her to disclose anything today. I would offer to spend some time alone with her after the group ended to make sure that she was okay.

  My mind kept drifting back to what Lottie had previously shared. Several residents had been talking about recent visits from their children and grandchildren. Someone commented that they had never seen anyone visiting Lottie and asked if her relatives all lived out of town.

  Mrs. Burton whispered, “I don’t think she has any kids.”

  Lottie overheard her and responded, “Actually, I’ve had thousands of children in my lifetime.”

  Everyone stopped talking and just stared at her, waiting for an explanation. Lottie continued, “I never married, but since I’d always loved children, I decided to become a teacher. Before I came here, I would occasionally run into a former student at church or the grocery store. They always recognized me and came over to chat. But now . . . well, probably no one even knows I’m here. Besides, they have their own lives and their own families to take care of.”

  Mrs. Roberts asked about Lottie’s siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews . . . didn’t any of them live in Louisiana? Lottie paused, and then said she had lost touch with all her relatives. This undoubtedly made no sense to anyone in the room. Lottie was such a bright, interesting, sweet, caring woman. Surely, anybody would be thrilled to have her in their family and would want to keep in touch with her as often as possible.

  I didn’t want to pressure her to reveal more than she was ready to, but I also wanted to provide an opportunity for her to process something painful if she felt the need to do so. “You’ve lost touch with your family?” I asked. “Is that something you’d like to talk about?”

  Lottie swallowed, dropped her eyes, and said softly, “My mother died during childbirth, and I think my father somehow blamed me for it. I guess that’s why he gave me to his parents to raise. Then he was probably lonely, so he got married again pretty quickly. He and his new wife had a baby within a year, so I actually had a half-sister close to my age.