Help Hyze’s Medical Fund

When I met Hyze, I didn’t know he had other names. We met at a NJ speakeasy bookstore that is no more and he volunteered to help me with my self-published urban culture magazine, Exist. We spent many hours, days and months talking through photos, stories, and basically… chilling. Trying to understand how to tell the story of where we’re from and what we live each day, though our stories, even, were vastly different. In any case, through the years Hyze revealed himself as Akintola Hanif. He and his work evolved. My magazine died. His photography grew. And his career became a combination of photo-activism, photo-journalism, and shooting the subaltern.

Months go by and he and I call, write, say we’re going to link up when I’m in town, sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. But, when it happens, my friend fills my soul. He reminds me of every artsy urban dream I ever had that I laid aside for a pay check and travel options. He reminds me that every bit of creative spirit in writing and image that I’ve produced over the years is honest to my core, because since before I was the me many people know today I was living that truth and he supported me (why, I’ll never know) from our day 1.

And so, it is with a heavy heart that I heard that he recently had a stroke. Ok, let’s be honest. I felt shock and guilt, even before I felt sympathy or concern. First, this dude is young and so shock set in before anything else. I considered that something had to have gone wrong here and that a stroke really is something that could have, should have hit a decade or two after today, maybe. Guilt came because I saw the “GoFundMe” page on his facebook account, but misread it for weeks. I thought he was starting a fund to help a friend. I didn’t realize his friend set up an account to help him. And you know how many hours I spend on facebook. I could have clicked the link and known sooner. He is my friend, a real one, seriously. I had emailed him weeks and days before with my usual two liner. “I miss you. That is all.” But, didn’t reach out beyond that. So, guilt… there you have it.

For the sympathy and concern, I could say I have a lot, but that too would be wrong. He is the second photographer in my life to have a stroke. Watching my grandfather transform into his post-stroke self was painful for him and difficult to watch, so I know the days ahead will be tough and will be different for my friend.  What I really had was fear. But, what I’ve seen in these past few days is that Hyze’s friends have come together – at least in social media land – to help support. That’s more than can be said for many people. And so that give me joy and hope. I hope it does the same for him, as he recovers and shoots new lives from a different angle.

So, he’s been many things in this life, a dancer, a single-father, a friend, a photographer, a magazine editor and founder, a son, a mentor, a whole person (with grills and glasses) with a story to tell.  #sammiches

I hope you’ll take the time to support my friend’s recovery so that he can continue to do what he does best… every little bit helps.

https://www.gofundme.com/akintolas-medical-recovery-fund

#musicamondays #MusicMondays (67)

Welcome to the 67th installation of #musicamondays #MusicMondays, which features music from around the globe. Each song is selected to start your week off on the good foot! One still in the bed and the other in another country…

Chicago born, Gil Scott Heron been woke since woke was a thing… He’s probably turning over in his grave right now, but… every once in a while we need to be reminded of how far we’ve come and how far we haven’t… Thank you, sir.

And since it’s a Monday Morning, this feels appropriate… let’s call on Lady Day and make the most of the day we have in front of us!

#musicamondays #MusicMondays (66)

Welcome to the 66th installation of #musicamondays #MusicMondays, which features music from around the globe. Each song is selected to start your week off on the good foot! One still in the bed and the other in another country…

South Africa rising has to get your day off to a wonderful start, right?

(Watch Sarafina with an ample supply of tissues only.)

#musicamondays #MUSICMONDAYS (61)

Welcome to the 61st installation of #musicamondays #MusicMondays, which features music from around the globe. Each song is selected to start your week off on the good foot! One still in the bed and the other in another country…

So, let’s all enjoy the sounds of Boubacar Traore from Mali. I’ve been listening to Mr. Traore’s music since 2007 and it never fails to move something in my soul. My sincerest sympathies, well wishes and hopes go to Mali, which has also been ravaged by terrorism as of late… and I’m a sucker for blues music and a good harmonica riff.

And on with your day, mindfully and peacefully…go.

Daddy Daughter Dance

 

Sitting in my living room are four very old, well bonded, childhood friends and the daughter of one. Of this group, only one has a child and she is the princess of their inner sanctum. She has stopped us from watching “Carlito’s Way” and got me to guiltily change the channel to Disney Kids. And she isn’t even watching it. She discovered some beach balls and a handmade truck. She’s entertaining herself with objects of diversion.  This has been after a few hours of sharing peace offerings – cookies, mango juice, toy elephants & lions – all placed strategically within her reach. I have watched this child grow from a quiet baby to a talkative toddler. She is respectful. She is sweet. She is intelligent. And she has fully taken over my living room.

She interrupts the flow of conversation and adult attempts to tie up loose ends over the phone. “Pai…PAI…PAAAIIII!” [Dad…over and over again with increasing insistence]. She has been climbing on him like he is a human jungle gym. She’s been talking to herself and playing with the beads in her braids, while standing barefoot on the couch by his side. We often call her his twin and she’s, perhaps, the female most welcome in this boys club. She hasn’t left her father’s side for longer than 2 minutes at a time despite his full engagement in a boys’ conversation that has long since stopped involving both she and me.

Watching Luna with her dad has reminded me of being one of the oldest girls in my dad’s friend circle. The memories of watching them watch the game (usually football), while I’m sure my mom thought they were watching me… all came flooding back. Those days when we were supposed to go play outside, but outside had no appeal and other kids were no option. It was me, my dad, and a room full of his friends. And I thought I was of no consequence in this scene that was beyond my age and my understanding, but I wonder now if I was as Luna is today – all over the place and unaware of my primacy.

One of the first times I remember feeling aware, though, was the annual ‘Daddy Daughter Dance’ in elementary school. All the girls came with their fathers or father figures, dressed up in the frilliest frocks, and had a fancy dinner in the school gym. Looking back it was kitsch. Looking at the photos it was tacky. Looking at Luna, I see why it mattered.

Before I knew what a boy friend was, I had already had well over a lifetime’s worth of memories with a dad who loved me so much so that I understood his presence as banal. What’s more impressive is that I grew up with a fraternity of uncles who all knew me as the awkward, bookish, four-eyed tag along in the crew. Until now, I didn’t realize how important their friendship was for my idea of responsible manhood. They were and still are responsible parents, hard-working members of the working class, God-fearing (different Gods too, let me say for the record) members of my extended family.

What I understand now is that it was a privilege to have my father in my life. For an African-American girl growing up an urban city, my experience was unique only in so far as girls that look like me don’t have childhoods like mine. It is an aberration for my generation and demographic, but it is portrayed as normal for so many other little girls around the world who have learned to expect so much from the men in their lives. What’s particularly unique, above and beyond the stereotypes, is the reality that I learned at a very early age to trust, love and feel safe with Black men.

With so much of the world being afraid of groups of Black men, feeling threatened by their collective presence, misunderstanding the depths of their friendships, and questioning their right to life and prosperity, I know and have always known better. Black girls like Luna who grow up to be Black women like me know that we are not asking too much of our men to be present, to be loving, to be nurturing and to be responsible. We know that not all groups of Black men are to be feared. We understand that they thrive in their friendships and their bonds are deep. We expect that they will draw strength and wisdom from their inner circle, that they will be each other’s keeper, and they will do their own social policing to make sure that they live a truth worthy of this one chance at life that they’ve been given.

Girls like us learn a lot in this daddy daughter dance. We reaffirm our love for our fathers. We know to rely on our uncles, just as much as we rely on our aunts. We are assured that they can be relied upon as much as our fathers, for they are an extension of his ambitions for himself, his community, and his family. Whether we spin in circles in front of the television, jump on his shoulders while he tries to drink a beer,  or step on his toes while dancing in the school gym, we are lucky to have lived a very public daddy daughter dance in the audience of men who saw it as their responsibility to show us their love, protection, and respect for women, including the little one screaming to the top of her lungs “Pai…viu?” [Dad… see?] in the middle of my living room, where she is safe, where she is loved, where she can take all of this for granted… forever.

 

 

 

Are we THAT couple now?

Turns out, after two years of wedded bliss and occasional blunders, a lot of my friends have now decided that I’m one half of an old married couple. I’m not sure when it happened, or why. But, I find now that my husband and I are often the most senior married couple in any room of our peers. Weird… Some of this is because here in Maputo the couples we know have been together for ages, but haven’t gone through the cumbersome feat of planning an African wedding. Most of my friends in New Jersey are singling and mingling. In short, we get asked about relationship and marital advice a lot. By no means, should we be asked. We don’t know anything about relationships, we just know a lot about each other. But, because I know we’ll get asked many times over the next year, as our friends and siblings get married one by one, here’s a short list of lessons I can share about transitioning from girlfriend to wife.

1f803ad34b2dd53f6f0ac81417fb88e5.jpg1 – Living together isn’t the same: Remember, girl friend, when it used to be exciting to sleepover at his house? The joys of the scent of his cologne on the sheets. Or better yet, before he said he’d come to your place, you cleaned up and put flowers everywhere. Oh, the staging! Staying in to cook dinner together was sweet and cozy then.When we were dating it was like sleeping over was the equivalent of staying in a nice Air BnB with benefits.  Now, wife, no matter where you go – he’s there. All the time. There’s no prep time. No down time. You’re not sharing his space and he’s not sharing yours. You’re both entitled to the same space. EEK! I died a thousand deaths at the beginning of our genuine cohabitation. I thought it’d be the same as before and it wasn’t. But the silver lining is that once it dawned on me that we’re both entitled and both responsible for the space we share, I stopped thinking I had to be the keeper of the house. His household chores have mounted! I’m his wife, not his maid.

30a1988f60fe3a530e297ac5520e9c4c.jpg2 – Honesty is the best policy: It’s so much harder to lie when you’re married. Remember, girl friend, when you would spend days apart and just meet up a few days a week for dates or cuddle sessions? You both had separate lives then. He was busy. You were busy. You both were broke.  You casually omit that your ex drunk dialed you, because you were in bed alone that night any way. You could say with a straight face, “I didn’t spend that much on shoes yesterday,” because you didn’t go over your household finances regularly. He could say, “I was at soccer,” and you wouldn’t have a clue if he actually went. You didn’t experience the confirmation funk after he came home from a friendly match. Now, wife, you both know too much. Even little white lies are hard to tell and personal secrets are hard to keep. We have managed to keep a pretty uncensored relationship and I don’t know how anyone could survive any other way. “I know your grandmother doesn’t like me. The feeling is pretty much mutual,” has been heard at our dining room table with multiple furrowed brows. “Quit complaining about being fat, you aren’t doing anything about it” has been said about 3 times in the last month – not that I’m counting. In any case, there’s a bit of thick skin that’s acquired, but the active listening skills improve. When you’re married you’ve got to listen to and live through the whole truth, not just the pretty parts.

4fed46be6744ee5704980e3718161437.jpg3 – “You’re on the same team”: We have 2 married couple role models, both couples were families I worked with in India and whose advice has been absolutely invaluable. (#couplegoals that are attainable and proximate are important for us.) This nugget came from the husband of one of these patron saints. And he said it to me, not us. At a farewell dinner, he said (with caution), “you have to remember that no matter what, you’re on the same team. I know you, and you’ll need to remember this.” And he was right. Not just right, but really right. Remember that honesty thing I said before, well that’s hard to stomach. It’s so much easier said than done. When somebody tells you things you don’t want to hear or when their support doesn’t look the way you planned, it can definitely feel isolating and oppositional. I’ve learned over the last few years that being on the same team doesn’t always mean being in agreement or even in sync. Sometimes it means being complimentary, using each other as force multipliers. What a relief it is to learn that marriage is like running a relay race together rather than competing side by side at a marathon.

b90ffe3084d263ae588576f23004322b.jpg4 – Be prepared to act a fool together: We struggled at the beginning to have fun together. My husband’s idea of fun sometimes goes too far and I feel like I have to be sober to make sure he doesn’t throw up in the pool. My idea of fun is best described as “0 to 100 real quick.” Either I’m absolutely boring (seriously, listening to productivity podcasts and watching paint dry boring) while recharging my introvert battery OR I’m double fisting at any bar that will let me in without a cover (after you do this enough, the bar access eases). What this means is, we have seen each other at our worst – in the pursuit of trying to let off steam and let our hair down. Work hard, play hard has landed us next to each other the next day often with one of us having absolutely no recollection of the 15 hour period before. Girl friend, you might feel the need to discuss this in depth. Ask and be asked about your motivations. You think this behavior is an indication of a problem. This wife does a thorough physical check that no one has shed blood over the night before, confirms that no one has incriminating photos in their phones, says a prayer to the patron saint that keeps all fools safe, and makes a hearty breakfast to sop up the alcohol belly and shame accumulated over the night before. And then, we laugh about it and move on. Remember when I said you’ll have to “listen to and live through the whole truth, not just the pretty parts,” embarrassing yourself in front of your partner is just part and parcel.

58957daf33441420612215b7310ce537.jpg5- There are things I still don’t understand: This list is an abbreviated version of the long list of things I still don’t get about my own relationship, much less anyone else’s, i.e. farting around each other, managing finances, when/whether to have kids, intimacy, making the bed in the morning (hint: i don’t give AF about making anybody’s bed), attendance at family functions, working together, cross cultural union, inter religious union,  bilingual union, deciding where is home, retirement plans (yes, i’m thinking about it already), exes as friends, platonic friends, definitions of fun, managing a social calendar, managing my introversion, managing his extroversion… I could go on, but can you see why we’re so uncomfortable being the old wise couple in the room? We don’t know anything except our own experiences, most of which we haven’t even worked out yet.

My guess is 10, 15, 25 years down the line, the same will continue to be true. We still won’t know much, but we’ll have a lot of experience with trying to figure it out.

#musicamonday #MUSICMONDAY (55)

Welcome to the 55th installation of #musicamondays #MusicMondays, which features music from around the globe. Each song is selected to start your week off on the good foot! One still in the bed and the other in another country…

All month long, I’m bringing you artists from the  kingdom of Mutapa, the home of king Gungunyane, the gem of South East Africa… my adopted home for now… Mozambique! This is the last in the Moz series, so I have to take us back to our roots…

This marrabenta song is from the lovely Neyma. The song itself depicts rural life, which is very different from daily life in Maputo. Have a look, followed by a very good day…