Juneteenth, #blackjoy, and Sowing Freedom Forward

I love a garden.  A green space of my own is one of my top-ten life goals. I come from a country that still retains a predominant percentage of its pristine rainforests, and can boast a long line of relatives that were (and are) stewards of the land. It is one of my greatest joys and marvels that they chose to retain this heritage in spite of generational trauma resounding from prior forced servitude on those very same lands, in North and South America. In this vein, I understand some of the legacies of slavery in the United States.

Imagine the value of urban green spaces for folks that have evolved beyond the legacy of slavery and sharecropping; migrating from predominantly rural agricultural communities to larger metropolises; sacrificing fresh air, affordable and generous living quarters. Urban green spaces, farms and gardens are a vital and intrinsic part of the mental, physical, and, dare I say, spiritual fortitude of the people that provide and/or seek them out. There is also an often overlooked economic affect as well. This becomes an interesting hurdle when one considers city zoning rules that designate what spaces can be used in what ways in every community. An endeavor to reclaim an abandoned lot previously collecting garbage thoughtlessly chucked by passersby and unscrupulous businesses can become a battle for real estate suddenly deemed valuable. Modern civilization often manifests itself in an unfortunate divorce from the free simplicity of enjoying land, air, food and water. How did we come to this?

It is no coincidence that gardeners often have other social justice projects under their belts. Black Joy in action.

"Black Joy" is a radical concept these days. Social media attests to this, and the apparent retaliation and rhetoric surrounding it proves that it is potent in its application and documentation. I have documented in this blog my initial forays into establishing a green sanctuary of my own, as a way to reconnect with the sacred, magical earth, as well as to channel creativity: from working the soil to photographing and cataloging its mysteries, to sharing its tasty and therapeutic rewards. It is an ever-unfolding practice, much like meditation that may involve complicated handstands, or simpler breathing techniques.

A much-needed break to re-hydrate and enjoy fruit and vegetable salads.

Some things are not meant to be rushed, but gently and mindfully coaxed towards their highest potential. And whatever bug bites or dusty jeans I've acquired in this process, I've always left that green space happier, more fulfilled, and restored for whatever came next once my feet touched concrete.

Touching the soil is as important as handling the delicate shoots being transplanted. 

The height of irony came after the first Juneteenth, which began in Texas in 1865, with the mass exodus from the resistant Confederate states. They carried within them a powerful knowledge of the land, even though they were enslaved to it. That paired with the newfound courage and will to organize brought forth the most earnest efforts to thrive in pre-Civil Rights Era United States. The real victory here in those early post-Civil War struggles that rolled into the next decade of the Reconstruction Era was a revolutionary concept of individual autonomy and dignity for Blackfolk, intrinsically tied to their occupation and thriving on and from the land they stood upon.

The backlash against progression was swift and vicious in the South, and followed in a more insidiously institutionalized way as folks migrated North to urban centers, looking for jobs, homes, and peace of mind. City rules and political circumvention put many of them in public housing, in neighborhoods zoned away from parks, farms, and quality groceries (apparently). The influx of fast food advertising, convenience, liquor, and pawn stores in certain 'hoods instead of others helped to put a negative spin on the intrinsic value of the bodies inhabiting these areas. The joie de vivre was stripped and devalued, in place of fast, cheap, and a limited food spectrum (white, yellow, and brown- gee, what foods are these colors?). In a way, the rush to forget the (punishing) agrarian roots of the South allowed for a grand departure from its more wholesome culinary legacies, and an itchy wool to cover the collective's eyes.

When a space gets reclaimed from its dirty dumping ground identity, an angel gets its wings...or a neighbor gets her zucchinis.

The Blk Projek is a nonprofit organization started by Bronx resident Tanya Fields in 2009 as an act of resistance to food injustice in her South Bronx neighborhood. When she started her organization with Mommy and Me outreach to provide healthy food choices for the mothers and children of the neighborhood, the feedback shone light on the need for more education and economic development. Food deserts in urban neighborhoods has since become a new front in the attack on economic and mental poverty, as the adage "feed the brain" has dramatic implications for those that are literally starved of nourishment. The Libertad Urban Farm is a natural extension of this effort, as justice and freedom fighting comes in many forms, both radical and seemingly mundane. She encourages better choices by making them more visible, with a healthy sprinkling of the aforementioned "Joy". What people may not recognize is the vital task of normalizing a health-food trend that naysayers of the food desert concept scoff at, while they attribute troubling community health statistics to bad cultural choices in the face of an abundance of access to green groceries. Once again, representation is everything. on every level of society.

Libertad Urban Farm, at 972 Simpson Street in The Bronx.

Ms. Fields negotiated her way through city ordinances and public misconceptions with grassroots elbow grease to create and maintain a safe and healthy space, snatching this parcel back from the development list. I was honored to be invited to share some of the load to rebuild and reorganize Libertad Urban Farm on Simpson Street near Southern Boulevard in the Bronx on June 9th. It was a sunny day, and the large mound of soil greeted me at the entrance, daring anyone to approach it with a meaningful shovel. All around us, apartment buildings played sentinel to our toil, with the occasional curious onlooker from a balcony or fortified window grating. Some people walking by on the sidewalk stopped to chat with our carpenter in Spanish, or Tanya, herself, if they recognized her. They see what she is doing, and for the most part, it seems to bring visible joy and relief to their faces.

Ms. Fields herself came and went while I worked in the garden, as she was busy working on some grant applications with a pressing deadline, but she was very much involved with the entire process. The property was vandalized recently, by those who littered and stole supplies, setting back previous gains. The re-education and re-prioritizing of a community continues. A shed was bought, and funds from the NYC Parks Department supplied much needed tools, organic manure and wood to construct raised beds. This will not be a one-off effort to beautify and prepare, but an ongoing labor of love during the fertile season to bring nutrient-dense edibles to the community, as well as a space to recharge the spirit of a proud people.

I can't wait to go back and show you the "after" picture of this raised bed- cucumbers and squash runners everywhere!

Read up on some of Ms. Fields' earlier efforts with Libertad here.
Find out about upcoming events here.

Riding the Metal Horse: When to Cede Territory... and Why Not

This is the last full workday before Summer officially starts (at 6:34 p.m.). In New York City, every seasoned traveler and resident knows that as soon as the temperature climbs past 75 degrees consistently, all the ignorance and "lawlessness" exponentially increases. This will happen on your block, in your apartment building, on the subway platforms, and very likely in the trains and buses we all have to ride to get around. That is a lot of extra pressure and exposure to potential trauma and anxiety as an often Lone Woman Traveler.

I don't do Public Service Announcements (PSAs) often on my blog. They find themselves here incidentally, and usually for good reason. My fifth blog post ever during the Summer of 2011 could be considered a PSA, on a similar topic: public harassment. Imagine the irony of deciding to dress somewhat revealingly; getting on a bus AND train for an hour and a half to participate in a celebration of summer, weirdness, creativity, pride and magic with other like-minded people one day- with no fear or trepidation of the public- then having to experience a degrading and isolating incident using the same transportation system 24 hours later, fully dressed, with witnesses that did nothing?!

Let me be clear, this post is not aimed at the people who did not speak up or intervene or my or my fellow black female passengers' behalf. The fact that no one did anything does help to illustrate the event that took place, however. The main message (or moral) of this story is the importance of being aware, resilient, and proactive in order to have the best possible agency in how we interact with our environment. None of us can control every aspect of our days, and we certainly cannot hope to always control and police others.

As much as I want to believe that law enforcement is present and willing to serve and protect all of its citizens, they are often spread thin, and their priorities do not line up with mine. Autonomy and agency are real, however, and one of the benefits of Social Media is the agency it gives everyday citizens to be responsible, be decent, be advocates for themselves as well as fellow strangers, in real time or faster than the systems in place provide.

Word-for-word, here goes...

On Sunday, June 19, 2016 approximately 3:15 p.m.: 

I don't normally cuss on my own timeline. But shit just got really real thirty minutes ago. I am on the A train heading north from Brooklyn. There is a moderate amount of people on the train, and I am sitting in the corner next to a door in a 3-seater. 

I have my headphones in and my shades on. But I can hear enough to know that there is a man with a booming voice panhandling and making his way through the semi-crowded train to the end where I am. Nbd. But when he gets to the last set of doors where I am, he stops and mumbles loudly, the decides to stand at the pole less than three feet from me, and start fondling his junk. He has a smell that is not powerful enough to make me leave, but enough to concern me about his sobriety. Not swaying or raving, mostly quiet, except for this pronounced personal hand job. 

He leans back against the doors across from me and stares hard in my direction, where three other black women are sitting, one black man with his sleeping son, and another man. I have been fanning myself and looking just past his probing eyes for the past ten minutes of this, even though my insides are starting to shake. 

Then he decides to sit down directly across from me. Nbd. Maybe he's done showing off and is gonna be civil. He then tries to engage the woman sitting in the 3-seater two seats down from him, his manspreading so pronounced that no one would be encouraged to sit between them. She has her headphones on, and closes her eyes, but every few seconds, she opens them again and sneaks a side eye to her right, where his eyes meet her every time he's not staring one of us down. Then he starts licking his lips really slow. 

And when the train stops, he gets up and walks over to the other two women seated next to me and swings his arms right inches from their faces. I know he's trying to engage them by asking for money. I hear no response back, so I believe they just shook their heads. 

The tension was painful. I was starting to hyperventilate quietly, which is humanly impossible when you are holding your breath. 

I could have gotten up and moved to another place, and after he finally left, the other women and I commiserated about thinking the exact same thing. We would have signaled each other to move as one unit. Even calling out to our newfound "girlfriend", so as to not leave anyone behind. My hands shake as I write this because the reality of how we were all feeling the same chill on our skin, the same adrenaline rush when he got off the train, but STAYED ON THE PLATFORM as train delays stalled us... 

The doors closed. He was saying, "... I was just kidding you're so beautiful" and I can see him. SEE HIM finishing off what he started in his pants when he was on the train. 

Now he's pressed up against the glass. Staring at us, and this damn train will not leave. I started praying that the door would not reopen for an approaching train.... 

THIS is when thoughts go through ones head about that knife someone suggested I carry. 

THIS is when I reevaluate the relevance of my outfit, the time of day (3:19pm), the relative crowd (mostly non-black, except for our "happy little corner", and realize that it didn't matter. If this 6'9" 270lb man wanted to snatch that woman by her hair, it could have happened in an instant, even as we all unfroze ourselves and tried to vacate the area. 

It was not (yesterday's) Mermaid Parade, everyone had their clothes on. 

Other MEN were sitting diagonally across and laughed at his antics until he started masturbating, then they got quiet and looked away. IT DID NOT MATTER. I should not have to fear for myself nor my fellow female passengers on the train. I should not have to breathe slowly to stop what I feel is tachycardia and miss an event I'm looking forward to because I have to process what ‪#‎dafuq‬ just happened, but here I am. 

I'm replaying thoughts of violence, what he might have done next, what I, or we would have done. A sisterhood did form then. I got one of their numbers, and we are both sharing this on social media. It just reminds me again about being vigilant, alert, considerate, and willing to take someone with me to safety, or so help me, out as I'm going down. *EndRant ‪#‎subway‬ ‪#‎assault‬ ‪#‎liftup‬ ‪#‎seldom_settled‬

Street harassment is real and should not be tolerated. Public transit harassment is real and should not be tolerated. Sometimes getting up and walking away is not the solution. Wearing more clothes is not always the remedy or prevention that saves individuals or groups of women from attacks in public.

I'm not saying we should all try to be the hero and fall on swords to vanquish on behalf of ladies in distress. But we can be a Shero (as I align myself with this gender-inclusive definition), and not leave any woman to fend for herself whilst she decides to autonomously stand her ground and claim her rightful space. Stand up, or sit down. Do not cede territory.

There is strength in numbers, there is safety when more eyes are watching, but also when more hands are willing and able, when voices are raised in a common sense of decency and support. When the mindsets are aligned, quietly, but with enough will that lends a palpable resistance to the tension when riding the Metal Horse. A Lone Woman need not always feel Alone. #facts

P.S.: This is MY space, so no, you will not see the picture that I took of the offending party here. But rest assured, the police will. #hollaback will.