higher frequency of rest and care

i haven't written in over a year in this space, and i think i do that sometimes when life is tumultuous.  when the ground won't stop shaking, it's hard to find the time and space to reflect on where you are and what's going on.  there is a worldwide rise in fascism and authoritarianism, so much destruction of our land, environment, disappearing of people becoming normalized, militarization of police and guard on our own people, it's hard to even name all of the atrocities -- and all of them pale in compare to the genocide in Gaza and systematic, livestreamed decimation of Palestinian life.  and yet, Palestine will be free, and we will all be free from oppression, insha'Allah someday. 

i have also been weighing my words in the realization that speech is no longer free. i left teaching in april of this year, at the exact right time, because it wouldn't have been long until i was fired for my beliefs, in an increasingly repressive regime nationally that is looking to close the dept of education and defund schools.  my white privilege has saved me from tougher consequences and sanctions in my activism, and it is the reason that i must risk even more, because i can, and if i don't, i will be someone who sat passively on the wrong side of history.  i will not be quiet, and i will keep fighting.  i know what i'm fighting against, and this year i have been challenged to keep thinking more deeply about who and what i'm fighting for. 

it has been a humbling year, as i have become a student again.  a student of abolition, a student of transformative justice.  i was never an expert in anything, but being in a place where i am no longer convincing folks that more police and more funding for police is not the way... i am challenged every single day with deepening my commitment to abolition, with developing systems that care for and hold people, see their humanity and their genius. 

i am learning a lot from so many teachers, and feel exhilarated by all that i do not know, and the rooms that i keep finding myself in.  i am deeply holding grief right next to joy, and trying to slow down and walk with purpose, not run myself ragged the way i am famous for.  i deserve rest, joy and softness, too, and i have rarely found it in my life alone, but with my family, there is slow-cooked food, there is laughter, there is silly, there is lazy, and there is love.  i preach rest and don't practice, and i feel like i've blogged about this many times before, but the irony is done.  

i claim for myself and all of my community the softness and rest we deserve.  a break from the violence, a blanket of softness and care over us.  the time we need to care for ourselves, the ability to not rush, to raise our children with intention.  i was blessed this weekend to see glimpses of this beloved community at Alkebu-Lan Village in Detroit, where i held space for a learning institute that gathered justice-impacted folks from all over the country.  it was a powerful example of what people can build in community, and cultivate over generations of teaching liberation, African values and principles, providing gathering spaces, martial arts, drum and dance, youth development activities and so much more to the community. 

my point is that we need to continue building our hyperlocal focus -- stay connected or get connected to your community. find out what's happening, who's doing the work.  i feel no need to start a non-profit or a new organization, my role is to uplift, support and highlight folks doing the work, make connections, see how my work can propel or shine a light on.  and in the process, i've been reconnecting to the past and to beautiful folks who i love, and whose mission is in alighment with mine, and that is beautiful.  we need the positive energy to sustain the work.  

the sweet baby 3 year old has emerged from his sleep cocoon, so the corner i'm scrawling notes in, like gloria anzaldua taught me, has been flooded with light.  see you next year, dear readers.  i have a new zine out, and new work projects that are pretty incredible, too! 

the terror of almost

This I Believe:  America is a gun.  

I remember Columbine, the first mass shooting at a school, in Littleton, Colorado, in 1999.  We watched in horror from Jing Mei’s dorm room at Loeb Hall, in the East Village of Manhattan, and could not believe what was unfolding in front of our eyes.  Guns in schools, people who had been bullied getting back at their classmates in the most horrible way.  How could this happen? 

25 years later, it happens so often that elected officials offer “thoughts and prayers” for lives lost at school and forget about it in the 24 hours news cycle a few days later.  Multiple deaths in a school building has become something we’re desensitized to, and the gun laws haven’t changed much, as our 2nd amendment and the right to own a gun trumps the right to go to school, or the mall, or an amusement park, splash pad, concert, basically anywhere in America, and come home alive. 

Brian Bilston wrote “America is a gun.” Our obsession with firearms is well documented in Hollywood, in all genres of our music, and most importantly, framed as the 2nd amendment in our constitution.  But we shouldn’t have a right to semi-automatic weapons, silencers and bumpstocks that increase killing efficiency.  We shouldn’t have a right to military-grade assault rifles – nor should our military or law enforcement agencies – that have become more intensely weaponized to kill citizens for minor offenses, most of all for being Black and breathing.  

I don’t have all the answers, but I have a renewed sense of terror, as a lockdown happened at my daughter’s school on Friday, September 13th, 2024.  As we were picking up our kids from school, an announcement came over the external loudspeaker of the building to say there was an active shooter in the area and the building was going on lockdown.  Parents and students outside of the doors picking up kids were ushered into the building and I was walking up Oak Street, with Pape in his stroller, as people started running back to their cars toward us.  One dad said “fuck no, my kid’s in there!!!” and ran toward the building.  I didn’t know if there was a shooter on the street, so I turned around and ran with the stroller back to our car, pulling Pape out to get him to safety and leaving the stroller outside while I climbed back into the drivers’ seat and started the car.  

“What the fuck do I do?” I internally screamed as I dialed my husband, who didn’t pick up.  I called my mom and it went straight to voicemail. I called the school and got a busy signal.  People were walking toward the school, so I rolled my window down to tell them what was happening, and kept my window partially open to communicate with people walking by.  I had the baby to protect, so I didn’t want to go and see what was happening. “We could be a sitting target right here,” said one mom who walked back to the school looking for her husband.  “I hope your babies are safe,” I told her, tears fresh on my cheeks.  

Mulay’s friend’s mom, whose daughter goes to the same school called and asked if I knew what was going on.  I just got a Remind text from Sali’s teacher that said, “active shooter in the area, the school is on lockdown”, so I repeated the text back to her and she relayed her story of picking up her daughter and driving down the street when she heard the announcement of lockdown.   I burst into tears and told her I needed to talk to my husband and would call her back.   Her son called back a few minutes later to check on my daughter, and I told him she was safe, even though I didn’t know that myself yet.  

I started texting my friends whose kids went to the school, to see if everyone was okay and made it out of the building.  Dead silence.  F wrote back “no, I don’t have my kid yet”  Finally, someone called back, unable to get in touch with her husband.  I read her the Remind text and assured her that they were safe inside and had no signal.  Texted A to see if her daughter was okay.  Watched the Sheriff’s vehicles pile up on Prospect and block off all entrances and exits to the school, and burst into tears again.  

The minutes felt like hours.  Mulay called me back and said “I’m coming over there.” I said “don’t, there’s a shooter in the area” and he ignored me and drove over with Nas.  Mom said she was leaving her appointment and wanted to come to us, I told her no, we’ll come over there as soon as we get Sali.  We were supposed to be having a small birthday party for the boys, but that plan faded into the background as the reality of the situation came into scope. 

I don’t know what happened to time, but it took years before A texted me that they were releasing the kids.  Every single parent I saw had ghosts in their eyes as they hugged their child tightly and walked back to their cars.  Getting the baby in the stroller, I yelled across the street to J that I had talked with his wife and “I told her that you guys were inside and okay”, saw S with her son and gave her a hug, and finally, Sali came running out of the exit toward me and tried to keep my tears back while hugging her with all of my body.  Saw F from afar with their arm around their baby, hugged C and her son, and walked back down Oak with M and his kids, one of whom who was sobbing as we walked and told them “get it out, feel your feelings” as he called his partner. 

How do you turn off the adrenaline?  How do you come down after the terror of almost?  Everyone is okay, and we are still traumatized.  We will not be on the national news (this time), nor even a blip on the local news and yet an entire community has fresh, new trauma to heal from.  It is two days later and I can’t sleep or get my hands to stop shaking.  I have no appetite, I feel numb and overwhelmed, unable to move.  I am not grieving the loss of my child, Masha’Allah, my family is not grieving my loss at work, Alhamdulillah, but I am still not okay.  

I know what’s next.  I drink water, Mulay cooks up a storm to take care of us, I place my body outside, in the sun, in the forest, on the soccer pitch.  I rest my body as much as I can, and force myself to lay down.  I read, I laugh, I try to enjoy the small moments with my kids.  Buy them a special breakfast and the drink they like, to celebrate one more day of being alive in this dystopia.  I connect and thank my child’s teachers, parapros, principal, offer support to others, go back to work tomorrow, take the kids to school and hug them tight when I let them go.  Look into their eyes and make sure they know how much I love them, because tomorrow and today are not promised.   

This I believe:  Human lives are more important than the 2nd amendment.  The 2nd amendment is literally killing us.  Our attachment to other human beings has got to outweigh our love of guns. 

I am world-building right now, trying to make possible the world my children’s grandchildren can live in.  Trying to learn from Indigenous folks (the Haudenosaunee people) about thinking seven generations into the future, and honoring seven generations in the past, and knowing that we have to call our representatives, we have to keep pushing, fighting for background checks and bills that ban the sales of semi-automatic weapons, bumpstocks and the guns that nobody needs to purchase.  Pressuring local officials for gun locks and buy back programs and ways to get guns off the streets.  We need a weapons embargo to stop supplying weapons and funding genocide.  We need to keep putting the pressure on.  We need to rest, catch our breath, refuel our bodies and spirits, and get up to keep fighting one more day.  All we have is this day, and all we have is each other.  We must remember. 

overstimulation

today begins week 3 of summer, but vacation is hardly the word for it.  i have a 21 month old climber baby who inherited his grandfather's love of partying.  he does sleep in a bit, but life with him is nearly escaping harrowing situations many times a day.  i don't know why toddlers are laser focused on harming themselves, but he approaches life with zeal and fully sprinting toward everything, including water.  

i just returned from Denver and Colorado Springs with the Ypsilanti Youth Choir (with Sali!) , where we got to visit cultural, scenic and scientific sites and perform at Red Rocks (in the stands during the day, flash singing mob style), Flying W Ranch (Back to Ypsilanti was the song we sang!) i spent my 44th birthday studying Indigenous art at the Denver Art Museum, touring street art in the RiNo district and at Meowolf Denver.  Then we toured beautiful rock formations and dinosaur bone excavation sites and took the train up to Pikes Peak, for the summit of our trip.  Sali got to sing, hang out with friends and explore art and culture in a new city in the mountains, building her confidence in public performance and her love of music.  

meanwhile, my mom took Nas and Pape up north for a cabin experience, so they got to have a summer exploration, even if much different from ours.  time and space always makes people see one another in a new light.  sometimes the people we love the most, we struggle to get along or see eye to eye with.  on Father's Day, it brought me great joy that Jude, Chris, Ben, Amy and the girls, my mom and my boys were on Torch Lake, with my dad.  

it has been a tough year and i stay overstimulated.  i crave quiet, peace, Sadé ushering in stretching, yoga, journaling.  i get none of the things i want, and feel pulled, demanded from, vilified all of my days.  i've written before about the idea of summer and reality of summer are different coasts:  one with a supple beach and warm breeze, one walking the frigid homelands of my last ounce of patience.  

i don't know how, when or where to find quiet, what she looks like anymore.  i struggle to know myself.  i found a copy of my first zine the other day and someone noted my poems were sexy.  where is that version of myself?  where is the love for myself that i used to feel?  how has motherhood and work stripped me of my ability to see myself as young and curious?  

i feel worn and withered, wrung out like a dishrag.  i am not nearly done resting, seeping in quiet, color, sunlight, breeze, water and sand.  i will find the energy to live loudly, to bring my own kids the brightness of my face and not just the dark shadows of my exhaustion.  i will turn toward the light of their love in the darkness that seeps into every day in this world.  we must keep holding our humanity up to the light, especially when powers that bomb don't see humanity or civilization under the places they hollow out. free palestine, and apartheid everywhere it exists.  we all deserve home, self-determination, education, health care and basic needs to be met.  

taking suggestions on resting styles, places, ways and wonders.  keeping myself at the forefront, not an afterthought anymore.  meditating on place, on home, on uplifting history and connecting ourselves to others.  we need each other, and we ALL collectively need rest and ease.  join me. 

love, lolo

International Day of Peace

Back in college, I went through a particularly rough breakup and decided that the logical solution was to go and get a tattoo from my dear friend Tanya at Medusa Tattoo on St. Marks Place.  Tanya asked me to write in her book about why this tattoo and why this day, and I wrote "Because it's the International Day of Lauren, celebrating in 75 countries worldwide!"  Thus began a tradition of annual self-indulgence and self-care. 

This year, it looks a lot different from when I was 19.  Woke up with a migraine, tried to sleep a little bit more, took the kids to school and have been folding laundry and watching Gracie's Corner with Pape, who just turned 1.  We went for a walk in the park and moved our bodies, and have been trying to care for our space.  Amazing how different seasons of life greet you, but anniversaries of something call you back to your former self. 

I have been beating the drum of self-care for so many years, even pre-COVID, and now I feel like it's been co-opted by capitalism and become an industry.  How can you take care of yourself by buying something?  I consciously resist this, and am actually sorting and preparing to give things away: kids' boots, sports equipment, winter coats and sweaters that fit last year and will not this year.   I take care of myself and our space by letting go, organizing, making space for ourselves. 

About 10 years and 5 tattoos later, I learned that September 21st is also the International Day of Peace.  It seems a fitting day that I chose to claim for myself; as I work in peacemaking and helping young people see the beauty of peace as a way to begin the healing process.  We have difficult conversations with the intention of ending drama that stems from miscommunication.  We aim to have a community where folks can be their true, authentic selves and co-exist across difference.  

Even as I type this, I find myself on the slippery slope of talking parenting and talking job when I explore what's going on with myself.  I wonder how 19 year old Lolo would feel about how decentralized I've become to myself, and how it's sometimes necessary; I can still love myself, love my life and what I've built, celebrate the song of myself, even as I make it daily practice to care for others and build community. 

May you find peace in your heart today, and space to breathe. 

trying to carve space

 i led a writing workshop last weekend inspired by women writers of color, Gloria Anzaldúa in particular, and thinking about all of the ways in which women create magic from the ordinary.  but i cannot find a small moment of exhale for myself, a crack in the surface to begin creating.  maybe someday soon... until then, i'm breathing in inspiration: 

Mumu Fresh - Practice

Nas feat. Hit Boy/Shaka Senghor - Composure

Chika - Crown

Joey Bada$$ - Make Me Feel

Kenyatta Rashon - I AM

Formula 734 feat. Buff 1/Rod Wallace - Billfolds 

Che Noir - Fruits of My Labor

Athletic Mic League - Hold My Hand

Koffee - Lonely

Enny feat. Jorja Smith - Peng Black Girls Remix

the irony of this workshop was something I had to name: I too struggle, I am no expert at this, we are co-creating this space together.  we came up with a list of strategies for finding space for writing, but even as I led the workshop, the baby squealed from the other room, the kids came to visit/interrupt and I struggled with the time and space to truly focus.  

still, the dedication of 20 minutes to alliteration, rhyme and rhythm makes the difference, and I need to put it into practice.  making dirty the pages of the journals that are too pretty to write in, just a few lines of a blog post is better than nothing at all.  i know that I exist somewhere, under motherhood, beneath teaching and grant-writing and all that I do.  i am not my production, and I am valuable even and because i choose to rest and enjoy life.  

how many times do i have to say this out loud before i believe it?