Week 5: Sunday Service Announcements
Remove the material aspects and hip-hop now tell me how you define Black culture. Without mentioning oppression share your Black experience. This Sunday Service we are going to set ourselves free!
Let the church say Amen!
Amen!
Steve says that Black people go to chuuuch not service and I was raised going to Chuuuch Service. I was raised on fried chicken with hot sauce and white bread, but I don’t know what it’s like to get burnt by that Blue Magic grease when the hot comb gets to sizzling. How is it that we all have different experiences of Blackness but claim Black culture without a clear way to define it?
What is Black culture to you?
The term culture goes beyond our coded language, soul food, Juneteenth and MLK holidays, and Jordan releases. Culture is our values, beliefs, and behavior.
It seems our culture is lost because everyone is not living by the laws of the culture or as my generation knew it, the street code. When I was growing up there were things instilled that were non-negotiable like addressing my elders as yes ma’am and no sir, as I got older I learned to live by the street code.
Beliefs instilled in me about not being able to eat at everybody's house, my culture taught me to suppress my emotions because you never let them see you cry, and my culture taught me the only way to be valuable in this world is to look like you have money.
Since the rise of our culture leaders’ downfalls, I feel the culture grieving and lost. Even using this clip from Steve Harvey was tough for me because all I could think about was Katt Williams speaking the truth. Our culture as we know it feels as though it’s crumbling beneath our feet and we are trying our best to stay grounded.
Maybe we aren’t all just depressed, and we are all grieving the loss of our culture. Our struggle to find something to hold on to other than the trauma of bond over our oppression. We can redefine what Black culture is to us in this BlackStack community while rebuilding our ethnicity in discussions about our unique Black experiences. I know there is healing to be experienced in this space our Writers’ Circle confirmed this as it turned into a healing circle for us all.
Through expressing my Blackness loud and proud on this platform, I found people who feel like family like
, a special shoutout for our spot in the Cookout Library! The sisterhood within this community is strong as a Black woman, so grateful for relationships that made it offline like with who believed in this community so much she is our first Founding Member!forgive me father, for I have run out of forgiveness
giving honor to God for she is the head of my life. I want to honor the shepherdess of this house, Jacquie Verbal for allowing me to come before you today.
today, I am struggling with forgiveness.
because, truth is, I’m tired.
walk with me…
on a long drive to buy fresh seafood, I set up a playlist of some of my favorite r&b and rap songs.
Brian McKnight shuffled onto my playlist and as I let his ‘one last cry’ pour into me, I started thinking about him calling the children he fathered with a Black woman “the result of sin”
and wondered, to myself, if the sin he spoke of was that he had publicly loved a Black woman.
never mind that Black women were solely responsible for his rise to fame
the women who believed that on the other side of his declarations was a love all their own
how seeing him with someone unlike ourselves was hurtful but ‘you should be mine’ was still a groove
how many Black women dreamed of walking towards an altar while Brian crooned about seeing heaven ‘the first time I looked into your eyes’
while all along not knowing that his land flowing with milk and honey was one far away from dark s(k)in…
finally, I skipped the song.
my tidal shuffled and Lil Wayne blared through the stereo,
‘beautiful black woman, I bet that bitch look better red’
ahh, yes, of course. almost beautiful. almost.
as a Black woman who loves hip hop, r&b, soul and jazz, I have become accustomed to the constant turning of a blind eye in order to enjoy the sweet fantasy of adoration very rarely reserved for us. the cultures built on our backs and then used to put us in our place.
i’ve cringed my way through sing-a-longs and rapped verses that made their way to my memory long before I understood the lasting ramifications of constantly being reminded that we are…only almost.
forced laughs during classic TV shows and films where dark skin women bark like dogs and have nicknames like “beady bead”.
marveled at the notes of Miles Davis
wept for Cicely Tyson
was moved by the work of Sidney Poitier
felt anger for Diahann Carroll
missed the old Kanye
watched an entire generation of Black girls have themselves repackaged and sold back to them by women he made trophies
wondered how Henry "Box" Brown survived being confined to 60 centimeters for 350 miles on his way to freedom
remembered that when given the opportunity to free his wife and three children, he refused
free from bondage, he escaped to a white wife.
free at last, free at last, thank God almighty.
vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord
but I am willing to seek the revenge they say makes one lose their sight
Black women, are y’all alright?
I don’t plan to be before you long…
but closer than a rapper or an actor or a NBA player,
how many of us have had to forgive the men in our lives
former lovers
present and absent fathers
men in our lineage
who, too, baptized themselves out of the sin of loving the
Black women around them
having passed their heavy burdens onto us,
their souls wiped clean,
they sing glory to glory to glory to glory to glory
to any and everyone but us.
on my drive back,
I listened to only Black women
amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That Haitian-American Life in Scripture, Stories & Snippets
Brothers and Sisters, let me begin with some scripture, move into some stories, and end with some snippets.
“Cleanliness is next to godliness”
The Saturday morning hum of the vacuum cleaner danced with the soulful melody of Gregory Isaac's Night Nurse blasting from the living room speakers. Dad lost in the music, swayed his hips as he scrubbed non-existent grime off the kitchen counters. The delectable aroma of fried plantains mingled with the scent of cleaning products, a uniquely Haitian-American soundtrack to my childhood weekends.
"So I recommend having fun because there is nothing better for people in this world than to eat, drink, and enjoy life.“
The scent of aromatic cologne and frying griot hung heavy in the humid air of the summertime. The rhythmic slam of dominoes echoed from the living room where uncles argued good-naturedly over the game's fate. My cousins, a kaleidoscope of melanin-rich shades, materialized from every corner, their laughter echoing off the walls. We were an extended family by default, united by the unspoken vow of "chosen family" that pulsed beneath the surface of Black communities.
Dad emerged from his bedroom, a fresh coifed, and oiled fro gleaming under the sunlight streaming through the window. Mom, impeccably styled with a new braid design, swatted him playfully for taking too long. "CP time, Toto?" she teased, her smile belying her earlier impatience. A knowing chuckle rippled through the room. Everyone understood the unspoken code: invitations specified a start time four hours before the actual festivities began, a buffer zone dedicated to beauty rituals, and that essential pre-party preparation time.
The air crackled with anticipation, a melody composed of simmering chicken in spices, the steady beat of dominoes, and the joyful chaos of a Black family gathering.
“The one who gets wisdom loves life; the one who cherishes understanding will soon prosper.”
My dad, a smooth operator with a smile that could charm the birds out of the trees, would hold my hand, his fingers brushing against mine, both rich with a similar deep brown hue. This was our secret handshake, a birthright passed down from him. In a world that constantly reminded me my complexion, although lighter than his, was somehow lesser because of its rich brown hue. My dad's touch was a constant reminder of our shared melanin, a silent defiance against darkness not meaning beautiful in this American landscape.
“But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith”
Every few months, we'd all pile into the car for a trip to Atresco to send money back to our people who were still in Haiti. The store was filled with colorful Haitian flags, shelves stocked with familiar and unfamiliar spices, and the smell of savory pikliz hung in the air. Mom was picking out the perfect tender goat meat to cook. Mom bribed us with Haitian pate so we didn’t complain as much while she did her cultural errands.
Snippets of the Culture
Music: The school dance floor pulsed with the beat, and my girls and I ran on the dance floor the moment Sisquo’s ‘Thong Song’ first beat dropped. We all began dancing far too provocatively for a middle school dance. My Ruest telling us to ‘cool it down’ for the third time that night, while we giggle and scream-sing New Edition 'Cool It Now’ in response to him.
Plastic Couches: Stepping into Auntie’s house, the familiar sight of plastic-covered couches greeted me. I sit down and hear the loud crinkle and crunch of the plastic under my booty and thighs and all I hope for is that my dress is long enough so the heat of my thighs doesn’t cause them to stick to the plastic when I inevitably sink in as more family settles in with the same crinkle and crunch around me.
Body Image: There was nothing more satisfying than not having to squeeze into uncomfortable jeans when Apple Bottom Jeans dropped. Finally, jeans with some stretch to accentuate my curves. Confidence radiated as I moved, but it wasn’t uncommon to catch the stares and hear inappropriate comments from some guys and of course me singing in my head, I don’t want no scrub, a scrub is a guy who can get no love me, hanging on the passenger side of his best friend’s ride trying to holler at 12-year-old me.
These snapshots are just a glimpse into my unique Black experience, shaped by Haitian traditions and suburban life. But my story doesn't diminish yours – our Black identities are woven from threads of shared history and culture, yet colored by our individual journeys. There's no single Black experience, and all our stories deserve space to coexist. That's the beauty of Blackness: in our differences, we find strength and a sense of belonging within our Black community.
Photo by Bobby Dimas
Y’all, being black means beauty. The shades of brown that we come in are so beautiful it simply takes my breath away.
Can I get an amen? AMEN!
Lord, I pray you protect me while I go chase my dreams.
Inspiration for this week is about my willpower to change my reality. I am deserving of a good quality of life. I would advocate that it is my birthright.
As a NYer would say, ‘What tf is we even talking about, B?’
But here at home in Oakland, you would hear, ‘Go chase your dreams, cuz.’
And cousins that is what I am here to tell you to do.
Growing up in Bible School they made us sing songs like “He’s got the whole world in His hands”, but I am here to teach you in Earth School how to remix that shit to make a hit.
They don’t tell us that when you get that feeling of being accomplished in life, that’s the moment you start feeling like an adult. It’s hard to experience that feeling when you’re struggling to get to class, with the pencil, the 3-ring binder, and the textbook that cost $300! Sometimes we just be happy we made it to class, and forget what we don’t have this chair almost missed my ass today.
People ask me all the time here in California, what made me leave NC to move across the country with nothing but my family. At first, the question used to cause me to feel big emotions because I felt judgment about my decision but now that I’m settled and unpacking in my loft in downtown Oakland, the question hits differently.
I sold everything in my apartment at 227 South Elm Street in Greensboro, NC, and packed 2 bookbags and a duffle bag for myself, my girlfriend at the time, now wife, and my daughter who was seven then. I bought a one-way ticket for us to fly to California and the journey began. It wasn’t that I wanted to sell everything and move here with nothing, I had no choice.
Spirit spoke to me very clearly, that I was on an assignment and to pack light.
And if I am being honest I don’t believe I would have followed through with this journey had I seen the path before I turned in my keys. This journey has felt like a mistake, even since being home I’ve struggled silently with these thoughts and feelings. It’s been difficult, to say the least, we never boarded that plane to California in October 2023, we didn’t board a plane at all until February 2024.
We traded our freedom for modern-day slavery but I bedazzled the experience as an opportunity to live on a farm through a program called WWOOF. That White man broke my heart the day I packed my family up to leave, he should have just called us Niggers to our faces so I could’ve had a reason to shove my foot up his ass for that BS he and his little b***h tried to pull with me. They quickly learned I will NEVER stay somewhere I’m uncomfortable, nor will I be disrespected.
My Mother learned this about me too, and I don’t play about my wife. You can bring all that homophobic shit to me if you want but you better believe I’m leaving with something, and it ain’t going to be that BS you tried to give me.
That’s how my journey home began. I left a place that served as home for my entire life to experience life and all its divine blessings. I’ve always loved the beach and dreamed of one day being able to live at the beach, well Spirit gave me a 3-month long beach vacation to start writing my book and then blessed me with a downtown loft 10 minutes away from the beach in California.
I wanted a life that felt like a vacation and a career that would provide me with multiple streams of income but the flexibility to enjoy life with my family as we have tried to over these last nine months. My book, UN-TRAP DA HOOD, was published in May and since February I’ve sold over 50 copies that I finally get to mail out this week! Through the experience of writing my book, I needed a space to continue exploring my discoveries and that’s how my Substack, Chronicles of Change was birthed. Now I am blessed to have paid subscribers on both my account and this BlackStack community! I curated a safe space for y’all and in return, my career does not feel like work because I feel free.
One thing about Black culture is that we will make sure niggas understand when you pulled yourself out of the mud with no help you are self-made. And I want to take a moment to be that person for a second while also letting you know that you can do it too! Pulling yourself out of the mud is not for the weak, but that’s why everybody ain’t doing it.
However, for the ones that are and you got that mfing gripped so tight you feel that cramp in your hand, don’t let go keep fucking pulling cause you are almost there. To be self-made is to believe in yourself so much that without a doubt you KNOW you can accomplish your dreams, and take action towards them. You go after your dreams in life because you understand that if you don’t put yourself in the position you could waste this lifetime wishing and never living. When you understand that the struggle was placed upon us for us to experience our own willpower, then you will understand how to make your dreams your reality.
I call this era of my life my reparations. I get to read and write for a living, I call that reparations. I get to build community with my kinfolk in a space that ain’t designed for us, I call that reparations. My life is like a story from a movie and I got to write and publish a book about it, I call that reparations. I left my downtown apartment that I was approved for solely from my coaching practice and was blessed with a studio loft downtown in my dream state, married now, as a published book author and now writing coach, I call that reparations.
My life is exactly what I designed and co-created, and you can’t tell me that ain’t reparations. Stop waiting on somebody to GIVE you reparations and start manifesting your reparations! The good life is our birthright, I call that reparations for Black culture.
Prayer Hotline
Everybody bow your heads and close your eyes as we pray.
At this time Lord, we come to you with our hearts full of gratitude for waking us up another day able to experience this beautiful thing we take for granted called, Life.
Thank you for another day to come one step closer to our dreams and birthright.
I pray that our people wake up from the spell of misery placed against us.
I pray Black culture is renewed and healed.
I pray our Ancestors are freed with every Black story we share and every Black word we read.
I pray that you find something new about yourself to love every day.
I pray that you find love within yourself.
I pray that when you look in the mirror you love the person reflecting back at you.
I pray for your mental health.
I pray for your emotional health.
I pray for your physical health.
I pray for your bank account that it proves to you that everything you touch turns into gold.
I pray that you take a leap of faith and trust in the unknown so you can live out your dreams.
I pray you realize your dreams are the only way to break free from this matrix.
I pray that when you read UN-TRAP DA HOOD you break free from the cultural traps and start living the life of your dreams.
I pray for you, I pray for BlackStack, I pray for our people because we are tired, and I pray we all get the rest we deserve!
Amen!
Amen!
Amen!
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Just finished reading and wow I just want to share so many parts. The way you wrote about your father Badiana, I could see him. It made me tear up. This is healing.
The intentionality and follow through is so beautiful this week! Amen Amen Amen 🙏🏾