Black History

I went to the washingtonpost.com today and smiled at the older versions of my friends and me. This recession can't stop us. Read it here.

Obama is not 'the new black.'

While out shopping Saturday, I came across a t-shirt amongst the loads of Obama paraphernalia circulating DC that said, "Obama is the New Black." At first I smiled still proud of my country for electing a man whose hue is close to my own. Then it hit me, the new black? The new black meaning the old black was what?

As a scholar of African American history, I can't help but cringe at the idea that Obama is somehow being separated from the centuries of struggles people who looked like him endured with perseverance. Sunday at church my pastor reminded me just how much went into the new generation of blacks. People hoped, prayed, fought, and most importantly waited for the day when their work would pay off. All they asked, I believe, was for someone to remember they existed, for someone to remember their part in a long walk to freedom. I remember them and I believe anyone proud of this country's history should too. Thus, the "old black" share in Obama's strength and passion.

No doubt President Obama's new position puts him in the upper echelon of political circle. But his drive, passion for his community, and willingness to risk it all for change is shared by many people of all races. Obama is not the new black. This line requires me to let loose the painful rememories of the struggles of people and put him at the top of my race. I won't.

Obama is in a new position but both single mothers working to make a difference and young college students eager to put their talents to use share his characteristics and hopes for a collective change.

Happy New Year!

Life in 2009. Hard Rock Cafe, Miami, Fl.

P.S.

Miami looks better on TV.

2008

I love coming home because it always reminds of how everything is so relative. Happiness. Beauty. Love. Life is relative. What one person wants the other detests, what one person prays for another runs from.

I just talked to my cousin. While everyone is writing about the best of 2008 he's writing about the worst of it. He's the last person in his family or will be. His mother is dying. I heard the pain in his voice and I felt stupid for lamenting over the things that I have. He has lost his father, brother, and is now losing his mother. This world is unforgiving and ruthless at times. Just plain hard.

He told me he thought my number had changed because I had been in Africa and then I remembered that I had been to a place so far away.

I miss living life relatively. Relatively simple. 2008. What did it bring me? It brought me more questions, less understanding, and a heart that feels more than I ought to.

But its all so relative.

Fear and Anxiety

I am scared. I say this because I think other people are too. I don't know what the world has to hold for me or when the stars will align that will allow me to be the writer I want to be or the good person I need to be. But I can't really fake like everything is okay and I think I've learned that its better that way.

Lauren Hill's song, "I find it hard to say" has been on replay for the last month. And it's not because I'm sad about a relationship or because I am somehow insecure it's because I find it hard to move past the craziness of this world and just live life like everything is easy.

I envy people who can not feel bad after reading an article about one of the top twenty papers in the U.S. going up for sale. The alternative: shut down the paper and fire everyone. Story here.

Now I am an optimist. I have to say this because my beginning was sad and my following evidence to why some may really be left in tears. But I know this will all get better but the question is when and what will we have lost as a result. I get asked all the time, why do you want to go into journalism? It's a dying business and everyone is losing their job.

But after bursting into tears minutes before a job interview, I can say because sometimes you just know what's for you. I know writing is my passion and whether it takes me two years or two months to do it I will. But it's hard and I wanted to acknowledge it because there isn't a place for me to share my stories with other young journalists. My competition is faceless and its struggles anonymous.

Either way, I sometimes find it hard to say I am doing well. I'm scared but optimistic.

Georgetown Students On Election Night

Just some photos from election night 2008.