I was sitting here thinking about how I got to this place of advocating for the restoration of Black history. If it were solely up to me, I would have chosen a less taxing, less unrewarding cause to advocate for.
However, in the words of Nina Simone, “I have no choice in the matter. An artist’s duty, as far as I am concerned, is to reflect the times.”
In school, I was not a student who loved history, and I certainly had no plans to teach it when I grew up.
Unlike other professions where a mistake can be smoothed over, history leaves no room for error. The slightest slip can draw the sting of a thousand voices ready to correct, dismiss, or condemn.
I’ve experienced people debating a point in a video or article they didn’t even finish watching or reading. Yet, here they are, flying Delta to the comment section to respond.
It’s like people talk with their mouths open, the meat still in between their teeth, droplets of spittle sky rocking out of their mouth from food they have not chewed properly, let alone swallowed.
In a time where many of the Civil Rights that Black people fought for are being stripped away, there is no safety net when the facts slip.
Still, I show up.
I press record and publish with hands slick from sweat, skin raw from the invisible cuts of criticism, and keep offering what my people literally bled to learn.
Even when I wonder why I’m doing this, I keep moving forward, not because it’s always fun. It is not. As the saying goes: “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
I move forward because I must, and because, to quote Toni Morrison, “This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”
And so, while it is not always exciting, it is worth it.
I march on, a pen in my hand, a computer in my lap, and a calling in my heart.
My big brother Ray, nieces Gigi, Jamie, Brook, and Me
Some families keep their history alive around picnic tables, their roots watered each summer by laughter, shared meals, and stories that stretch back generations.
Mine did not.
On my mother’s side, there were no great migrations back home for a weekend, no sea of matching shirts declaring our kinship, no annual roll call of who had been born, married, or passed on.
I didn’t grow up with the smell of charcoal and cousins’ laughter drifting across a summer lawn, the kind of memory stitched into photo albums and passed down like a family recipe. Family reunions simply weren’t our thing. There were no matching T-shirts, no group photos under a banner.
Cousin Laura, Pam, and Me sitting in the back of this truck like some thugs, lol
The closest I came to that sense of gathering was at Chicago block parties. We’d shut down the street, our banquet hall, line the sidewalks with tables and sizzling grills, and open the fire hydrant so the water arched into the air like a silver ribbon. Kids ran barefoot through a cracked-open hydrant, laughing because this time, no one called the police.
Music pulsed from speakers, and for one day, neighbors felt like cousins, and the whole block became family.
But it wasn’t our family.
Six years ago, this ended with our generation.
Jeremiah in the background (Nephew), Big Sissy Pamela, and Lil Cuzzo Angela
What began as a simple backyard barbecue has grown, year after year, into something bigger that we can finally call by its true name: a Family Reunion.
It’s a strange and humbling thing to realize we’re the aunts and unks now—the ones setting the tone, carrying the stories, and shaping the memories for our children.
We’ve rewritten the narrative we inherited.
Many of us are building marriages we’re proud of, raising children under our own roofs, and pursuing careers that light us up. We are not lost to the streets, not numbed by addiction, not absent from the lives we brought into this world.
Aunt Barbara, Lil Reg, and his daughters, Gigi and Brooklyn
Instead, we have passports now. We take our children to see oceans they’ve never touched, mountains they’ve never climbed, cities that speak in languages they’ve never heard. We give them richer experiences, not just with our words but with our lives.
Sometimes, breaking from tradition can be a good thing!
My crazy sisters and me: Yecheilyah, Tracey, Pam, and photo bombed by her daughter, Jamie.
I spent the weekend before last wrapped in the embrace of family down in Shreveport and Keithville, Louisiana, and it felt like medicine. We rode horses, walked barefoot through the grass, played with dogs, danced like children to country songs (which was hilarious…them country songs a lil freaky, lol) chased chickens, and kissed the soft cheeks of babies.
Cheese!!
In a world that seems to be unraveling, it’s easy to feel unanchored. People are losing their jobs and struggling to pay bills, Medicaid and SNAP Benefits are in danger, and storms, floods, and earthquakes abound. In times like these, it is soothing to turn to community, and I mean real community. To remember what it’s like to be held, to look people in their eyes, to walk barefoot in the grass, and to laugh without looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next unprecedented moment to drop.
We are living in a time when the only time people travel is to work. (And yes, I consider curated events that cost rent and mortgage money to attend is also work.) Time in the country on the farm (which we visit at least once a year) was a reminder of what real rest is, what it feels like, and why it is necessary.
This little baby wasn’t scared at all, lol.
I don’t know what you’re going through in your personal life. I have no idea of the storms you are literally or mentally walking through, but I do know that resting inside the warmth of community, however that looks to you, can be incredibly helpful.
For me, it’s family time since most of us live in different states now. I am excited to spend time with my Chicago people at our annual family BBQ next month. We’re heading to a resort, and it’s going to be a blast, hunny.
We are not supposed to do life alone. Hyper individualism is not the way. This idea that we don’t need anyone is not the song we are supposed to be dancing to. People brag about not having family and friends, and I think that’s sad. No wonder so many people are depressed.
Whatever embracing community looks like to you, let it be more than a workcation or business venture. Let it be a real coming together. More than that, let it be a balm.
A reminder that community doesn’t just soothe the wounds, but sometimes, it also helps to stop the bleeding.
Self-publishing can be overwhelming for various reasons, including the limitless number of people who offer advice. The problem is that counsel is not universally applicable. Even the word “Bad” in the title is subjective. Who determines what is bad? Is there any advice that works for us but not for others?
Here is a quick list of things to remember as you continue your publishing journey.
Experience Levels Vary—Resist the urge to follow the advice of people who have not been where you want to go. Some advice may come from beginners who haven’t seen long-term results. For example, some people have self-published several books but have never worked with professionals.
This leads to the next point.
Beware of Personal Bias—People tend to recommend what worked for them, even if it’s not objectively the best method. Someone might tell you to publish a first draft or not to worry about editing because it is what worked for them. But one size does not fit all. What succeeded for one author may not suit your genre, audience, or goals. Remember to apply sound advice that suits you and not make emotional business decisions.
Different Goals Need Different Strategies—Be careful with advice that applies the same strategies to different goals. Your publishing route and the kind of book you write require a different publishing approach. Writing a memoir, a children’s book, or a business book each requires something different.
Paid Services May Drive Certain Advice—Some give advice to upsell you on courses, editing, or marketing packages. When working with service providers, discern whether a suggestion suits your goals or if it is to persuade you to buy into the service. Many vanity publishers will not care if your story makes sense or if you wrote it in two days. They will encourage you to publish that book as long as you have the money to pay, even if the manuscript is not ready.
You Can Waste Time and Money—Make sure people can show you receipts for their claims. What social proof do they have to support their advice? Remember, reading a book about swimming will not teach you how to swim. Accept advice from people who have been in the water and have done the work. Bad advice can lead to wasted money and, perhaps most importantly, time.
There are many more things to watch out for, such as advice that leads to confusion and second-guessing your decisions. Ultimately, remember that this journey is yours, and you should do what aligns best with your identity and goals. Watch out for conflicting advice that can cause your voice to get lost. Trying to mimic others too closely may make your work less authentic or original.
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Can ya’ll believe I created this image using ChatGPT? Lol
I love Maya Angelou’s poetry, but it is not what drew me to her. What drew me to Angelou first was her story.
When I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and discovered she had also written other collections of autobiographies, I was delighted by her strength and how it came out in her voice. I watched YouTube videos of her interviews and understood more about how she grew up and what led her down her path. Before Maya Angelou was one of my favorite poets, she became one of my favorite people.
The process of writing out my story on Substack has led me to question how much of what I like really belongs to me and what belongs to the world.
By the time I was born, Angelou was already 59 years old. Her name had already been carved into stone and printed inside the pages of history books. Before I was formed in my mother’s womb, Angelou had been crowned Queen.
But this isn’t really about the amazing Maya Angelou.
I am only using her as an example of how many of us drift through life as mirrors reflecting other people’s likes, passions, and preferences, not out of genuine love but habit.
Is that thing the rhythm in your soul, or is it simply the first thing whispered to you by a world that told you what to like before you liked yourself? Before you knew yourself?
Did you ever listen to that person’s music before they were your favorite artist? Did you ever trace the lyrics with your fingers or read the curve of a poet’s stanzas with your own eyes before you anointed them the best?
Did you ever actually feel the pulse of Angelou’s poetry beneath your skin? Felt her passion jump from the page to her throat and out of her mouth like the voice of many waters? Or do you carry her name like a badge, not because it speaks to you, but because it speaks to everyone else?
Have you ever wandered beyond the well-lit paths of fame into the quiet woods where lesser-known voices sing? Or, have you let the world define your taste, shaping your mind to match the music of the mainstream?
Do you like what you like because you like it or because you’ve been trained to like it?
February has been full, starting with Hubby and I celebrating our fifteenth marriage anniversary on 2/17.
Most recently, we also celebrated the first anniversary of releasing my first nonfiction history book, Black History Facts You Didn’t Learn in School, which came out on February 24, 2024. For those of you who know, I usually write historical fiction, so this was my first time doing nonfiction.
This first year has been a blessing, and the support has been monumental. So far, we’ve been placed in four bookstores and one school and have sold hundreds of copies.
Book Signing and Meet and Greet | 2/8/25 | Medu Bookstore, Greenbriar Mall, Atlanta
For reference, I am a self-published, independent author without a massive crew behind me. I am not affiliated with any huge publishing firms or financed by any organization. Indie authors work hard but receive only a fraction of the visibility that a major publisher would provide. Thus, seeing our hard work pay off is extremely special.
I am drafting a separate post detailing the three things I did that set this book apart, which I will post later.
Before I tell you the other thing, let me refill your cup. There you go.
Another thing you should know is that today, just a few days after our bookversary, Tabitha Brown reposted a Black History video I did some weeks ago on the Safe Bus Company. Instagram and Facebook are going bananas, chile.
As a reserved and introverted person, this is a lot. However, I am humbled and thankful for the opportunity to reach many new people who are passionate about restoring the Black Historical Truth.
Finally, I have packed my bags and jumped on the Substack bandwagon. However, what I am sharing over there is a bit different. I want to lean more into my story and build deeper connections this year.
I have decided to start with what it’s like living with a steel plate in my thigh. Below is a description of my publication series and a link to follow me if you want to learn more.
Thanks so much for spending this time with me! You can leave your cup on the table. I’ll get that. Don’t forget that your shoes are by the door and your coat is hanging up in the closet!
Substack Info:
I Wasn’t Built to Break
“I Wasn’t Built to Break” is an intimate, behind-the-scenes journey into life with a steel plate inside my body. This series takes you through the pivotal moments that shaped me—from my early upbringing to the life-altering accident that nearly took everything when I was hit by a car. With raw honesty, I share the physical and emotional battles of recovery and what it truly means to rebuild a life that was almost lost.
Subscribe to read my articles! The first one is free and available now.
I know it’s been a while since we last spoke. Here, let me get your coat.
Shake the chill from your bones and leave the weight of the world at the door.
Speaking of the door, there is a shoe rack next to you. Go ahead and remove your shoes. I have some footies you can slip into. I hope you like the color black.
I took the liberty of roasting the coffee beans with a whisper of cinnamon and French Vanilla cream. I hope that’s okay.
Sit. Let the loveseat cradle you. Relax yourself. You are home. I’ll open the curtains so the light can spill in on us.
Here’s your coffee. Let your hands wrap around the warmth of the mug, and the heat seep into your skin like an unspoken promise—exhale as long as you need.
The world outside can wait. Here, in this quiet space, there is no rush, no burden too heavy, only the sound of our voices, the comfort of shared silence, and the rich laughter of coffee poured into porcelain.
Let’s drink deep and savor the moment—just you, just me, just the steady rhythm of being.
Now that you have your mug and are snug like a bug in a rug, here’s what I’ve been up to lately…
The PBS Blog 