We have enough people who are beautiful. We need more who are brave. We have enough people who are popular. We need more who are passionate and purposeful. We have enough people who are wild. We need more who are wise. We have enough people who are famous. We need more who are faithful. We have enough people who require rewards. We need more who require respect. We have enough people who are too afraid to fail. We need more who are courageous enough to fly.
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I’ve been on vacation, touring four different cities in Spain. (Almoradi, Alicante, Madrid, and Guardamar.)
One interesting thing we noticed is how the stores close in the middle of the day.
In some parts of Spain, businesses take a few hours of break in the afternoon. They actually close their stores, and you won’t be able to go in until after the break.
They call this a Siesta, which means “a midday or afternoon rest or nap.” It comes from the Latin sexta, the 6th hour after dawn. The Siesta was a traditional break for agricultural workers in Spain and Italy, usually taken at noon to avoid the intense heat of the midday sun.
Imagine going to work and then taking a nap after lunch to be refreshed and ready for the evening hours.
This made me think about how other countries prioritize rest compared to America’s “no sleep” philosophy. Spaniards are so rejuvenated after the Siesta that many stay up all night, and some restaurants do not close until midnight.
And I mean they have a time! Card tables are out, children are running around, and the city is buzzing with life. The people seem content and joyful.
Meanwhile, we are over here exhausted, overworked, and stressed out.
We can use this as a lesson and appreciate breaks more whenever we need them, not just when society says it’s okay.
Let us refill our cups as needed to ensure we have everything we need to continue.
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I was blessed to come in contact with an organization called Black Rewrite, which focused on amplifying and celebrating narratives of Black and Brown authors. They dedicate space for Black authors each week, and I am honored to be featured this week!
At Black Rewrite, they provide space for authors to share their work, and I would be delighted if you could check out my article, “American History X,” on the site. Please be sure to like, share, and comment if you choose and share with your Black author friends!
It wasn’t about the money. It never is. It was about the sheer audacity of people to be offended.
I wanted to run to the bathroom and burst into tears at the arrogance of a people with no interest in their own history. There was even an interracial couple who walked by, him Black, her white.
Chile, do you know this man looked at his white friend/wife/woman and asked if she wanted the book while laughing as they walked on?
Trifling does not even begin to describe the moment.
But then…
There was an older Black man. He walked by my table and dropped a crinkled 20, whispering, “Keep doing what you are doing.”
You have to understand how he did it.
In African American families, elders (grandma’s, grandpa’s, aunts, uncles, etc.) will hug you and whisper in your ear, “How you?” While slipping cash into the palm of your hand.
There is no conversation about it and they are not interested in your explanations. It is simply an act of love wrapped tight in spiritual discernment. You need this even if you don’t think you do.
You could be struggling with bills.
You could be frustrated.
You could be facing any unforeseen tragedy, and this person who has lived long enough to know what love looks like in the flesh slips you with just enough money to cover whatever was bothering you.
Now, I was not in a financial catastrophe but a spiritual one. An emotional one. One that almost made me pack up my things and walk out the door.
There is something about not being appreciated that sends me boiling.
My tolerance is zero.
But then, here comes an angel, dressed casually, with a brimmed hat and gray beard wrapped in golden black skin.
He drops a 20 on my table like it was the sweaty palm of my hand and whispered words of confidence into my spirit without losing stride. He spoke while walking, always keeping sight of his mission.
This man’s simple act gave me everything I needed to keep going.
People took notice, stopping at my table suddenly, almost like they had been commanded to.
There is no moral to this story that you have not already read.
As I read the latest review of my new book, I stumbled across the word historian and paused. “Historian? Me? Nah.”
“Yecheilyah Ysrayl is a renowned author and historian known for her commitment to uncovering and sharing the untold stories of Black history. Her expertise and passion for the subject matter are evident throughout the book, making it a credible and authoritative source of information.”
-Vigil Honor, Amazon Review
“Wow,” I thought, an eyebrow raised. Really? Me? He can’t be talking about me. I am no one’s historian.”
When I think of a historian, I think of a person with a wall crammed with degrees from every university on the planet and a vocabulary that would terrify the most seasoned thesaurus. I see an elderly person who is wise and perceptive about how the world came to be. They sit down to write 500-page books and devour scholarly articles for breakfast.
And let’s not talk about memory.
Neil deGrasse Tyson, aka the smartest man in the world, lol.
Historians, I suppose, have perfect recall and spiritual compasses that allow them to travel from portal to portal and retrieve relics from the past. These folks recite information like a machine. When I think of a historian, I think Neil deGrasse Tyson.
But me?
I can’t even remember where I left the remote half of the time.
While I did well in history class, I wasn’t too interested in it. It was just a class to get through, but nothing I thirsted for outside school. I didn’t seek it out like I did books. I didn’t eat it up like I did poetry. I didn’t love it like I did literature.
Ahh. There it is. Books. It always comes back to books.
My love for reading, particularly about my people’s history, has led me to write about it. Writing about it has led me to research it. Researching it has led me to document it. Documenting it has created in me a fascination to share it.
I got a revelation while watching a podcast episode with Donni Wiggins and Jessica Dupart, and I found myself laughing at Dupart’s candor. She dropped a few F-Bombs and talked about her life growing up as if she and Wiggins were sitting in their own living room. She doesn’t speak corporate or exhibit the characteristics that someone might consider appropriate to be a CEO, yet she runs an 80 million-dollar business.
While I didn’t finish the entire episode, watching it made me think about how dope it is that in today’s world, people are redefining what success looks like just by being themselves. I realized I never considered myself a historian because I didn’t think I knew enough. (I also dislike titles)
I was also clinging to an aged stereotype.
I learned I don’t have to look like that old-school, white male version of what a historian was once thought to be to qualify as such.
It didn’t occur to me that writers are historians, too, documenting history and archiving them into books that live forever.
According to Google, “a historian is a person who studies and writes about the past and is regarded as an authority on it.”
“Her expertise and passion for the subject matter are evident throughout the book, making it a credible and authoritative source of information…”
Well now. I suppose historian doesn’t sound too bad after all.
“The book’s storytelling approach brings history to life, making it accessible and engaging for readers of all ages. Ysrayl’s narrative style ensures that the experiences and contributions of Black Americans are not just facts to be remembered but stories to be felt and understood.”
“I give a holler to my sisters on welfare Tupac cares, if don’t nobody else care”
You know, it’s funny when it rains it pours They got money for wars, but can’t feed the poor.”
-Tupac, Keep Ya Head Up
Even though life tried to take me out in a toilet, I got here healthy, drug-free, and a head full of hair.
After two weeks in the hospital, Mama was allowed to take me home, if that’s what you wanna call it. Our building had been built in the 60s, but it wasn’t much of a building by the late 80s and into the early 90s.
Rats and roaches plagued our apartments, and the housing authorities couldn’t care less. Brand-new babies like me were brought home to nothing but drug dealers and addicts, children sprawled about like clothes somebody left on the floor and forgot to wash, so it wasn’t no surprise when The White Lady came.
That’s what people said when the social workers came to inspect the low-income apartments, “The White Lady.” They ain’t never have a name.
The woman stood in the kitchen, talking to Mama, and looking around our place with distaste. She gazed at the Crisco on top of the stove, as well as the dish rack, which was piled high with plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery. It wasn’t cute, but it was clean.
Her gaze moved to my brother and me, who were playing on the thick blanket on the floor we called a pallet. Well, he was playing, and I was doing whatever it was babies do.
My Uncle Rome hid in the closet next to the bathroom cause he wasn’t on the lease. Black women weren’t allowed to have a man in the house in those days if they wanted to get the Welfare. We also had to hide the new toaster, dish rack, and telephone so they wouldn’t take away any money.
“Mrs. House, your son is developing slowly for his age…”
The short, green-eyed blonde balanced a clipboard in her arms and scratched her nose with the tip of her writing pen. The hoop ring in her right nostril and the sunflower tattoo on her exposed arm caught my Uncle Jerome’s eye.
My favorite uncle and unofficial babysitter, we called my mother’s little brother Rome for short. He thought he was Romeo to every woman’s Juliet. His dark chocolate skin tone and thick lips drove them crazy. Mama said if he took the time to read Romeo and Juliet’s story, he might want to be somebody else.
“Ain’t nothing romantic about no Romeo and Juliet,” she’d lecture him when he bragged about his latest escapades.
“Why is that?”
“They both died fool.”
Uncle Rome said he wasn’t into white women like that, but this one was “sho-nuff fine.” Unk was lying. He loved him some white women. He just wanted to know why she was so young and how long she’d been working with social services to where she could take his sister’s kids.
“…and your 2-month-old is malnourished,” said the White Lady.
“It’s Miss House,” said Mama, taking a drag of her cigarette, inhaling smoke, and blowing it out of her nose. “Since you know so damn much.”
Uncle Rome did one of those fake coughs you do to cover up a laugh.
The lady ignored my mother. “Miss House, have you been using the Food Stamps?”
Unk said Mama frowned, “Yes, I use my stamps. Fuck I look like not to use Food Stamps?”
“I just wanna make sure you didn’t sell them, is all,” said the white lady.
“Oh, so you my judge now? I look incompetent to you?”
See, that’s what I loved about Mama. Yeah, she was a heroin addict, but she wasn’t no fool. A wordsmith with a mouth like a two-edged sword, she’ll curse you out every which way but loose and diversify her vocabulary while at it so you can know she’s cursing because she wants to, not because she doesn’t have the words to say what’s on her mind.
Mama used to write poems and stories before she got pregnant with Aaron. She also went to school to do hair. There wasn’t nothing my Mama couldn’t do. I wished she would get back to her art. Maybe that would help keep her away from the drugs.
“Look, are you done? Cause, as you can see, I have kids to look after.”
The woman scanned the apartment once more, frowning at a roach crawling on the wall. “Let’s just hope you are taking care of these children. This is your final warning, Miss House. If I have to come back here again…”
“Yeah, I know,” interrupted Mama, blowing out more smoke. “Are we done?”
The woman nodded, “We are.”
As she walked toward the door, she stopped to look once more at us and then back at my mother. “Probably not a good idea for you to smoke in front of the children.”
Mama rolled her eyes, dropped the cigarette on the floor, stomped it with her foot, and waved the woman off.
According to my uncle’s story, the woman left us alone after that. But, in my fifth month, someone new came to visit, and I was taken away from Mama and placed in foster care, where I would stay for the next five years.
The PBS Blog 