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.
Nobody talks about society’s addiction to black trauma. How much more profitable it is to talk about pain than poems, depression than joy.
Like we don’t have feelings just bad experiences turned into songs of sorrows and spirituals of reaching heaven cause there can’t be no freedom here on Earth for Black people.
Maybe this world still doesn’t consider us human enough to be happy someone hand society a roadmap for getting to know black people.
Tell them they can find us laughing even when life is lifeing cracking jokes and turning sadness into praise. Tell them we are not just guns and gangs.
Our hope does not hang on by string on some cracked-out corner or trap house Tell them how we dream. Big Mama musta had mustard seeds underneath the mattress cause she moved mountains. Food and faith ain’t never been hard to find. We gone eat.
Talk about our love our sense of community our building our builders our beauty.
We’ve had a wild ride here in this country But it was not all bad.
Together, we forged a world of our own found solace in the cracks made meals from scraps and carved out our own sense of enjoyment and purpose.
Tell them about how the cells of a black woman saved the world and the genius of a Black man lit it up. Talk about how we bless everything we touch.
Tell the whole truth that we are not made up only of pain.
Joy lives here, too.
You can listen to this poem on TikTok and YouTube! I’m @yecheilyah on both.
Black History Facts is back! If you’ve been waiting for a signed copy, this is your chance to get your hands on it. We are back in stock. Go now to: https://www.blkhistorybook.com/.
The preciousness of this life has been on my mind heavily.
It could be because a sister I’ve known for years lost her oldest son to a senseless murder last week. Gianni was only 20 years old.
Then, I woke up this morning to see that O.J. Simpson had died.
Or, it could be that this September will mark four years since my mother’s death.
As generations pass, I reflect on the fragility of this life and wonder if I am making the most of it.
No, not I. We. I wonder if we are making the most of it.
When we say that life is short and that every day isn’t promised, do we understand the power of that revelation?
It humbles me to think that every day we are getting closer to our deaths and have no idea. That, when we were born, it also came with a death date that we will only know when the it comes knocking on our door.
What will history say about the lives we’ve lived?
What are we writing in the spaces?
Photo Cred: Tehilayah
I want to express my gratitude for your support in this work. If you’ve ever supported me in any way, I appreciate you and what you have contributed to this blog, my books, or me personally.
I do not take any of it for granted.
You are supporting not only me but also the community and a movement by bringing to life the stories of those who have been silent and resurrecting the voices of the voiceless.
Black History Facts returns! If you’ve been waiting for a signed copy, this is your chance to get your hands on it. We are back in stock starting Friday, 4/12 at https://www.blkhistorybook.com/.
I’ve discovered the deaths of family members on social media from people who have my number.
I’ve watched loved ones be more open on Facebook than they are with the people they can reach out and touch.
I’ve watched passive aggression and sneak dissing become new forms of communication.
I’ve watched as people open themselves up online in unprecedented ways. I don’t judge them, but I do wonder, does this person have something to come home to?
In an age where it’s expected to parcel pieces of our souls to social media platforms in the name of vulnerability, I wonder if there is anything we still hold sacred.
Anything still holy?
Is there any part of ourselves we still keep personal? Intimate?
I wonder.
I am not a big Beyonce fan, but I agree that “we live in a world with few boundaries and a lot of access. There are so many internet therapists, comment critics, and experts with no expertise.”
For those who make a home on social media, I hope you are not giving it everything.
I hope there is still some things you keep to yourself for yourself.
I met up with some amazing poets in Atlanta (there were more of us, but it was late and several poets had already left) for Modex’s first Poetic Mode feature on Wednesday night. There were three open-mic poets, four features, and the host also did a poem.
I was honored to be one of the features. The difference is the featured poets are paid to perform. *Does happy dance.*
The only downside (which is not a downside in the grand scheme of things) is that I felt out of place, considering I have not done much spoken word lately, let alone in Atlanta, so they were talking about stuff I didn’t know anything about, lol. But I listened humbly and vowed I’d get more involved.
At the end of the sessions, there was a panel where we were asked questions so the audience could learn more about us. I liked this part the most because the questions had us thinking deeply and going inward, and I love a good thought-provoking convo.
I wished it had been longer so that more audience members could have asked their questions, but it was at the end and we were tired and hungry from such a long day. We had been there since six, not counting travel time to the venue, which for me meant leaving the house at 4-ish (because I’m an hour away from the city and Atlanta’s traffic is trash), and it was now approaching 10 pm.
Either way, it was nice to meet poets and talk about poetry stuff outside of the internet. I love ya’ll, but talking to people face-to-face was refreshing.
Now, for today’s exciting book news:
As the reviews start to come in, I want to give more of you a chance to get your hands on this book.
In honor of Women’s History Month, the ebook version of Black History Facts is 99 cents for March.
After March, the price will return to $9.99, so don’t wait!
Take this chance to get your copy, and don’t forget to leave a review on Amazon when you are done!
About.
“Black History Facts You Didn’t Learn in School” is a historical guide on Black Americans’ accomplishments, contributions, and struggles. It includes the experiences of Black individuals who have often been marginalized, overlooked, or omitted from mainstream historical accounts.
From the resilience of women like Anna Douglass, first wife of Frederick Douglass, to the many Black communities that prospered, recognizing and celebrating Black history helps to ensure that these stories are acknowledged and that the achievements and resilience of Black people are valued and appreciated.
Here’s what readers have to say:
“The author has taken the time to identify the importance of black individuals that sacrificed and or gone to the extra mile to contribute. Why these people are often forgotten is unfortunately seen on a regular basis. Over time all those forgotten will be highlighted as this book does. An excellent read.”
Louis Glass
“I remember her sharing these facts that were on her blog weekly and I looked forward to them. The fact that she compiled them and expounded on what was there to give you all this black history atlas is a blessing. Not many people are giving you the history that isn’t washed over and dressed up in a new outfit. It’s commendable and appreciative for someone to provide this level of nuggets that are given.”
Natashia Crawford
“This book provides readers with a thorough examination of lesser-known but incredibly significant facets of the black experience, serving as a monument to the richness and diversity of black history. From African ancient civilizations to the American civil rights movement, each chapter reveals a historical jewel that offers priceless insights into the tenacity, inventiveness, and accomplishments of black people across time.”
SLT
“Black History Facts You Didn’t Learn in School!!! Well-researched and thought-provoking book that sheds light on the powerful but often overlooked contributions of Black Americans. Super informative and educational. Highly recommend it!!”
The PBS Blog 