Hey, folks. Taking a break right now to do some personal exploration. It's not easy being a adult orphan. Mummy and Daddy gone on to their resting places and I have to find out how to journey without them on this plane.
One Love,
Sistah
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
SOLIDARITY! SOLIDARITY! SOLIDARITY!
A protest song in solidarity with APUS(Association of Part-Time Undergraduate Students)Oh mercy, mercy, me things aint what they used to be,
Sky- rocketing, tuitions fe-e-es,
Straight attack, to access equity,
Oh mercy, mercy, me, to add insult to injury,
Tyrannical promise: a mere 66% increase, So bold faced, they calling it a Flat Fee,
Oh mercy, mercy, me dem must be think we stupidy, Plan’s to keep poor peoples out of University…
Fee hikes, make education unattainable, U of T’s acting unreasonably,
Cutting back vitally crucial equity programs only,
Go on now take it, take another little piece of our life line Uni.
Like we’re not already struggling to meet the rising cost of food & shelter,
Post-Secondary education, indicates a desire to escape poverty,
UofT claims it’s too poor to replace retired faculty,
Means; substandard educators, contract teaching staff, for all!
Another high performance sports centre, they can find money, somehow?
We’re all in this economic turndown boat together,
But just equity programs seeing stormy weather,
Clearly reflects UofT’s inhumane priorities and skewed views, shows a lack of people value,
For the have not’s you make it more of a strain, undergraduate education to attain:
It’s no surprise part-time Undergraduates status= major financial difficulty
Marcus Mosiah Garvey said, Education of the masses in the key:
To a more empowered less angry huwomanity?
That would mean we could count on our administration and police force to support a silent sit in.
Years of sit in protest, finally heard and acknowledged: emancipated colonized afrikans,
Gave women the vote, and yes integrated the schools.
Without the right to protest where would be?
Protest means we’re airing out alternative points of view.
University Student’s protest on campuses is nothing new.
Protest indicates dissatisfaction, No negative ideologies nor cruel methods, like
Criminalization of student protesters is loudly denounced.
What’s up with that? Now we arrest folks whose desires differ?
Profiteers like David Naylor we’ve got to bounce. Any wonder,
this institution’s heinous intentions are painfully clear,
When the only cutback affected programs are;
Diverse Studies, Women& Gender, Disability, and Transitional Year.hmm…Reads like
Pure- Sexism, Ageism, Class-ism, Size-ism, Rac-ism, any old kind of bullshit slap in the face -ism
Feigned economical & financial facts-ism is what we’re fed,
Perhaps UofT’s administrators haven’t noticed but we’re all in an economic upside turn down bed.
And, it’s the part-time student, having the restless night.
When advanced education’s for the privileged, and not a basic human right.
U of T is quite conveniently located, placed in the centre of Toronto, town.
Naylor’s administrators must think it’s a circus, why they running it like real clowns,
Part-time undergraduate students, they plan to displace
With no offer being made of alternate locale or space,
Perhaps APUS should claim squatter’s rights in Naylor’s office
What ever would we do with all that “room”?
Oh, mercy, mercy me, Academic equality, Oh!
We could run this campus based on student democracy,
Then the haves and have notes line we’d quickly erase,
Diversity boundaries we’d no longer see,
Education for All; even folks who can ill afford to pay taxes,
Could move on up if we’d just face fact-es, we’d solve all our worries: Mercy, mercy me; change is what we want to see…..make education Free.
SOLIDARITY!
Want to know more about APUS?
Visit: http://www.apus.utoronto.ca/
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
THOUGHTS: Conquering Fears
Today marks the second in-house sessions of sistahlois’ creative capers. At home, last week was a busy time, as I’ve been blessed with three lovely young girls, ages 13, 11, & 7, vocals and piano for two and voice only for the 13 yr. old. For me the most taxing was the taking of monies and receipt giving and I realize that I really hate money in my hand--not sure where this undeserving feeling comes from. I have no challenge accepting gifts, but anything that seems like pay seems to also carry this kind of servitude that harkens back to the financial intimidation the allowed me to stay at CNR, and with several other arrangements that have led to a lot of personal damage to my trust quotient. It’s kind of confusing this feeling of not deserving--cause there are things I am brilliant at and deserve to be paid an even more excellent rate for.
According to the mother of my 11 yr. old student, her daughter thinks she hates opera and has refused to get involved with an “opera teacher.” So, I didn’t try to sell it to the daughter. I just let her do her thing. I was thrilled that after her first half hour when I figured she’d been challenged enough she said, “You know, I thought I would hate this but you’re really cool” I replied, “I’m not cool: you are. Look at the things you sang today that you thought you’d hate or that you couldn’t do.”
Flashback to my own mother trying to sell me on Marian Anderson, Leontyne Price, and Jessye Norman. I bought what she was selling: that the voice could be a magnificent tool or weapon. My mother had faith in my talents, even though at age 13 a vocal adjudicator told me that though I would make a great performer /entertainer, I lacked operatic qualities. Well, my vocal coach was not impressed by that verdict. When she heard that, she made a face and spit to her left with a quick look of disdain. “You open your mouth girl, and sing. You’ve got quality coming out your wazoo!” I think of her again as this Saturday begins. I need to listen to the messages of my old vocal teacher and stand on the knowledge I have gained and the talents that I have.
I really was afraid about this week’s public airing of my own personal dirty laundry (see previous post) and it went fine. Everything was cool, especially me. My notes fell to the floor right at the start, and there they stayed. I surprised myself with how well the story flowed section by section. It came out with honesty and no tears; just calmly expressed. I didn’t win the story slam, but I conquered that fear and I received great audience response.
I know I’m inspired to continue to create these honest yet painful pieces. I know that I am blessed with the things I can do, and I know I have to continue taking the money and writing those receipts. To deal with this fear of people paying for my gift, I have to think of the many, many years I have studied and look upon the money exchange as a bonus that pays the rent and the bills so that I can continue sharing my musical gifts. The Divas of my past and present (yes, Jessye is very much A-LIVE!) have had to overcome racial discrimination and harassment in order to sing. I refuse to let a little bit of paper hold me down.
According to the mother of my 11 yr. old student, her daughter thinks she hates opera and has refused to get involved with an “opera teacher.” So, I didn’t try to sell it to the daughter. I just let her do her thing. I was thrilled that after her first half hour when I figured she’d been challenged enough she said, “You know, I thought I would hate this but you’re really cool” I replied, “I’m not cool: you are. Look at the things you sang today that you thought you’d hate or that you couldn’t do.”
Flashback to my own mother trying to sell me on Marian Anderson, Leontyne Price, and Jessye Norman. I bought what she was selling: that the voice could be a magnificent tool or weapon. My mother had faith in my talents, even though at age 13 a vocal adjudicator told me that though I would make a great performer /entertainer, I lacked operatic qualities. Well, my vocal coach was not impressed by that verdict. When she heard that, she made a face and spit to her left with a quick look of disdain. “You open your mouth girl, and sing. You’ve got quality coming out your wazoo!” I think of her again as this Saturday begins. I need to listen to the messages of my old vocal teacher and stand on the knowledge I have gained and the talents that I have.
I really was afraid about this week’s public airing of my own personal dirty laundry (see previous post) and it went fine. Everything was cool, especially me. My notes fell to the floor right at the start, and there they stayed. I surprised myself with how well the story flowed section by section. It came out with honesty and no tears; just calmly expressed. I didn’t win the story slam, but I conquered that fear and I received great audience response. I know I’m inspired to continue to create these honest yet painful pieces. I know that I am blessed with the things I can do, and I know I have to continue taking the money and writing those receipts. To deal with this fear of people paying for my gift, I have to think of the many, many years I have studied and look upon the money exchange as a bonus that pays the rent and the bills so that I can continue sharing my musical gifts. The Divas of my past and present (yes, Jessye is very much A-LIVE!) have had to overcome racial discrimination and harassment in order to sing. I refuse to let a little bit of paper hold me down.
The DIVAS!
Marian Anderson:http://www.mariananderson.org/
Leontyne Price: http://www.mswritersandmusicians.com/musicians/leontyne-price.html
Jessye Norman: http://www.myspace.com/jessyenormanfanpage
Monday, February 8, 2010
I SURVIVED!
It's FEBRUARY already! Afrikan Liberation Month? Well, I and I not too, too much into having just one month to celebrate ALL the contributions of Afrikans and the diaspora (not enough time!), but if it shines some light on the suppressed and oppressed?--one love.
Speaking of suppressed and oppressed: I liberated myself at The Spotlight Project last month. Remember, I was taking part in their All in a Day's Work fundraisier on support of YES Toronto? Well, I did it! I stood in front of a room full of people and shared a very personal story that has been lurking in the shadows of my being for years! Well, the tale finally broke through into the light, and guess what? I let it SHINE:-)
My Intro:
Let me preamble, my tales with a reminder; that 1988 marked the Federal Governments fourth mandated directive that Canadian National Railways must hire more wombmyn trades persons, this time the order is sweetened by financial seduction. I was one of those pioneer wombmyn. Since leaving CNR; I have never been taken off the employee roster, in 2000 CNR made me a buy out offer, if I were to sign a gag order. I’m here telling a portion of my story so you can guess my response.
My Story:
Woke up this morning and I’m so glad about it. I’m so glad to be alive! I love to sing. My first response to any query will be the lyrics of some song. Anytime I’m singing, I feel connected to the natural world. In Manitoba, where I grew, folks sang for everything, any task or journey is lightened by a voice raised in song.
“Back in the day”, it was normal to see girls and wombmyn, doing repairs on their own tractors, bikes or ski-doo; we mechanical chicks were celebrated. The general machinist trade caught my fancy. At, Red River Community College I was the valedictorian while being the 1 wombmyn of the 21 in my graduating class. I quickly advance in my term positions with the Department of Defense, and the Winnipeg Health Sciences Centre. I also did piecework for General Motors, Dofasco, and Toyota. CNR meant a sideways move, one whole province over. I’d cut and machined numerous mechanical parts, indexed a lifetime of flywheels, up-keeping the ancient engines of Canada’s tanks. How hard could it be? Doing parts installation for maintaining old train engines.
Having wombmyn at CNR meant a redefined: “safety first” rule, that forced the purging of pornographic photos and drawings from most common area walls, I’m blamed for this action which fosters a greater hatred of me. The only wombmyn on back shifts, I’m treated to an insidious onslaught of insulting behaviors night after night; the purging had only increased the environments toxicity I move covertly where possible, my head down, singing myself calm, song is my refuge. I sing to pace my movements. With song I masks my disappointment to find I’m a machinist in job title only; not one familiar task. Song gives flow as I walk the gauntlet of inane comments, traverse vast distances of insults, climb heights of anxiety, and I plumb the depths of reproach, while on contrived searches to locate and retrieve elusive engine parts, any machinist could well fashion themselves, but here, I’m back in school, earning a second ticket as a heavy-duty diesel mechanic. {Such a sacrilege the only lathe that CNR has on site is rusting on a back lotL a beautiful Dean Smith &Grace 17, Made in Manitoba}
I stay vigilant, ever on guard against the illicit, raucous group laughter, used to camouflage the intentional falling-down “oops!” accidental groping of my body parts. I shrug off the most painful of things with song. Cloaked by song, I remain blissfully engaged in my labour, keenly aware that my singing only feigns peace of mind in a place where I truly feel unsafe. Still, I sing my worries, concerns, and rebuttals; my spoken words don’t match the language of this land, they seem incomprehensible and go unheard. Then, I am called for a private health and safety meeting in managements offices, not being in a common area; pages of scantily clad Sunshine-girls & pin-ups are proudly displayed. Seems like my groping falling-down-with-laughter workmates who’d constantly jeered: “don’t quit your day job!” had slowed in their production. While I sang to lighten my load, they dropped their loads to listen. My voice is a “liability”, my songs; a” breach of health and safety”. For the record, I state that I use song as a way of overriding habitual-on-the-job harassment; of course, they are so adamantly focused on my not singing they can’t hear my spoken words. Safety first!!” is shouted, “Radios aren’t allowed on the machine shop floor, Singing while you work is an infraction”!! CNR’s “Safety first” slogan, apparently counted for machinery and virtual rapists, not for the bodies & souls of wombmyn workers. A promissory agreement is signed; “I will not sing while I work.”
Song; my only freedom, and combat weapon the perfect non-violent tool against constant verbal aggression, a prairie Afrikan on a rocky northern plantation singing coded songs in the presence of the ignorant, oppressive overseer. Now what?
Enraged I return to my isolated engine room incarceration, careful to not let any sound escape my lips. Song is silenced but the music continues. Small trickles of sound seem to get by my safety ear plugs, until those rumbling rhythms of engine sounds penetrate my mind with clarity. I’ve begun to hear music in the lift of every lever, in every tappet that descends; each cam and crankshafts rotation hold song with complex syncopations. Inspired I become a writer of songs and rhythmic poetry in a noisy engine room. Brake times find me pen in hand, as I express the torture of this life, my determination to get through each day in a place where song is forbidden. It was this toxic environment with heinous conditions, which I endured for seven more yearsL.
On my last day, as I’m passing an emergency (only) loudspeaker phone that cover both VIA and GO yards. “forbidden” still, I pick it up even as my tears of rage flow, I proudly lend voice to song…”I’ll give my hand to those who cannot see the sunrise or the falling rain, I’ll sing my song to cheer the weary along, for I may never pass this way again.” I never did.
I avoid driving through Mimico. I accept that my ear will always differentiate between a 710 and 645 engine sounds, occasionally upon hearing of some Go train mishap, I’ve railed against the federal government’s possibly still paying CNR cash incentives; for me, I’m a “twofer” you see! {All in one federal family I guess?} I’m physically irked to think of my being cheated, harassed and intimidated out of two skilled trades; Gratefully, I got out before they could suppress all my creativity. My voice I freely raise.
My current labour of love is creative healing in my community; there are folks all over the GTA singing those rhythmic poems and engine room songs. Song is still my soul’s rebellion. . Do you hear that passing 645 engine? Hey! That’s Gloria Gaynor? Yes…at first I was disgusted, soiled, felt petrified, not knowing how to cleanse the nasty wounds from my inside. Yes, I wasted loads of time, wondering what had I done wrong? Found, I was strong! I stayed alive! I got along! I survived!
Speaking of suppressed and oppressed: I liberated myself at The Spotlight Project last month. Remember, I was taking part in their All in a Day's Work fundraisier on support of YES Toronto? Well, I did it! I stood in front of a room full of people and shared a very personal story that has been lurking in the shadows of my being for years! Well, the tale finally broke through into the light, and guess what? I let it SHINE:-)
My Intro:
Let me preamble, my tales with a reminder; that 1988 marked the Federal Governments fourth mandated directive that Canadian National Railways must hire more wombmyn trades persons, this time the order is sweetened by financial seduction. I was one of those pioneer wombmyn. Since leaving CNR; I have never been taken off the employee roster, in 2000 CNR made me a buy out offer, if I were to sign a gag order. I’m here telling a portion of my story so you can guess my response.
My Story:
Woke up this morning and I’m so glad about it. I’m so glad to be alive! I love to sing. My first response to any query will be the lyrics of some song. Anytime I’m singing, I feel connected to the natural world. In Manitoba, where I grew, folks sang for everything, any task or journey is lightened by a voice raised in song.“Back in the day”, it was normal to see girls and wombmyn, doing repairs on their own tractors, bikes or ski-doo; we mechanical chicks were celebrated. The general machinist trade caught my fancy. At, Red River Community College I was the valedictorian while being the 1 wombmyn of the 21 in my graduating class. I quickly advance in my term positions with the Department of Defense, and the Winnipeg Health Sciences Centre. I also did piecework for General Motors, Dofasco, and Toyota. CNR meant a sideways move, one whole province over. I’d cut and machined numerous mechanical parts, indexed a lifetime of flywheels, up-keeping the ancient engines of Canada’s tanks. How hard could it be? Doing parts installation for maintaining old train engines.
Having wombmyn at CNR meant a redefined: “safety first” rule, that forced the purging of pornographic photos and drawings from most common area walls, I’m blamed for this action which fosters a greater hatred of me. The only wombmyn on back shifts, I’m treated to an insidious onslaught of insulting behaviors night after night; the purging had only increased the environments toxicity I move covertly where possible, my head down, singing myself calm, song is my refuge. I sing to pace my movements. With song I masks my disappointment to find I’m a machinist in job title only; not one familiar task. Song gives flow as I walk the gauntlet of inane comments, traverse vast distances of insults, climb heights of anxiety, and I plumb the depths of reproach, while on contrived searches to locate and retrieve elusive engine parts, any machinist could well fashion themselves, but here, I’m back in school, earning a second ticket as a heavy-duty diesel mechanic. {Such a sacrilege the only lathe that CNR has on site is rusting on a back lotL a beautiful Dean Smith &Grace 17, Made in Manitoba}
I stay vigilant, ever on guard against the illicit, raucous group laughter, used to camouflage the intentional falling-down “oops!” accidental groping of my body parts. I shrug off the most painful of things with song. Cloaked by song, I remain blissfully engaged in my labour, keenly aware that my singing only feigns peace of mind in a place where I truly feel unsafe. Still, I sing my worries, concerns, and rebuttals; my spoken words don’t match the language of this land, they seem incomprehensible and go unheard. Then, I am called for a private health and safety meeting in managements offices, not being in a common area; pages of scantily clad Sunshine-girls & pin-ups are proudly displayed. Seems like my groping falling-down-with-laughter workmates who’d constantly jeered: “don’t quit your day job!” had slowed in their production. While I sang to lighten my load, they dropped their loads to listen. My voice is a “liability”, my songs; a” breach of health and safety”. For the record, I state that I use song as a way of overriding habitual-on-the-job harassment; of course, they are so adamantly focused on my not singing they can’t hear my spoken words. Safety first!!” is shouted, “Radios aren’t allowed on the machine shop floor, Singing while you work is an infraction”!! CNR’s “Safety first” slogan, apparently counted for machinery and virtual rapists, not for the bodies & souls of wombmyn workers. A promissory agreement is signed; “I will not sing while I work.”
Song; my only freedom, and combat weapon the perfect non-violent tool against constant verbal aggression, a prairie Afrikan on a rocky northern plantation singing coded songs in the presence of the ignorant, oppressive overseer. Now what?
Enraged I return to my isolated engine room incarceration, careful to not let any sound escape my lips. Song is silenced but the music continues. Small trickles of sound seem to get by my safety ear plugs, until those rumbling rhythms of engine sounds penetrate my mind with clarity. I’ve begun to hear music in the lift of every lever, in every tappet that descends; each cam and crankshafts rotation hold song with complex syncopations. Inspired I become a writer of songs and rhythmic poetry in a noisy engine room. Brake times find me pen in hand, as I express the torture of this life, my determination to get through each day in a place where song is forbidden. It was this toxic environment with heinous conditions, which I endured for seven more yearsL.
On my last day, as I’m passing an emergency (only) loudspeaker phone that cover both VIA and GO yards. “forbidden” still, I pick it up even as my tears of rage flow, I proudly lend voice to song…”I’ll give my hand to those who cannot see the sunrise or the falling rain, I’ll sing my song to cheer the weary along, for I may never pass this way again.” I never did.
I avoid driving through Mimico. I accept that my ear will always differentiate between a 710 and 645 engine sounds, occasionally upon hearing of some Go train mishap, I’ve railed against the federal government’s possibly still paying CNR cash incentives; for me, I’m a “twofer” you see! {All in one federal family I guess?} I’m physically irked to think of my being cheated, harassed and intimidated out of two skilled trades; Gratefully, I got out before they could suppress all my creativity. My voice I freely raise.
My current labour of love is creative healing in my community; there are folks all over the GTA singing those rhythmic poems and engine room songs. Song is still my soul’s rebellion. . Do you hear that passing 645 engine? Hey! That’s Gloria Gaynor? Yes…at first I was disgusted, soiled, felt petrified, not knowing how to cleanse the nasty wounds from my inside. Yes, I wasted loads of time, wondering what had I done wrong? Found, I was strong! I stayed alive! I got along! I survived!
The Spotlight Charity is showing Haiti some love on February 14th. Please click here for more information.
Here is a link to an article about the event posted by the torontoist: http://torontoist.com/2010/02/working_class_heroes.php
Friday, January 22, 2010
YES!
Happy 2010, Everybody!Yes, it's been a while since I've tapped these fingers on the computer keyboard, but I'm back because I want to share something with you that will benefit a wonderful charity called YES (Youth Employment Services). When I was a youth of fourteen, YES was instrumental in my acquirement of a nice interim placement on my way to this so magnificent career I'm now engaged in.
YES continues to help youngsters in many ways, and, on January 28th the organization will be the featured charity of The Spotlight Project. As one of the night's participants in the "All in a Day's Work" story slam, I will be sharing tales of life on the Canadian National Railways, and, you know me, I have to do it with words as well as song. It won't be easy revisiting that time, but it's been cathartic writing it down and I know sharing it publicly will be an act of emancipation.
Please say "YES!" to this invitation to a wonderful fundraiser with a relateable twist. As The Spotlight Project says, "Whether you make six dollars an hour or six figures a year – every job comes with a compelling story." Bring some friends, but it's up to you whether or not you bring your boss;-)
Here are the details:
All in a Day’s Work: A StorySlam fundraiser for YES!
January 28, 2010 - 8:00pm
Doors open at 7:00pm
57 Adelaide St. East
Regular Admission: $35
VIP Ticket: $75
What is a StorySlam?
A storyslam is an exciting storytelling competition where participants have five to seven minutes to tell their greatest story in front of a live audience. Stories can be funny, inspiring, tragic or even just plain silly. No matter what, the story has to be true and good enough to win over the audience’s vote! (source: www.thespotlightproject.ca)
About YES (Youth Employment Services)
YES believes that employment is empowerment and the cornerstone of safe and healthy communities. YES leads the Canadian youth sector with innovative programs that empower disadvantaged and vulnerable youth to become self-sufficient contributing members of society. (source: www.yes.on.ca)
1lv.sistah
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