How and when do you learn what is important? I ask that question from the perspective of an adult who learned about what is important from my parents and subsequently taught those lessons to my children. Lessons that were co-mingled with those learned by my husband from his parents. Lessons that I revise in my head for the grandchildren I hope to have. 

Like all great teachers, my mother and father talked to me and exemplified what was important.  There were no classroom chairs or chalkboards, rather the dining room table, the garden, and expeditions to cities or theatres or rallies served as my training ground.  My parents demonstrated what was important in the stories they told and by the history they highlighted.  They exemplified the importance of love.  Love of self, family, spouse, and the building of relationships. There were lessons about the habits of living.  Basic things like spirituality, education, health, cleanliness, honesty, survival, equanimity, struggle, respect, responsibility, order, and perseverance—stick-to-itiveness as my mother called it.  There were those step-here-a-minute-sit-your-ass-down-do-you-hear-me-talking-to-you lessons and there were those invisible and silent lessons that were the by-products of sharing a home and spending time with one another.  There were also lessons, prayers, and guidance written in my parents’ letters to me. In their absence, I often re-read their letters and cards and find in them the sound of their voices, the warmth of their arms, and the extent of their love for me.  Always exactly what and when I need to hear about what is important in life.  Especially today:

May your 14^th birthday be full of surprises—gifts (or the promise of them)—and newer, deeper insights into the beauty of the human spirit as manifested through friends and those who love you.

May all your birthdays be a celebration of the discovery of the best possible in all people and all situations.

May you have the strength and determination to conquer—to overcome—all negative visions that dull the luster of your profoundly beautiful soul.

May you search for and find those aspects of work and pleasure that satisfy all your inner hungers.

And may this search of your own rich treasures bring forth a greater selflessness and dedication to truth.

We wish you a long, rich life, with good health and much deep joy.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

—Love Daddy & Mom & Daddy & Mom

I challenged my parents when I could and strayed from their guidance from time to time, but I believe that I hold and practice what they deemed to be important as what I now deem to be important.   Some of the realizations came a while ago like when at 16 and I announced that I would not be going to college because I thought it was irrelevant.  My mother’s response lasted just a few seconds, and I have since gone on to get a doctorate.  Some of the realizations like the importance of planning and managing my time came much later.

Seemingly through osmosis, what you learn as important shows up throughout adulthood.  It comes out of your mouth as the words of your parents as well as their temperament. It stares back at you when you look into the mirror.  And you can only hope to see it in the faces of your children who, when you have with them the conversations that your parents had with you, remind you of yourself.

Certainly, however and whenever you learn what you deem important changes with experience and time. I believe that the most important lessons and guidance from my parents were in their prayers for me; the hope that I would find and facilitate joy in my life and in this world.  Reading the lessons in their letters to me is like finding pages from the Instruction Manual for Life along my path.  Crumb navigation indeed.  

Crumb #94: May every lesson, each prayer, and all guidance create a path to joy and compassion—the truly important things in life.

Watching the PBS series The Vietnam War more than 50 years later was like placing a missing piece into a puzzle. The stories and images not only awakened what I had forgotten, but they also helped me to see and understand much more about the war in Vietnam. Although this critical documentary leaves it to the viewer to recognize that the same American and Vietnamese war crimes, lies, and tactics are being used in the continuing wars in Western Asia, it does indeed tell the story of “What we remember. What we forgot. And what we never knew” about US troops in America’s Vietnam War. This documentary provides comprehensive multiple perspectives of a period in history that was one of the major catalysts in this country’s imperialistic campaigns, the loss of independent media, domestic militarization, the drug trade, de facto discrimination, and the shift to the political right. More importantly for me, however, this documentary–particularly the voices of the American and Vietnamese soldiers and their families–brought significance to a legal-sized manila folder that I have been holding onto for a very long time.

I can’t remember exactly when, but I believe it was in the late 1980’s or early 90’s when I was hosting a writer’s workshop for a local group of writers who would come to my house to read and discuss our writing–mostly poetry.  On one particular occasion, a man in the group brought a friend, a Vietnam veteran, who also brought some of his work.  I can’t remember the exchange, but this man gave me his folder.  At the end of the meeting, I tried to give it back, but he wouldn’t take it.  He wanted me to read it and hold onto it for safekeeping.  At least that’s what I recall.  His work was written in long hand from top to bottom on both sides of pages that had been torn out of a ledger that had tabs with the letters of the alphabet on them. The first page consisted of poorly articulated disjointed ideas and didn’t prompt me to read on, so I didn’t. And although I never took the time to read the rest of the pages, I did keep the folder. 

Throughout the years, when I came across the folder, I would try to remember the man’s name or even the name of the man who brought him to my home.  I would flip through the pages and wonder why he left his words with me, and why he never tried to get them back. Several times I thought of discarding the folder, but I never did.  If it were my folder, I would want to keep it, and perhaps one day he might feel the same.

After a few episodes of The Vietnam War, I thought of the folder and knew exactly where to find it–carefully tucked in a bin with my old journals.  The folder and the papers it held had yellowed.  The tape that bound the fragile pages had dried, and it crumbled in my lap when I opened the cover that read: THE FRONT in all capital letters.  Bro Manning was written in elegant penmanship at the top.

I read some of the pages with different eyes. The first page was about smoking marijuana. Urbs the urbs, Dew the dew.  My brother be, you handed me something that resembles a small tree! Those urbs that VietNamese com soy (Grass). Many days and nights I sit and draw on the bowl. Bro Manning was part of the Army Airborne 173^rd, and Pattie Boozer was always on his mind: This Black Queen I do care boo cooh (much) about.  I saw the names of Vietnamese cities and words like revolution, kill the pig, Uncle Tom, black power, and can you dig it? It’s Too Fucking Late was written in large letters that took up a third of one page, and journal entries were dotted with prayers: Dear Lord make me strong. Whitey hurts you worst than Sir Charles.  When Charles drops his rockets in on us I gather with my Blacks because I know Charles don’t want any part of my black brothers. Our battlefield is a cruel mother.  If Sir Charles doesn’t get you, Whitey will. Beware Blacks.  There were expressions of anger, shows of brotherhood, accounts of racism, cries for help, as well as shards of hope.

And he was not the only one who had written in the journal.  Other soldiers wrote messages to him and called him Brother Black, Big Skip, or just announced themselves: This is Theopolis J. Hall. I am a brother. I am a black man. I am Theopolis the first. I am Theopolis the last. Some were long letters with warnings, advice, and opinions. Others were short messages like those written in a yearbook.  They signed their names Bro. or Brother and included their addresses: Bro. Roosevelt Taylor from Birmingham, Alabama; Kenneth M. Calhoun from Copiague, Long Island; Vaughn Fuller from Washington, DC; and LaVonce Reed from St. Louis, Mo. Among many others. I marveled at the treasure in my hands.

The Vietnam War is a testament to the excellent research and writing of Geoffrey C. Ward and the masterful visualization of Ken Burns and Lynn Novick.  More so, it is a testament of the fortitude of those American and Vietnamese photojournalists, families, civilians, and soldiers who–with a kaleidoscope of motivations–experienced, recorded, protested, resisted, fought, lived, and died as a result of the atrocities of the Vietnam War. For me, it is also a special testament to Bro Manning who entrusted me with his piece of the puzzle. I will protect his pages and read his story. Then I will attempt to return his words. I may or may not find him or any of his brothers, but I owe it to them all as well as to myself to try.

I have a different photo from this event. In that photo, I am sitting on Daddy's lap and James Baldwin is at the podium. It is 1963, and we are at a rally in NYC to protest the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, AL. For me, that photo represents the precious times I spent with my father. But this photo. This photo taken by a different photographer broadens the perspective to include Mommy, my sister Nora, Odetta, and so many others singing and holding hands and standing up -even on very young legs. This photo isn't about me being with my Daddy. This photo is about all of us standing up and doing what needed to be done about the terrorist attack that killed 14-year-old Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley and Carole Robertson and 11-year-old Denise McNair. And in the aftermath, the attacks that killed 16-year-old Johnny Robinson who was shot by a police officer and on 13-year-old Virgil Ware who was shot by a white teenager.

We were standing then as we must stand now.

It was a humbling exciting moment standing there in front of this photo. One moment of many humbling moments during our time at the museum this weekend. More later...

Failure is first some days.  Every once in a while I believe that.  I don’t remember that I am blessed.  I forget that I am the success of my parents.  I have given my children all of who I am and that is enough.

Doubt knocks me down.  Fear pins me to the ground where I give up and give in to the veneer of this existence and to the fallacy of what matters. As if I were expected, I am welcomed into a lone space in a cavern full of people who have also forgotten and whom I have disowned.  I am only thinking of myself.  Only thinking of what I lack and how I must deserve to be in this place because my descension was so quick and because I fit so easily.  Regrets shower down and I almost drown without fighting.  The gravity of quicksand tightens around my stilled arms and I begin to believe the darkness.

And then I remember that I am blessed.  I hear the mantra, and I don’t remember why I lost sight of it.  I am blessed.  I breathe and open my eyes. There is light. I have health and understanding. I have loved ones. I have choices. I have the wherewithal. I am.  I can.  I am. I am. I. Am.

When giants fall

the earth stills

Silence

waves toward the horizon

pushing trees

Flowers bow

and large bodies of water hum

It is just a matter of time for all things;

Even the greatest among us

is merely passing through

Greatness

fills the lungs of some

Keeps them afloat above our heads

As they lift our legs

and arms and spirits

As they help us to survive this lower life

here

closer to the ground

When giants fall among us

Their breezes carry us

Their prayers

set us down gently

in open spaces

full of grace

where we inherit their strength

Absorb their intentions

Put on their hands

When greatness breathes

the final breath

Flattens and falls mortal

around our feet

Our tears roll down

from uplifted faces

elevated hearts

and clearer minds

                         When giants fall

we release them

in whispers, cries, and laughter

as they remind us

that we – are – giants – too

We -

are -

giants -

too-

That

is the honor and farewell

That we learn and grow and challenge and conquer

because we walked beneath these giants

whose words and work and dance and song

and care and love

carried us apace

in giant footsteps

Hoping

that we were clinging to their

ankles, hips, and shirttails;

That we were filling their shoes

Climbing on their shoulders

Knowing

that because they walked

we could fly  

He Will Never See His Father

Bastianoni says that the story of this photograph goes beyond religious symbols to make a statement about loss.  A father is being deprived of being a father, and a child is being deprived of having a father. I would add that a wife is being deprived of her husband. But as art does, this image tells many stories and resonates differently with each viewer.

In addition to seeing the image as both the loss and promise of life, I see an immigrant family from Western Asia depicted with humanity in order to counter the view of Muslims as terrorists.  I see a family’s sacrifice and its display of patriotism for and assimilation into this country. The untold story -what I don’t see- creates a dissonance that resonates more powerfully in the forefront of my mind, however. The absent presence of my historical and political perspective overshadows the “photographic reality” that Bastianoni’s wants the viewer to question in order to bring additional perspectives to bear.

I am a black, African American, 60-year-old, female, native-born Muslim photographer whose ancestors were American prior to the formation of the United States. We Muslims aren’t seen as terrorists per se, we’re not seen at all.  And if we are, we are not seen as “real” Muslims.  Our sacrifice and patriotism is muted. Our assimilation is a burdensome assumption or an accusation of just being black, not American.

The red, white, and blue in this image is a mask disguising corrupt capitalism and greed as democracy, freedom, and peace  –the promise for which this soldier most likely thought he fought and died. My perspective is swift to consider that this man is dead because of this country’s invasion of Iraq, the support of the ongoing war in Syria, its presence in Afghanistan, and the drone attacks on innocent civilians.  My perspective does not easily see heroism or symbols of my safety and security.

Somewhere I read that I have the freedom to hold opinions and the right to expect just citizenship even though I reclaimed my way of life – Islam, discarded my slave name, and -for a time in my life- wore a Khimar.  Somewhere I read that I have the right to shed the propaganda of this country and the obligation to embrace instead the promise of liberty. Somewhere I read that I am compelled to resist the marginalized projection of me as a black African American Muslim woman –even in art. 

When I look at Bastianoni’s image, the spaces are filled with invisible African American Muslims like me.  Also hidden there are the accounts of this country’s acts of terrorism against its own citizens and people all over the world. Certainly one frame cannot tell a complete story, but from the righteous to the criminal, each story that this image does contain comes from a myriad of perspectives on life, death, family, religion, citizenship, politics, and war. I suspect that the most critical story will be that of the unborn child.

He Will Never See His Father, won the Wedding and Portrait Photographer’s International (WPPI) Grand Award for 2017. The image warrants praise for its artistic quality as well as for its ability to elicit emotion including that of agitation –the true role of art as activism.  

To see the image, go to:

http://www.davidbastianoni.com/2017/02/21/he-will-never-see-his-father/