Remembering Malcolm

I’ve been meditating a lot on leadership lately.

On what it means, on how you come to be one, on the leaders I respect and admire. 

It’s not for nothing. I’ve been in a leadership training class at work for almost 6 months now. So it’s a theme that I’m engrossed in regularly. I remember one of the first questions posed to the class of middle and senior managers: Are leaders born or made?

It seemed an obvious answer to me. Leaders are made. It was therefore quite surprising to see an unexpected number of my classmates respond that leaders are born that way. It revealed more than I cared to explore at that time. 

In a different leadership session, with a different group of people, we were asked to bring 2 pictures of leaders who inspired us. I brought a picture of this man. Provocative, yes. But true.

A photo of a young Malcolm X, smiling

Malcolm has been an inspirational example of leadership for me since I read his autobiography in high school. Primarily because he and his life is a testament that becoming a leader is a process, perhaps a neverending one, but definitely one that will require you to stretch beyond your current boundaries, master a new level of skills and discipline, use that to accomplish great things, and then repeat the cycle again.

In his early life, Malcolm was an orphan, a pimp, a numbers runner, a thief, a convict. When that life had taken him as far as it could, a new life possibility was presented to him. He accepted and became a scholar, an orator, a community organizer, a husband, a father, a hero to some, and a villainous nuisance to others. When he was effectively cast out of that life, Malcolm was forced yet again to create a new life for himself - the first one he would create of his own volition, not just as a reaction to his environment and circumstances. It’s this life that we know the least about, because it was cut short before he could bring his newly defined self into full existence. 

At each stage of his life, however, Malcolm was a leader. He distinguished himself among both lowlifes and high-born with a natural charisma and a willingness to ‘take the weight’. So, then... are leaders like Malcolm born? Or are they made?

We are all born with everything that we need to achieve greatness. But we must be made ready through the experiences life presents us and the ways we respond to them. This is the lesson that Malcolm Little, aka Detroit Red, aka Satan, aka, Malcolm X, aka, El Hajj Malik El Shabazz taught me.

It’s the reason why I brought a picture of him into a corporate classroom, and it’s one of the many reasons that I, and many others will take a few moments of time today to celebrate the anniversary of his birth.

Happy birthday, brother Malcolm.

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Remembering Little Richard

To be honest,everybody from Macon is irresistible.

Little Richard just packaged it best. Better than anybody before him did or after him will. I can’t say it was his music that got me to know and love him. The music was brilliant, no doubt. It was like celebratory fact. ‘Tutti Frutti’ (oh, Ruuudy!) was as indelible as Miss Mary Mac or the happy birthday song. It was a song everybody - not just black people, not just southern people, not just american people - everrryybody knew. How does a song get to that kind of status? Is it the song or the singer that makes it so?

When I heard Little Richard talk - I believe the first time must’ve been some short after-performance segment on an old variety show - that’s when I fell in love with him. Thats when I realized why he was a legend. And it wasnt just for high-energy dance tunes with high-note punctuation. When he spoke, I heard it. Macon. That way of talking we have that cuts you deep, but also kinda makes you want to laugh, and sort of reminds you of an elder you once loved fiercely. Little Richard reminded me of that and of some of the menfolk I grew up around. They were, um... funny. I think that’s the euphemism we were using back then. They were naughty, loud, pretty, stylish, arrogant, and more than a little self-conscious and insecure. In essence, they were like I was then - teenage girls. But they were better at it, way better at it than I was. And I loved them. I kinda think everybody did. Even the folks who said they didn’t love them ‘cause they were ‘that way’. 

Today, my grandma remembered for me the time she saw ‘Li’l Richard’ at the national COGIC convention. It was later in his life. It strikes me for the first time that they were peers. 

My mom asks, “Was he wearing makeup and all that?” 

Grandma: “Naw, he had come up outta that. He was wearing a suit like a regular man.”

Me (already knowing the answer): “Did he stay up outta it?”

“Naw.”

I spend more than a few moments reflecting on that. How a man that fantastic and talented and ‘that way’ made it in a time like that in a town like Macon. As he said himself, “The biggest thing in my hometown was the jailhouse.” 

Little Richard was proof that being from a small town didn’t make you small. Just hidden. Tucked off to the side a bit. So if you had something to say— a song to sing or a rug to cut- You might need to wave your hands around a bit more than the next person or be a bit louder, a bit more gregarious to be seen and heard. And if somebody still tried to drown you out with their own noise, you could always just tell em... 

“Shut up!” 

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Kisha Solomon is an Atlanta-based writer, knowledge worker and serial expat. She writes witty, poignant stories about the lessons she’s learned from her life, work and travels. She deals with the sometimes frustrating and often humorous side effects of being black, female and nerdy. When she’s not writing working or travelling, you can find her in deep conversation with herself or her four-legged familiar, Taurus the Cat. www.lifeworktravels.com

Celebrate Your Own Damned Season - A Different Way Of Celebrating For A Different Kind Of Growth

A younger coworker was doing her best to convince me to go to the company holiday party. I smiled at each of her reasons for why I should go, but was not moved in my decision. Another coworker closer to my age who had been observing our exchange joined in... “You’re just not there right now. You’re not in that space.” She said it with such knowing, such easy acceptance that I was not only grateful for but comforted by her understanding.

End of year is usually a time for celebrating. Celebrating what you achieved, what you survived, what you learned, how you grew. I’m usually the first to call out to my group of friends: “Who’s hosting?” Or, “Who wants to come over for...?” during the holiday season. 

But this year... 2019 has been a different kind of year for me. And I feel the need for a different kind of celebrating. This year was one of many losses for me and for several people close to me. The losses themselves were a shock, emotional bombshells each one. But each loss came with a gift inside. A jewel of learning and of becoming that the loss necessitated. There was gain and growth this year as well, but not the flashy growth and gain of here-and-gone spring annuals, but the unfurling of a few leaves and a slow, upward stretching and outward thickening of a central trunk - the decidedly unshowy growth of evergreens and perennials. 

Celebrating that kind of growth looks a little different. It looks like more intimate gatherings with smaller groups of friends - people who appreciate leaves as much as they do flowers. It looks like quiet time alone to reflect and sigh and smile and cry. It looks like notebooks filled with lessons learned from moments of confusion and hurt. It looks like opting out of the company party to go to a neighborhood gathering where the conversations will be more authentic, the hugs inappropriately long, the food cooked by hands I know. 

When I look back and recall the ways i chose to celebrate the end of this year, this decade... I believe i’ll be glad that I consciously chose to not just celebrate the season as dictated by calendar or custom, but as dictated by my own life’s season. 

Today, another coworker sent a text, “You missed out on a great party...”

I replied: “I didn’t miss out. I chose.”

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The All-Too-Obvious Truth About Black People & Office Potlucks

PSA: Tis the season. The season... for office potlucks. 

Or as I like to call them, the one time black people will gladly turn down free food. 

Cuuuuz... in case you didn’t know...

Black people don’t eat out of everybody house.

Now, I know i may be telling ‘family tea’ right now, but I think it’s needed in this day and age where workforces are more diverse and radical candor is becoming a way of life. 

The next time your office has a big potluck... pay attention to your African-American colleagues. Oh? You don’t even see half of them? Maybe, you think, they’re in a meeting right now, and they’ll stop by later. Nah, bro. They ain’t comin’. The moment the pot luck invite hit their inbox weeks ago, they made plans for lunch off-campus. Or! If they do show up, be very clear that they have already conducted a private survey of their fellow black coworkers to find out which of them brought a dish and have identified exactly WHICH dish in advance. At chow time, they will only eat those dishes and perhaps store-bought ones. The most diplomatic among us will surreptitiously invoke a ne’er-before-revealed food allergy or digestive disorder to explain why we skipped over certain dishes. Others prefer the approach of putting a small scoop of most everything on their plate - scoops that will remain untouched until they touch the trash bin. 

Some might say this is racist. It can certainly be construed as such. But, this behavior is not only reserved for non-black colleagues. If u are a POC that owns a pet, you may also be on the receiving end of this behavior. Especially, if at any point in time you have revealed that you let your pet: sleep in your bed, walk on your counters, lick your face or eat out of ‘people plates’. You, may be a victim of Potluck Passover. Try not to take this personally. It really isn’t a personal attack, as these same folks will still hang out with you, look out for you and enjoy your other creative outputs. They just ain’t eatin’ out yo’ house. 

Just thought I’d share this PSA as I make my way back to the office after off-campus lunch. 

I hear there’s still plenty of chili left in the breakroom. 😏

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