5 elements: hip hop, vogue & storytelling

My take on the similarities between both vogue and hip hop, specifically the fact that there are five elements of each.

When compared with the five elements of storytelling, we can see all 3 as art forms that can only be mastered through practicing the underlying skills.

the value of predominantly black spaces (podcast)

Why are predominantly black spaces needed?

I finally watched ‘Colin in Black and White’ on Netflix, and young Colin’s early experiences definitely affirmed the need for safe black spaces - especially for those who have grown up in or been continuously exposed to predominantly white spaces.

A place where code-switching isn’t required, where impostor syndrome rarely rears its head, a place where one can belong instead of just fitting in.

Or, at the very least, where one can express one’s own self-concept without external influence or outside interference from those who do not have a similar experience in the world.

CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN TO THE PODCAST (6 MINS)

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How Organizational Diversity Initiatives Lose the Plot

Contrary to popular opinion…

Diversity is not an initiative. It is not an imperative. It is not a strategic priority.

Diversity… is a fact.

You see, nature tends toward abundance and redundancy. When nature is left to its devices, not only is there enough, there’s also a variety.

Not just one type of cloud

Or grass

Or cat

Or human.

But many. And for no more apparent or justifiable reason than survivability. Of the whole.

Nature: Better make sure we have a lot of different types of these, so if something happens to one of them, at least we’ll still have the others:

Humankind: Oh, so you mean, ‘survival of the fittest?’ 

Nature: Um, no. That’s not at all what I mean. 

Where there is either lack or ‘excessive sameness’, there is usually an unnatural and / or external cause.

An Impact on Diversity

Decreased genetic diversity in plant crops puts the entire ecosystem at risk.

A dam constructed.

A toxic chemical introduced.

A meteor fallen from the sky.

Something happened to cut off the naturally abundant and redundant supply. And it remained. Continued. Settled in. Permanently changing the landscape.

Later, someone with short sight or memory will come along and wonder, ‘Why are there none of that particular flower here? Is this not its natural habitat?’ 

A committee will be convened, monies will be raised, campaigns will be launched. The naturally abundant flower will be trucked in from its natural, undisturbed habitat and planted in this place with its nearby dam or insidious chemicals. 

Over time, most of the flowers will wilt, die off. A constant committee will be needed to transplant a new batch every growing season.

Annuals.

Not perennials.

And the numbers are reported out at the height of the growing season. “We have hundreds of them here, thriving!” 

But no one ever stops to ask the flowers.

****

If the idea of solving the wrong problem could be summed up in a word, that word would be, ‘diversity’.

I’ve been involved in diversity initiatives at work in one way or another since I started working over 2 decades ago. 

I myself was what you’d call a ‘diversity hire’. Young, inexperienced, plucked directly from the natural habitat of an Atlanta HBCU thanks to a Big 4 diversity recruiting initiative. I was a lucky flower. I got transplanted into a patch with some experienced and invested black women who ‘understood the assignment’ and took me under their individual and collective wings, giving me the ability to take root in unfamiliar terrain with the aid of familiar associations.

This is an uncommon story. 

The more common one?

A ‘different flower’ is brought in as a transplant. She may thrive initially, but soon the toxic cultural norms of ‘one-size-fits-all’, ‘when you’re here, you’re family’, ‘it’s a lifestyle, not a job’ creep in. She realizes that there is no such situation as thriving here, there is: ‘conform and constrict’, ‘grin and bear it,’ or ‘wither and shrink’. Her other flower-friends, once she finds them, are usually the ones to inform her of her choices. After all, these are the choices they have made.

And so the flower makes a choice: survive, wilt… or grow feet.

In short, the story being told about organizational and corporate diversity is a narrative missing perspective. A thin plot hurtling toward a flimsy ending. 

Diversity initiatives don’t just need a rewrite, they need a whole new editorial team.

20 insights about work and relationships

Obvious observations about how we work and how we engage in relationships with friends, family and significant others.

1. Life is about relationships.

2. Work is one of them.

3. Relationships are where we learn about ourselves and how we interact with the environment and people around us.

4. Relationships are a form of energy exchange.

5. Most people (but specifically, black women) approach work and relationships from the role of supplicant.

6. The majority of our life from childhood to adulthood is focused on either: getting a job or a pursuing a romantic relationship.

7. Your identity is deeply connected to what you do for work or your relationship status.

8. Money is the least important factor to consider when looking for a job. Love is the least important factor to consider when looking for a life partner.

9. We tolerate things in our work or romantic relationships that we would never tolerate in our friendships.

10. Friendships are more likely to be self-defined vs. defined by culture, society or tradition.

11. Friendships are often our most authentic relationships.

12. We are also in relationship with ourselves.

13. The quality of our self-relationship determines the quality of our other relationships.

14. The quality of our self-relationship is determined by the quality of our relationships with our parents.

15. Our relationships with our parents serve as templates for our romantic relationships.

16. Our parents didn’t share much with us about their work experiences or romantic relationships.

17. Quitting a job or quitting a relationship can be more powerful than staying.

18. Healthy relationships are characterized by individual sovereignty and mutual interdependence.

19. Stories, symbols and images help us record and encode information about our environment and our relationships.

20. The stories we tell ourselves about ourselves define our reality.

I’ll be delving into each of these insights about work and relationships over the coming weeks. Get ready for some thought-provoking topics and some life-changing mindset shifts. 

1,001 black women’s stories

At the start of this year, one of the items I plotted and prioritized on my Life Value Map was my goal to record the stories of 1,001 black women.

The desire came as a result of having taken the time to record a series of life story interviews with my grandmother in the summer of 2020.

The experience was not only profoundly revelatory for me, it also strengthened the bond between me and my grandma. This was our special thing. Something only we shared and I felt as honored to listen as she felt to be seen and heard.

Later in the year, I was introduced to the book ‘But Some of Us Are Brave’ a collection of womanist - aka, black feminist - essays from a variety of black woman scholars and writers. One such essay, entitled, ‘Debunking Sapphire: Toward a Non-Racist and Non-Sexist Social Science’ by Patricia Bell-Scott, highlighted the lack of ‘everyday black women’s stories’ in the overall study of black women and black women’s histories.

“Proponents… have concentrated almost exclusively on the lives of nationally known Black women. Implicit in this “life and times” approach is a class bias. The prevailing or resulting impression is that Black working-class or low-income women are inconsequential to the American experience. All this is not to say that the lives of prominent Black women are not important; however, their lives represent only a few of the least generalizable circumstances that Black women have experienced. Most Black women have not been able to rise to prominence.”

The essay was written in 1977, the same year I was born. And 43 years after its writing, I can see that there’s still a lack of celebration of the ‘everywoman’s’ story in black media and literature, even in black families. 

Much of the details of my womenfolk’s stories were never shared with me, but within them are the seeds of my own story. Any path that I chart to success or other destinations will be a continuation of their stories, but what I’ve often been encouraged to do is to look outside of my family and latch on to the stories of prominent or notorious black women as either templates for me to follow or emulate, or cautionary tales on what I should avoid.

It wasn’t until I was able to hear my grandma’s stories about her upbringing and values, her struggles and sorrows, her triumphs and adventures, that I could truly give a name to some of the shadow or not-fully-visible parts of myself and my own story. My process of self-actualization (i.e., becoming my authentic self) and self-definition would be unnecessarily difficult or even impossible if I did not ‘go back and fetch it’.

And this experience of loving compassion for another’s story leading to loving compassion for one’s own story is the experience I want to share with as many other black women as possible. 

The reason for the goal specifically being 1,001 is two-fold:

1. It seemed a number that was big enough to scare me a little, while still being achievable, and

2. It was inspired by the legendary heroine of 1,001 Arabian Nights, Scheherazade. A woman who literally saved her own life through her storytelling.

So! To accomplish this slightly-scary-but-still-achievable goal, I need your help. 

I’m asking for you to help me achieve this goal by recording the life story of an elder black woman family member (preferably, for the reasons stated above) or any black woman that you know and would be willing to interview, listen to and honor via this act of love.

I understand that the telling of one’s personal story is an intimate or even private event, so I won’t ask for you to share the recorded stories with me - though you are certainly welcome to! - instead, I will measure success or progress towards this goal by the number of ‘story pledges’ I receive. 

Not a perfect metric, but it’s one that respects the process more than the goal.

For all those who take this pledge, I will provide support in the form of:

• Step-by-step instructions and guides on how to prepare for the recording, what questions to ask, and how to interview your subject(s),

• Guidance on how to use the StoryCorps app or site as a completely free tool for recording your interview AND a way to have your story archived at The Library of Congress!

• My personal participation as an interviewer or facilitator, if you would like your own story heard and recorded, or if you feel like you could use an unrelated person to help bring out the story of a close relative (full disclosure: there will be a small fee to cover my opportunity cost)

So - will you help me reach my goal?

I wish we would stop pretending that we love Breonna Taylor

I wish we would stop pretending that we love Breonna Taylor.

You do not love Breonna. You would not have loved her when she was alive.

You would not have loved her because she was too fat. Because she had a facial piercing. Because her skin wasn’t light enough. Because she had a perm. Because of that one time she showed up late for work. Because of that one time she smelled like weed. Because she talked too loud. Because she clapped her hands and threw her head back and cackled when she laughed. Because she wasn’t married. Because she was laid up with some dude. Because she dated the wrong kind of dude. Because she didn’t have kids. Because she worked a regular job. Because she lived in a black neighborhood. Because she had a black-sounding name. Because she ate pork. Because she didn’t go to church every Sunday. Because she watched BET. Because she went too long between pedicures. Because she didn’t get a university degree. Because she ‘talked black’. Because she never traveled abroad. Because she listened to ratchet music. Because she had a tattoo. Because...

You do not love Black women.

Because you only love or like Black women when they are good.

When their edges lay down just right. When they talk cute, or look cute or act cute. When they don’t have opinions or make too much sound. When their bodies are shaped in the way you find most pleasing. When they dance for you. Or make you laugh. Or act sassy without seriousness. Or serve as your meme, or your hashtag or your poster child. 

And if you only like something or someone when they are ‘good’, you do not actually like that someone or something. 

So stop pretending that you love Breonna. Or that you cry for Breonna. Or that you like Breonna.

Or that you like me. 

Hell, you only like me when I do something cute or entertaining. You don’t like me when I just wake up everyday and go about my business of minding my business. No. You don’t. Because if you did, you wouldn’t tell me, ‘smile’, ‘make friends’, ‘stop being so extra’, ‘you gotta...’, ‘you know what you need to...’ ‘why you always gotta..?’ ‘Ain’t nobody gonna want...’ 

You would simply see me going about my business of minding my business, and you would smile and nod, or smile and wave, or smile and say, 

‘Hey, girl. It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re here.’

And i would say:

‘Hey, there. It’s good to be seen. I’m glad that I’m here.’

But it’s not good. And I ain’t glad.

So. Let’s just stop pretending. 

---

Kisha Solomon is an Atlanta-based writer, knowledge worker and serial expat. She is also the founder of The Good Woman School. 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.kishasolomon.com

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!” 

---

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

khaly comes to visit and prepares whole fish

I knew a Senegalese boy once. And like all raised-right West African boys, he knew how to cook.

The first time he came to visit, I made sure I had done the grocery shopping. When he arrived and opened the fridge stocked with a couple of whole fish and ice cold beer, he turned to me, smiled broadly and gave me a hug. 

“Cheriiii...”

I had done good.

Like me, he loved fish. Our first meal together, on the day we met in Barcelona, he had taken me to a Senegalese restaurant. Unsure of what to order, I had figured the whole fish was a sure bet. When it came, perfectly fried and covered in a rich sauce over a bed of savory seasoned rice and slow-cooked veggies... I went to town. 

He had been visibly impressed with my skill at navigating the tiny bones without wasting any of the tender, sweet flesh. And when, towards the end of the meal, I snapped the tailfin off and not only gobbled up the ‘booty meat’ but also nibbled on the thin, crispy-fried tailbones, he was tickled to death. 

As an orphaned daughter of the continent, our shared fish fetish made me wonder if the country and people my ancestors had been stolen from were also his country, his people. 

“I’m going to cook for you,” he informed me after the hug was finished. Yeah. I had done real good. Together, we moved around the kitchen in preparation for the meal - him asking me, “Do you have...?” and me, responding affirmatively then fetching the requested item, or in the negative and then offering some possible alternatives. The scavenger hunt finished, I watched as he chopped some whole ingredients: garlic, ginger, onion, tossed them in the little porcelain mortar I owned, then added some random assortment of liquids and powders: Maggi, mustard, chile sauce... and began pounding them with the pestle until it was a chunky emulsion. This mixture would eventually get stuffed into each of the diagonal slits he made on either side of each fish. 

The art of grilling a whole fish over open flame is not one that i can say that ive consistently mastered, but one that i continually practice. This method of stuffing a powerful blend of aromatics and spices into is one that always brings a bit of nostalgia. A technique passed from one of the many teachers ive met on my travels. 

ms. mcknight

In elementary school, my PE teacher was a drill sergeant.

Her name was Ms. McKnight. She had a sort of hi-top fade – mostly black, speckled with here-and-there grey. She sported a couple of matching chin whiskers.

To be fair, I don’t know for sure if Ms. McKnight was actually ever in the military. I do know that at the start of every PE class, before the actual PE portion began, Ms. McKnight would have us perform military drills. Well, not drills, really… formations.

After ‘dressing out’, we’d all line up in neat little rows, alphabetically by last name. We each automatically assumed the ‘at-ease’ position – feet firmly planted hip-width apart, hands lightly crossed behind our backs, backs and shoulders straight, eyes straight ahead focused on some imaginary point in the distance. We looked like some kind of Smurf version of S1Ws. We were a class of less than 30, none of us more than 10 years old, most of us, black. Our contrasting light blue top and dark blue bottom uniforms drove home the militant midget image.

How long had we been lining up like this?

By this point, the routine wasn’t so much memorized as it was ingrained. Was this not just the way one stood when standing around doing nothing? Would I not stand this way in similar situations forever into the future? In the grocery store checkout line? At the DMV? When waiting to ride the Scream Machine at Six Flags? When I looked to my left and right, whether it be now or 20, 30 years from now, would I not always find Ashley Davis and Greg Dinkins flanking me in line?

Once lined up, we’d stand there and await our instructions from Ms. McKnight. She’d take her time, finish with whatever she was looking at (‘How To Weaponize Adolescents (Revised Edition)’? ‘Retired Drill Sergeant’s Monthly’?) on her clipboard, then slowly walk to her starting position in front of us.

“Ah-TENNN-HUUUTT!!”

We’d spring into action, in one synchronized motion, we switched to the ‘attention’ position. Feet and ankles close together, bodies rigid, eyes alert, arms stiffly extended by our sides.

“PREE-zennnt ARMS!!”

Our collective right arm engaged and landed in a taut salute.

Ms. McKnight would begin to walk slowly among our ranks, inspecting each of us for flaws, misalignments, sloppy or incorrect dress.

“AT EEEEZ!” she’d shout out as she continued walking, peering.

We’d shift back into our resting position.

“Ah-TENNN-HUUUTT!!”

Back to full salute.

 “Ah-BOUUUT-FACE!”

We pivoted swiftly and curtly to the rear, one Smurf army united in motion.

“At EEEEZ!”

This would continue for several minutes. Ms. McKnight shouting orders at us; us responding with the appropriate movements.

Occasionally she’d stop in front of one of us and bark a question that we were all to have memorized and be ready to answer at a moment’s notice. There was no way of knowing if you’d be the one she’d ask to spout off the answer like a Marine reciting the Rifleman’s Creed. It was as random as being singled out in a game of duck-duck-goose.

She’d slowly stalk us, row by row, scanning her eyes over us, while we dared not break formation by looking at her, moving or even breathing too much. All of a sudden, she’d stop and address one of us by last name.

“Demps! What is physical education!?”

To this day, I remember the answer to this question. It is tattooed on my brain. It is a part of my nervous system. If I were ever in a coma, and someone asked me this question, I’d probably wake up and respond,

“Physical education is that part of our education that strengthens us physically, mentally and spiritually!”

If we stammered, forgot or responded too slowly, we’d get a demerit. Ms. McKnight would note it on her clipboard then continue her inspection, looking closely for any other infractions.

Ms. McKnight was always stern, but never harsh or cruel. In fact, I’d dare say that we all liked her. We also feared her, but it was the same kind of fear we had for our parents, and we liked them well enough. We didn’t even mind the drills much. It was simply one more of the peculiarly unique things that was a part of being a student at the little red brick schoolhouse on Ward Street.

Was it odd to have a bunch of kids pretending to be tiny soldiers? Certainly. Was Ms. McKnight and her approach to physical education likely a holdover from her own childhood PE classes in the 1950s? Probably so. But if it were only the drills, the whole thing would have probably become a source of childhood trauma. Whenever I happen to reunite with my former Smurfs, we tend trade these old memories like survivor stories. But, unlike typical survivors, it’s not scars we have, rather a wistful sort of awe that what once seemed so perfectly normal is now bizarre for its quaintness and simplicity, and, for that reason, all the more precious to us.

Yes, if it were only the drills, Ms. McKnight’s methods might have been considered truly weird. Even questionable. But it wasn’t only the drills. It was the question. The question made the whole routine mean something more. I didn’t know it at the time, but there was a reason Ms. McKnight asked that question.

She could have asked any number of questions.

“Demps! What’s the school’s alma mater?”

“Ferguson! How many bones in the human body?”

“Bentley! If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself?”

But she didn’t. She asked the one question that would remind both us and her of our reason for being there in that class – outside on the playground-slash-parking lot behind the little red schoolhouse in good weather, downstairs in the social hall under the church when it rained. Why we were performing those drills. Why she was inspecting and correcting every detail of our movements and dress.

She was there to instill pride, discipline, a basic and physical understanding of teamwork and cooperation. She was there to remind us that at this small Catholic parochial school in an all-black neighborhood, there were many kinds of education to be had. There was religious education to strengthen our spirits – the nuns and other clergy saw to that. There was classical education to strengthen our minds – our dedicated staff of lay teachers handled that; but only physical education addressed our entire selves. Spirit, mind and body. And only, she, the Commander-in-Chief of Physical Education, had the privilege and the duty of delivering this most complete form of education to us.

In hindsight I think we Smurfs were damned lucky to have a Ms. McKnight.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t I feel a certain kind of way the first time I saw Full Metal Jacket.

Photo by David Pennington on Unsplash

---

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

all you need to worry about bringing

“I can’t go to dinner tonight,” I told Yasmin with an exasperated look on my face. “I’ve got too much to do before I leave tomorrow.

“What? Aren’t you already packed?” She questioned.

“Well, yeah. But I’ve still got to look up all the directions to the places I’m going to be staying and make sure I know how to get from each place to the next.”

Yasmin started laughing uproariously. “Oh, come on!” She said between laughs. “You know how to read. When you get to wherever you’re going, you can read the signs and maps in the train stations. No pasa nada, Kisha. Stop worrying. This isn’t like the United States. It’s much easier to get around here.”

I wasn’t quite convinced, but the thought of spending a couple of hours googling transit and walking directions was far less exciting than going on a last-minute trip to have dinner at the mall with my roommate.

“Besides, the only thing you need to worry about bringing with you is tampons if you have your period, and condoms, if you don’t.”

Now it was my turn to laugh uproariously. “Ah, screw it,” I said, still shaking my head at Yasmin’s last remark. “Let’s go to dinner.”

***

I’d only been living with Yasmin for the past month or so. I’d found her ad for the room only 3 days after I’d arrived in Spain. I was nervous as hell when I called the number on the ad. My high-school Spanish was shoddy at best, but I’d looked up and practiced several of the terms I’d need to inquire about and eventually rent a room. Yet when Yasmin had answered the phone, one of the first questions out of my mouth was, ‘Hablas ingles?’ Thankfully, her answer was an enthusiastic ‘Yes!’

Aside from that stroke of good fortune, her place – a 3 level traditional Spanish style townhome in a gated middle class neighborhood of Marbella – was much nicer than any of the other apartments I had seen during my hunt. Plus, Yasmin and I were closer in age (she was 30, I, 36) than any of the other potential roommates I had met. She had grown up in the area, and the house we lived in actually belonged to her parents. After having lived in other parts of Spain and in Germany for many years, she had returned to Marbella a few months ago to start working alongside her sister in the family law practice. Perhaps the most fortunate coincidence of all was the fact that even though Yasmin was technically Spanish by birth, her father was Iranian and her mom was German. In many ways, this made her as much of a foreigner as I was, and we would often trade stories about how irritating the close-minded habits and customs of many of the Spaniards were for both of us.

Like most Europeans, Yasmin was a serious traveler, even a bit of a nomad, you might say. In addition to her time living abroad, she had visited most of Western and Eastern Europe, parts of Northern Africa and the Americas, and had friends from all over the globe, of various ethnic backgrounds, and of varying sexual orientations. I could tell she was as thrilled to have me – a somewhat quirky black American woman as a roommate as I was to find probably the one Spanish woman in town who spoke fluent Spanish, English, and German and whose short, curly hair nearly mirrored my own curly natural ‘do. Occasionally, however I felt her German side was a little too cool and reserved compared to my often carefree, nonchalant nature. Still, we got along well, and when I decided to take advantage of my first long break from school by doing my own one-woman multi-city tour, she was the first person I sought for advice.

“Ok. So I think I’ve got my plan mapped out for the puente at the end of the month,” I shared with Yasmin one evening as she was prepping a quick dinner.

“Good! Where did you finally decide to go? Amsterdam? Brussels? Paris?” She queried.

“Pues, the cheapest flights I found were for Barcelona, Amsterdam, and London. So I’m going to do 2 days in each, and I may spend a final night in Malaga to catch some Carnival activities on the way back in.”

“Ooooh!” She crooned, “That’s great, Kisha! Have you already bought the flights?”

“I’m gonna finish booking everything this evening. But what do you think, are those cities cool to visit? I mean, I’ve been to Amsterdam and London before, but never Barcelona. Any ideas or suggestions?”

“Oh, you’re going to love Barcelona, I think. It’s a really cool town, lots to see and do. There’s all the Gaudi architecture, great parks, museums, and it’s a good town to make party!”

I laughed at Yasmin’s expression. Yeah, I definitely felt like making some party. It was the off-season in touristy Marbella, and our recent attempts at clubbing around town had fallen short of my expectations, to say the least.

“So where are you staying? Have you figured it all out yet?” Yasmin asked, as she munched a bite of the salad she’d just finished whipping up.

“Welll… no. Not really. That’s the hard part actually. I’m really trying to make this a budget-friendly excursion, but I don’t know how I feel about staying in a hostel. The whole shared dorm room, shared bathroom thing… eh, just isn’t my speed. I’m an old lady, not a college student, you know.”

“Hmm…” Yasmin munched thoughtfully before continuing. “Have you thought about couchsurfing?”

I crinkled my brow at the mention of the idea. I’d heard about couchsurfing from a friend of mine back home who was a frequent host for couchsurfers. Apparently, he would open up his home and his spare couch to travelers who not only needed a place to crash, but also wanted to get to know a local who could show them around a bit. The best part of it was that there was absolutely no payment involved. Unlike a vacation rental where you paid the owner of the place a rate that was typically less than a hotel, with couchsurfing, you paid nothing at all. It sounded like a really cool idea, but I had a lot of reservations about the concept – was it safe? Why would anybody let you stay at their house for free? What was the catch? Still, the idea of free accommodations and an in-the-know local was appealing, especially on my limited budget.

Frowning, I expressed my concern to Yasmin, “Ehhh…. I don’t know. It crossed my mind, but I’ve never couchsurfed before. I keep thinking that I’d probably end up chopped up and stuffed in the back of someone’s fridge.”

Yasmin dropped her fork onto her plate and doubled over laughing. My English expressions tickled her as much as hers did me.

Once her laughing fit had subsided, she replied, “Nooo, Kisha. It’s not like that. Well, I mean, you have to use good judgement and really check people out before you think to stay with them, but I couchsurfed all over Europe and it’s no problem at all. It’s really a good way to make a friend and not spend much money. You have the right personality for it, I think. “

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. It’s more for people who are open and who like to get to know the other person’s culture and all of that. I think you would enjoy it! I made some really good friends from couchsurfing. We still keep in touch.”

Hm. If Yasmin was recommending it, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Besides, if I was really aiming to take advantage of travelling European style, maybe this was a great way to have the full experience.

“Mira!” She continued. “I have some friends in Barcelona who host couchsurfers. If you want, I can send them a message and see if they have a couch available when you will be there. That way, at least you know that someone else you know knows them. Later, when they make barbecue Kisha from the freezer, at least you will be shared by friends!” Yasmin barely finished the last words, before cracking up laughing.

I tried to resist laughing myself, but quickly caved and giggled along with her at her gruesome joke.

---

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

ma annie

I wish my great grandmother hadn’t died when I was still so young. But I feel blessed to have touched her, to have known her smell, walked the floors of her little house out in the country where she made lye soap, tended a wood-burning cookstove and did all manner of hard handwork in the back yard.

I was only 5 when she left, so I don’t remember details like what her voice sounded like, or what color her eyes were, or how long her hair. I remember feelings. I remember how it felt to be near her – warm, moist, yet coarse and firm. I knew even then what it meant to be a woman of contrasts.

I remember the little girl who lived out there too. Her name? Long gone. But I remember her reddish-brown skin like the inside of pecan shells, her pigtails which hung low at the nape of her neck, while mine perched high on the sides of my head like rabbit ears. I remember the kinship we had – the mischief in both of our eyes. we would run around playing made-up little girl games in the tall grass out back, make our own social club clubhouse out of the abandoned school bus forever-parked next door. who did that little girl belong to? I can’t recall. it doesn’t matter. Our minds were not yet preoccupied with thoughts of belonging or ownership. we took such things for granted.

I remember the joy of how it felt to be wild yet loved. Of knowing that no matter how far we went, we would always be seen by eyes that knew us, that cared. and we would always have a place to return to. a place that smelled like lye soap and wet grass and wood and ma annie.

a conversation before takeoff

Flying a Kuwaiti airline from Spain to Greece. I find it somewhat comforting that the airline plays an Arabic prayer over the PA system before takeoff. I always say a small prayer before any major travel... for protection, for smooth arrival, for the flight crew, for new insights... and Arabic prayers are like musical meditations to me. My seatmate, a young Gaditano, reveals to me later that he (and i think everyone else on board) was freaked out when it started playing. 

”Is this some kinda joke? Are we about to end up in Egypt or the Middle East?” he says. 

We laugh about it. I assure him that the prayer is common for airlines based in Muslim countries. “Ahhhh!” he says. Its his first time traveling out of the country. I smile broadly and congratulate him.

“It’s good to travel. You have to travel a lot, especially while you’re young. Its like an education.”

He looks genuinely confused by that statement. '“Como?” he inquires.

“Well...” I say, (while thinking to myself, ‘Bruh. Didn’t you just learn something? And we ain’t even off the ground yet!’) “How do i know what I’ve been told about the world is true unless i go out and see for myself? Go to new places and learn about the people there, their language, their food, their music. Their... prayers?”

A light is slowly dawning in him. He tells me that he’s studying psychology. That he also plays flamenco guitar. He shows me a video of him playing. He’s good. And he has a smoldering intensity for someone so young. “But flamenco isn’t valued much in Spain,” he tells me. 
”Ah, cuz there’s lots of people who can play?”
Yep. 
”Well, that’s even more reason to travel. People love flamenco outside of Spain, but they usually can’t hear or see it live where they are. In my country, se flippan!”

He stops and repeats what I said, then cracks up laughing at my use of the colloquialism. We continue talking, I tell him he should try to find other musicians on social media who play similar music or who would like to learn more about flamenco. Invite them to come crash at your place if you have extra room, offer to teach the something about flamenco and ask if they’d be willing to do the same for you when you visit their countries. Ask if they would mind introducing you to their network of other musicians and music learners. Post videos of you playing on your Instagram, Facebook, etc. Use what you know to take you where you want to go. 

He ponders this for a few moments.

“That idea would never have occurred to me,” he muses aloud. “It’s like you said, you learn things when you travel and talk to other people who have experienced a lot.”

I nod. This sobrino is starting to get it. I pray that he does. 

colored

I’m at a bar with my Cape Town host, Lionel. In the course of our conversation, I hear him use the word, 'colored' multiple times. Finally, I ask, 'You keep saying that word, what exactly do you mean when you say it?' Lionel: 'It means mixed race.'

Me: 'Ohhhh... ok. We use that word at home, but it's just another way to refer to black people. It's antiquated, so it's mostly an in-group term.'

I continue, 'You know, I did notice when I arrived here that there was a whole set of people in CapeTown that I didn't really see in Jo’burg.'

Lionel (laughing): 'Yeah, in Jo’burg, you'd be hard pressed to find 3 colored people in any place. Hell, you'd be hard pressed to find 3 white people!'

He 's exaggerating... but only slightly. Later, we are at a bottle shop, where i'm purchasing 'supplies' (cuz, #RetailDrinkingIsForSuckas). A clearly inebriated, but totally harmless brotha strikes up a slurry convo with us. After a few exchanges with Lionel, in which he reveals he's from Congo, then declares, 'All Africa, one love!!' he turns to me. 'So, my sister, you're from here? You speak Zulu?' Lionel jumps in, protectively. 'She's colored. She speaks Afrikaans.'

Wait. What?