From Lil’ Kim to Lil’ “Marie”: Skin Bleaching

I apologize for not posting more often. I have the life that I wanted. That life comes with planes rides, train rides and getting to know what hotels eventually treat you like you are at home. In the midst of collecting frequent flyer miles, this blog has been collecting dust. I got home last night and wanted to relax and eventually landed on Facebook. This time, it inspired a post. Thanks for Hycide and Ms. Shantrelle Lewis (for being in my newsfeed at the right time) for the inspiration.

I grew up in Queens, New York and when Lil’ Kim came out I did not know what to make of her. I do remember that I listened to almost all her songs on Hot 97 and I even remember having a few CDs of her. Then, something happened. I grew up and when I needed music to clean, get me AMPED or to run my  last few miles, Lil’ Kim might come on.

I was on facebook last night and the folks at Hycide Presented photos of Lil’Kim from 1996 until present. Was I shocked? Yes and No. I do remember what she looked like last year but the visual reminder in these photos made me realize that the skin bleaching and color war are as persistent as ever. This is a photo of Lil’ Kim in 1996. Do you even remember that she used to look like that?

Remember Her? Lil’ Kim in 1996

After viewing the amazing photos from Hycide, I began to reflect about Marie. Marie, is a girl that I met in a make shift camp in Haiti in 2010.  She became one of my “helpers” and did quite a lot of work and the people in the area really worked with this dynamic young girl.  In the morning, I would usually buy coffee for less than ten cents ($0.10US)  from a woman close to the camp.  During my morning walk over to the camp, Marie would tell me about her life and ask questions about the United States, my hair (at the time I had dreadlocks), and when did I plan on getting married?

During one of our walks, Marie told me that when she gets older, she would be able to bleach her cream and get lighter and how her life would be as a result.  Especially, since she had “good hair” , she would be closer to being “grimel”  (light skinned or mixed in Haitian Kreyol). I remember asking her what she thought of me. I am a dark skinned woman, who had dreadlocks at the time and was by no means mistaken for anything other than from the African Diaspora.  She told me that I was the kindest “Djaspora”(Haitian born in American) that she had met.  I asked would I be better off if I bleached my skin? I honestly can not remember what she told me. But, as I viewed this photo transformation of Lil’ Kim and remembered my conversation with Marie, I wanted to show her these photos and ask her if I would be better off if I bleached my skin and transformed myself into something other than what I am?

Would I be better off if I did this to my face?

I know that Marie is still in Haiti and I really do want to go back to the town where she lives. I would want to ask her and see if she has started to bleach her skin? I would want to see where she lives, how many meals she eats in a day and despite her situation, how could she afford  skin bleaching? I would want to know despite having a community of dark women around her, what makes “grimel”  the goal? Or, where and when do you stop once you start the bleaching? What color or shade is the goal?

Dear Lil’ Kim when will you stop? Or, is this enough?

How I Got To Haiti Three Years Ago

Authors Note: Thirty six months ago, I was one of the many emergency responders that went to Haiti to assist my fellow brethren in one of the worst disaster that the nation had seen.  I initially wrote this piece because I realized that I need to process how I was feeling about death, violence and the sadness that was present during my first few months in post-earthquake Haiti.  Thirty six months later, I realized how much I held on to and how much I still need to release.  I wanted to share this piece with you today, not to blame anyone but to share my experience in Haiti during the first month after the earthquake.

Sometimes, travel is just not that exotic. Sometimes, we have to take the longest route to a country not because it is off the beaten path, rather, it is the only entrance into a country. There was no exhilaration of a new passport stamp or anxiety of how many pages I had left in my passport.  For this trip, a stamp was not required, not as a humanitarian worker and not in a country that no longer had a functioning airport.  I hit the ground ready to work amid the smell of death, the faces of desperation, and all that was lost in Haiti. I never realized that my fathers drug of choice, Haiti, was also mine. My father could not be away from Haiti, and neither could I.  My father, loves to travel, but going to Haiti trumps the exotic and new, and he was right, even now. I felt as though it was my duty to go back to Haiti, not because my father was in Haiti and could not be found or contacted, not because my friends had died, and not because the Haiti I knew and had fallen in love was lost. I went to Haiti, because I needed to take action, I wanted to go and be in the field.

As one of the thousand emergency hygiene kits, which consisted of non food items (NFI) such as toothbrushes, underwear and soap broke, I saw a small pink and yellow bra.  We would pick up the items and give them to someone. This was rather trivial on my list, considering that an Non Governmental Organization (NGO) driver was just held at gunpoint for water the day before. Being, the sole NGO representative and a women in this area, I was at risk, especially since I was the perceived gatekeeper of water, food, and shelter.  As I picked up the pink and yellow bra on the floor, I realized that no one in this village asked for my help. No one in this village wanted to wait in line in the hot sun for seven hours to get food, water, shelter and underwear.  No one asked for a Haitian American to return to help put up an Internally Displaced Person (IDP) camp.  The true frustration that day, was that no one, asked for this earthquake. The only thing that I was certain of was the heat, I felt as though I was starting to melt, with no water in sight.

I do not remember how I made it through that day.  When I made it to my room,  I  crashed on the floor.  I realized in a few days, I would no longer be the “go to” person. My days of being “Madame Tent,” were winding down in this area and as I took off my sweat drenched and extremely foul-smelling bra, I cried. It was the first time that I had cried since getting the news of the earthquake in Haiti. I cried for Haiti. I cried tears of sadness for my friends that did not make it out in time or that could not be “found”.  I cried for not being able to do more.  I cried tears of joy for my friends and father that were evacuated to the United States.  I cried, because I carried an extremely large amount of guilt for not being in Haiti during the earthquake.   I cried because I still had to prepare my emergency bag, because aftershocks were not aware of time.

 

A Non Food Item Distribution in Cotes De Fer, Haiti

 

A group of men putting up tents in Cotes de Fer, Haiti

 

My daily inspiration during my time in Cotes Des Fer, Haiti

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Icon Has Passed

The last few days I have been sick. The head cold and congestion that does not allow one to leave the house and gets nasty looks in public. Yesterday, I was feeling much better and decided to start getting my place for 2013 and took a facebook break. As I read articles, took a look at crazy photos I came across a post that said “an icon is gone” and I started to cry. Madame Deita died. Saturday, Mercedes Foucard Guignard, known to so many as  Deita, writer, storyteller, playwright, ethnographer, artist and  defender of Creole, passed away. I last saw Deita in October during my trip to Haiti. Maybe, it was just being by her side, but whenever I was close to her I was calm. She was fragile, tired and her contagious laugh was gone.  It was an honor to have conservations about Haiti  and life as a woman. I guess I never realized how much she helped me to articulate my purpose and for that I am eternally grateful.

Who knew? I keep falling in love with Montana…and Wyoming too!

 

Its been too long since I posted a blog.  I am preparing myself for the new year and getting ready to recommit to posting each week.  In the spirit of my re-commitment to this, I am posting today by posting pictures from what is becoming one of my favorite places in the world.  I am literally in love with Montana…and Wyoming too.  It’s a bit funny because up until not so many years ago, I didn’t really think much about Montana at all.  I drove through it and Wyoming, once and pretty much didn’t see any point in going there.  I joined the board of a wonderful organization based in Montana.  While attending a meeting almost two years ago, I joined my now favorite hiking buddy for a trip full of adventure, grouchy Ogonnaya-ness, singing to keep bears away, animal watching and people counting. All in all, I am just going to post some pics from my trip to Yellowstone this year.  I hope that you enjoy these pics and my forthcoming  stories.  Don’t forget…take a trip to a place that you may not expect to love.  I did and the results have been amazing.

 

 

 

Peace B. Still,

ReFlecktionary!!!

 

 

 

 

HEART SPRINGS in Wyoming!!

Grand Canyon…of Yellowstone

Boiling River…My new favorite natural HOT TUB

Livingstone? Zim-Zam-Wyoming…

Bison JAM on it!!!

Pretty Wings

Stank Eye of the Tiger

Ahhh…geology makes you same hmmm

Rivers & Real Estate

A Hummingbird’s View

Country Roads

Mountains on Mountains

Another Side of Haiti

Once again Jerry Rosembert Moise does not disappoint. His work tells current stories and amazing visualization on the streets of Port au Prince. ©Lodz Joseph

I was really looking for weeks to pitch a story about the other side of Haiti. Not the earthquake, tents, voodoo, or debilitating health piece, rather a real  tourist piece. At this point, I have no takers, but I hope that after you see these pictures, you want to know more about Haiti.

There are a lot of things that Haiti is not, but the media bombards us with what Haiti is: AIDS, Voodoo, Poor, Dirty, and victims. And, sometimes, as I read these articles and stories I wonder when will Haiti be shown as the Haiti I know. The place that accepts me and brings my emotional and spiritual gas tank back to full.  Haiti is one of the most transformative places where I have lived and where I continue to work.

I saw this video  from Mikaben and thought now it is time to share a few of my photos. I have a few stories that I want to share with you over the next few days, but I hope you enjoy the photos of the Haiti that I know. It isn’t the place that is in the news, but it does exist.

 

 

 

Look at the those eyes! RAM + Day of the Dead = Good Times! ©Lodz Joseph

I LOVE Port Salut! ©Lodz Joseph

The only beer to have in Haiti is Prestige! © Lodz Joseph

Did you know there were caves in Haiti? ©Lodz Joseph

A sunset in Port Salut ©Lodz Joseph

Lobster and avocado on the beach. ©Lodz Joseph

Mountains behind Mountains ©Lodz Joseph

You want a piece of this! Douce Macosse from Ludy (ask for her in Ti Goave) ©Lodz Joseph

I love barbershops in Haiti! ©Lodz Joseph

Visit the artists and artisans in Croix des Bouquets! ©Lodz Joseph

Give this artist a chance! One of the few doing metal and beading.

Mr. B, Beer and the Rockaways

It started out as a work day volunteer effort. You would still get paid for volunteering and the email thread started out with volunteering in the Rockaways and who was in? Our team leader, reached out to the Occupy Sandy teamand from there we met up at Restore and Rebuild, in a cold, community center in Far Rockaway. It was a great day to see coworkers, since we all have been working from home, due to the building damage that occurred during Sandy. I had no idea what to expect, but during our safety talk, images started to set in and as I took my pair of mud/work boots, I realized that we were going to be doing just a bit more than helping someone “clean” their home.

Occupy Sandy. I had my thoughts. Was it going to be some hippie love fest? Someone who was wealthy and had the funds to just relocate and be in New York? Who does that? And as the judgmental questions started to come into my thought. I had to remember what my yoga instructor told me “please do not think, just be”.  And at once,  the questions were thrown into the debris pile. Our team leader, a, tall, physically fit tanned white man and self proclaimed “drifter” went into the home and came back and told us, this was bad. As we went down into the basement, I could already smell what we were getting in. I was not a demolition or construction expert, I was just a person willing to help.

A few hours of dry wall removal,  insulation and personal belongings gave me an idea about how this family lived. I guess, I am an extrovert or just nosy and wanted to know more about this family. I started up a conversation with the homeowner,  B, who had just gotten work and he was almost finished working on the house and then Sandy came.B, was the New Yorker that I only saw on the bus, movies or other large public situations. He had sun burned skin, a tad dry and he was a guy who had worked all his life. He didn’t expect anyone to help him out. And yet, Occupy Sandy volunteers were in his basement and he was overwhelmed by the kindness. As we took a break for lunch, B offered to pay for lunch and we all had bagged lunchs, but we appreciated the offer. We joked about having beers after work. After our lunch break we went right back in the basement. Rotting dry wall, debris removal, and personal belongings were being thrown into big black garbage bags and stacked up to be taken away.

I got the sense that any other day, B, might have been the type of person that only occasionally came across a Black person. And, going back and forth, removing debris and talking to him, for the day, none of that mattered. I didn’t care about what box he checked off and I have to believe he could care less about what box I was checking off for the census. He was just appreciative of the help that he was getting. B, came back with a souvenir of his thanks, an 18 pack of Budweiser. It was more than just Budweiser, this was one of the best ways to say thank you to a crew that was doing the work that  his wife and himself would never be able to do.  Days like this made me proud to be a member of the human race. I do not want to romantize my volunteer in the Rockaways, because I left thinking what the heck was this family going to do? How many more people are afraid to ask for help and still have water in their homes? And now, my new obsession is mold.  The mold that we found in the house was crazy and were hadn’t seen the worse cases. So now what happens now to these families? I have no idea, but I now that I  want to go back. So, if you are interested…how about we go together? Maybe, that is what we can do for right now.

 

Debris Removal Day 1

Where do we even start?

You never know what people have in their basements!

 

Remember Their Names: In Memory of Kasandra, Cherica & Others

Reblogged from The Crunk Feminist Collective:

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I am sure that by now many of you know the name Jovan Belcher.  If you didn’t know his name (as I didn’t) before this weekend, you know it now.  He is the Kansas City Chiefs player who shot and killed his girlfriend before taking his own life on Saturday.  Headlines and news stories have focused on the tragedy from the lens of the perpetrator (including speculation of potential brain trauma, his involvement, as an undergraduate, in a Male Athletes Against Violence initiative, and his standing as an allstar athlete), in some ways dismissing or overshadowing the lens of the victim, who in headlines is simply referred to as "(his) girlfriend."

Read more… 1,201 more words

Do not forget her name!