Modern Moomah

Our native sons are our today and tomorrow. Precious gems clothed in hoodies and high-tops. Sons, who when given a chance, will cut away our pain and stitch us back together again, good as new.  They will drop their gavels and prescribe justice for our rotten ways of living.  They will help us converse our way out the maze of mental illness from centuries of slander and strain, and give us blueprints to new and better ways of habituating here on earth.   A mother's love for her son is distinguished and different than the love for her daughters.  The love that a Black mother has for her son is even more intense.  Knowing that a son will someday grow up to lead his own family is cause for concern in a society that plans for him to be cut off without a moment's notice, by the excuse of another human's fear.  Even more so when Black sons who grow a few inches, speak a little deeper, and still cry on momma's shoulder are surrounded by accusations, mi...

In 2018, I visited Ghana, Africa.  Arriving in Ghana, I felt at home like it was an extension of the Caribbean or the most festive Black gathering I had ever seen.  The people, food, and climate felt familiar.  Landing on the continent was like finally coming home after a long trip.  There was a settled peace like the kind found under a shady tree in the afternoon.  I was blessed to climb a prayer mountain with my church family.  The climb was difficult but rewarding.  Historians found that Jamaicans originated from the west coast of Africa in the region of Ghana and nearby countries.  The similarities in the food we eat, the language and cultural expressions certainly confirm the connection.  As a child in Brooklyn, kids would call each other harsh names like African booty scratcher or Jamaican booty scratcher.  To think that Black children thought so low of their own roots makes me cringe.    As humans, we are oceans an...

Saturday after Saturday my finger knuckles were assaulted by the God awful kitchen grater that I used to start the coconut milk process.  Oh how I do not miss those days.  Now that I think about it, those old fashioned graters were sharp enough to be surgical tools, lol.  In our home, It was a Saturday night ritual to dice, grate or strain that coconut to make coconut milk for rice and peas or sweet potato pudding , or whatever other island dish my mother decided to make for Sunday dinner. I had to sit there half sleep waiting for my mother to roll the next order off her tongue. I can't remember if that was before or after she fried my hair with the pressing comb.  Sounds awful, I know.  Many things happened in the kitchen back in the day.  The kitchen was like the mecca of the home.  Those Saturdays were long days filled with cooking and cleaning.  I had two working parents who left home at the crack of dawn, on lonely Brooklyn streets, and ret...

Food seems to be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love, Muslim love,  Jewish love, or well you get the point.  Put some good food in front of folks from all walks of life, and they forget that they hate one another.  As a matter of fact, food binds us in love and admiration across cultures, spaces and times.  It is truly beyond me how we love each other's food to the point of cravings, yet we hate each other and also hate the cultures from whence these mouthwatering dishes derive.  Food is a part of our happiness as humans.  Jamaicans have a saying: "Me Love you like cook food" which describes the joyous affection that we feel for someone.  Food really enhances our experiences by adding joy to our festivities. For example, Christmas needs a nice jug of sorrel. Easter is more meaningful with escoveitch fish or bun and cheese. We survive the week up until Saturday just for a good, hot pot of chicken foot soup.  Sunday isn't the same ...