All posts for the month April, 2015


Published April 30, 2015 by hrhdana
You are at work and you get a phone call from your 15 year old child.
“Mommy they let us out of school but there are no buses to get home. Police in riot gear are at the bus stop yelling that we need to leave. Where do I go Mommy? I’m scared.”
You are sitting at your desk at work when you get this call.
You tell your child to go back inside the school. “I am coming to get you. Go inside the school and wait for me.”
You tell your boss you have to leave. You gather your things. You run to the car that you are lucky enough to own when your phone rings again.
“Mommy the school won’t let me back inside. I don’t know what to do.”
As your child cries on the phone your mind races.
“Find a store. Go in the mall. Go somewhere safe. Somewhere inside.”
As you race towards the school your phone rings twice more with your child detailing the places she has been denied entrance. In the background you hear cops screaming, kids screaming and the sickening thud of things banging.
When you get to the area of your child’s school you can not drive in. Streets are closed to traffic. So you park illegally and run the blocks to your child, huddled against a building with 4 of her friends. As you walk them out of the danger zone you see kids with no adult presence for them. You see cops in full riot gear. You hear helicopters. You see a kid throw a rock. You see cops throw rocks back at kids. You are stopped by a cop who wants to know where you are going with these kids.
You finally get home. You turn on the TV to see that the situation devolved in to the mayhem you knew that it would. The children are being vilified and no one is even interested in the truth.
Now open your eyes to reality.  THIS HAPPENED! our country. This is what happened in Baltimore. This land is your land. This is the genesis of the “riot” that burned that beloved (sarcasm) CVS to the ground. (May it rest in peace)

This is what greeted 13 to 18 year olds who had planned a peaceful after school protest. THIS!
Protests Continue After Death Of Baltimore Man While In Police Custody

If you are not actively doing something to help you are part of the problem. Your involvement can run the spectrum from sharing truth with the misinformed to marching to letter writing to activism. Spread truth. Refuse to be steamrolled by propaganda. This is OUR country. Wake up.

Baltimore uprising.
Justice for Freddie

Chronicles of a threenager

Published April 16, 2015 by hrhdana

Nia’s Elsa dress got taken away a while ago because she wasn’t listening. It actually went in to the garbage because she decided to feed it jello. (Don’t ask) Anyway, her behavior has been exemplary for a few weeks now so her Dad and I replaced her Elsa dress and added 3 other dress up outfits to it. Last night we tried them all on after bath and hair time. Then this happened.

Nia is looking at the photo of the accessories that compliment the two princess dresses.

Nia- Mommy you forgot something.
Me- What did I forget?
N-The Cinderella shoes, wand and tiara and the Rapunzel hair, crown and shoes.
M-I didn’t forget. Those were extra. You have shoes, tiaras and wands. And your own hair is more gorgeous than ANY fake hair so you don’t need that.
N-*grabs my face* Mommy if you are going to do something do it right. Isn’t that what you say? How am I going to be Rapunzel with Tianna shoes? Huh? How am I going to be Cinderella without the right crown? Come on Mommy.
M-Nia it’s all for playing pretend. You can pretend that those other tiaras match the character that you are playing.
N-That’s not princess Mommy. Princesses do it right from the shoes up. Now how do you feel? You can say sorry Mommy. It’s okay we all make mistakes.
M- laughing. Ummm sorry?
N-That didn’t sound real. Do you want to try again?

Young Girl Playing By Herself

Citizen in distress

Published April 10, 2015 by hrhdana
I’m lucky.
A rainbow of people love me
and I love them.
I’m blessed.
Raised in a place where differences
are embraced
is a reason to celebrate
and something craved.
I’m lucky.
I grew up in a sea of faces that looked like me
and didn’t.
I ate matzo with my Jewish babysitter.
I learned Irish dancing steps with my high school crew.
I teased my hair to kingdom come with my Italian guidettes.
Ate curry with my Caribbeans too.
Learned how to negotiate from this Ethiopian dude.
 I have been.
I’m lucky.
My best friend is Irish and Puerto Rican
Her family is a rainbow of love
making babies that run the spectrum
from light to dark.
Each one
worried over.
No ignorance about the differences
in the challenges they will face
when they leave the safety of the nest.
Eyes wide open.
Acknowledging difference
because there is NOTHING wrong with it.
It just is.
I’m blessed.
I know this.
And yet
I exist
in a larger context.
My home.
My country.
I love she.
To say otherwise would be a lie.
I love my country.
This is my home.
This is where my life is.
And I love it.
Even though she often breaks my heart.
Insensitive to the differences
that make her great.
And a huge part of her powerbase
hates me.
Actively hates me.
Demonizes me.
Murders me
With impunity.
This abusive relationship
with the country of my birth
is breaking me down.
And it would be easier
If I could just hate her.
The world is massive.
I could live anywhere.
But I stay here
Because I love it.
And I want to believe
that the ones who hate me
are a vocal minority
but the murders don’t cease.
The go fund me pages
of racists and homophobes
make millions.
And my little cousin
can’t raise money to learn.
It burns.
My stomach churns.
How can I love a place
that isn’t safe?
Where national empathy
doesn’t apply to those who look like me?
This abusive relationship
with my home,
the one place
I should feel safe
“Dana you talk about race all the time.
Give it a rest. Relax your mind.”
Another “friend” who doesn’t want to understand.
Because what those words REALLY mean is,
“please stop challenging me.
Your reality is uncomfortable to see.
Could you please suffer and process quietly?”
Silence demanded from me
is a goodbye.
And if America were a person
I would have given her my entire ass to kiss
a long time ago.
But this is my home.
And it hurts me.
Murders those who look like me
with impunity.
She withholds opportunity
demands that we pull ourselves up by the bootstraps
on boots that we don’t own.
This is my home.
This abusive relationship
with my home,
the one place
I should feel safe