Can’t wait to see, Concrete Cowboy, a Netflix movie that highlights the Fletcher Street Stables in North Philly. Such an important story to be told for the Black urban horse community in Philly.
My cousins Ron R.I.P (Right) & Leon (Middle) were part of that scene in West Philly back in the 90’s. I remember them riding ponys in the middle of the hood on Markoe Street where my aunt lived. It was unbelievable to a kid my age who had never seen a horse in person. It was definitely one way to keep young Black boys off the street and nurturing something else.
Healing ourself is the greatest come up. @lii.zka captured me back in March, the month of my birth and the same month the world paused. Giving thanks for countless opportunities to gain and grieve. Becoming someone longer lasting is requiring me to return to my source, to heal and rebirth my self over and over. To lean on the patience of ancestors even when it feels like I’m making no strides at all.
This day 7 years ago I got to connect with a thriving young gifted and black photographer @ozmynoree as his first Black nude model! At the time, having lost a child 2 years before and 3 years into my 30’s was a beautiful confidence booster and milestone to reach. This is the first I’m sharing these publicly, so enjoy. I want to encourage more Black people to honor their bodies this way at least once in their life. Be your own bucket list experience and you’ll have a photo to remember it. ❤️
Between it being less sunlight, the cold air, and memories of my loved ones who transitioned into the ethers around now, I know at least for me, this time of year is a lil harder than usual.
And with that I want to share that my brother David visited me in a dream this morning. It was a fun dream, almost like I was back in college at a lecture and I was walking towards him to introduce him to a friend, but the strangest feeling came over me like I was introducing my friend to myself, literally lol! I could see me doing the introduction, but I also felt me standing where my brother was. Needless to say he grabbed me by both arms and hugged me deeply. He knew that I was surprised to see him, so he started rolling his eyes in the back of his head then laughed that irking laugh showing all teeth before playing the song, “This Woman’s Work” the Maxwell version. He had on the DOPEST RBG, mostly black sweatsuit and his face looked brighter, fuller than I ever remember before. MARVELOUS when ancestors visit like that.
I woke up crying because I miss him. But I think it was his way of reminding me that we are more deeply connected than my earthly mind can imagine. He let me know that we still have access to each other. Although sometimes we forget our ancestors grace when we are sad.
Remember the goodness, remember your loved ones, remember the moments you ever felt grateful for anything, remember that you’re here now and have a life’s work to do no matter how long or short you’re here. Remember your sunshine. Those things count. They count so much more than you’ll ever know.
I wrote this after George Floyd was taken from here. All his motherly ancestors channeled me to write. All the mothers conjured up through. Cause even in death he called on his mother. The power in wailing her name was battle cry that had to be answered by every motherly energy that ever was. Thank God for his breath, his last words stained into the fabric of the universe. He didn’t give those cowards the power they were seeking. And that’s why I always say we don’t have to acquiesce, even in death. Watermelon is a poem to my people for my people. Break dem gotdamn curses. And stay in the struggle.
I genuinely had a beautiful time exchanging with community about my exhibit Shadowkeepers & Roothealers the Original OG’s (Orisha Gods). Special love to all the ancestors that showed up and out! I’m a bird, still flying high. Ase-O 🤍🤍🤍