Closure Is Mine-Really by Thee Amazing Grace

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In my youth I needed closure from everyone I felt hurt by. It was so intense that I would spend countless hours and days drafting letters trying to convince them that the “only” way I could “move on” was through the many ways they could give me closure.

As I’m aging, I realize that those things weren’t for them, but for me. They served as excuses to keep them around or to get their attention in hopes of changing the hurt. I’m learning that closure is mine-really.

This is not to say that I don’t experience hurt feelings from unresolved issues, but I’m more aware now than ever that it is not anyones responsibility to give me closure. Also that the discomfort is normal. We can choose how we move on which is priceless in our own healing. One love to those.

—TheeAmazingGrace ♥️

#afrikanface #closureisminereally #girlrillavintage #girlrillainspiration #theeamazinggrace

Your Arms Too Short to Box with God

Listened to some dope hip hop classics tonight. Heard the verse, “your arms too short to box with god” by at least 3 different artists (Nas, Big Daddy Kane, and Wu Tang Clan). Of course I had to google it’s origin. Come to find out the verse was actually the title of a musical written and directed by a woman name Vinette Carroll in 1977. Totally cool! In fact the same woman was the first African-American woman to direct on Broadway, with the 1972 musical “Don’t Bother Me, I Can’t Cope”. Carroll said of the musical, “This is a hymn to us, how the black man, who’s come a long way, must continue moving forward.” And how beautiful that black men in hip hop were the ones quoting her work. ‪

#‎ourlegacy‬ ‪#‎everyday‬

-Gracie Berry (thee amazing grace)

Veteran stage/film actress Vinnette Carroll appeared as Dr. Wynell Thatcher in the Season 7 "AITF" episode "Archie's Operation:Part 1".  Source: http://all-in-the-family-tv-show.wikia.com/wiki/Vinnette_Carroll

Veteran stage/film actress Vinnette Carroll appeared as Dr. Wynell Thatcher in the Season 7 “AITF” episode “Archie’s Operation:Part 1”.
Source: http://all-in-the-family-tv-show.wikia.com/wiki/Vinnette_Carroll

Money Madhers: The Day I Asked My Grandma For Another Dollar

I remember it like the moles sprinkled just below my left eye on my left cheek. I lived with my grandmother at the time. We were always in that old Thunderbird making stops for food and liquor. Lynn, my grandmothers husband pulled up along side the curb on 45th and Lancaster Ave Philadelphia Pennsylvania cross the street from Penn State Beer Store. Grandma finalized her order, a pint of gin, Lynn opted for a 5th of vodka and he got out of the car.

I could always tell when she was in a good mood cause she would get to buying stuff and throwing money around. She would be extra nice to Lynn, even gave him a kiss on the lips. She turned toward the backseat where I was sitting and said here Rabbit. Rabbit was a term of endearment she used toward me and my siblings. She continued, take this here dollar grandma got for you as she waved it around. I was so happy and was smiling from ear to ear cause the sun was so bright outside and I thanked her. I thought for a second with the Jamaican candy story adjacent to my left and in plain sight as any kid would about all of the snacks, candy they could buy if they had just one more dollar and since she was in such a good mood I opened my mouth with wide tooth smile and asked in the sweetest voice I could muster if I could have another dollar. Actually I said, “Can I have another one Grema”.

The instant she turned to me, a raging bull, face stern with that evil darkness in her eyes and menacing half smile I was so deathly afraid of and snatched the dollar out of my hand, tearing it in half in the process. She smacked the blood out of my face and blamed me for the dollar ripping. She yelled at me that I better not EVER, EVER ask no adult for no motherfucking money after they already gave me some. She followed by saying, “See what you made me do”. She always said that after beating me badly or when something went wrong. She called me an ungrateful little bitch. I cried in silence with tears rolling down my face and choking on that lump of sadness you get when you just want to scream it all out, but can’t because if you did it would be so much worse.

That was the moment I learned never to beg for money or anything for that fact. To be satisfied with what was given to me. To settle. To never aspire to reach for anything more than what was in my view. To never overstep my bounds even if I wanted something on the other side. I was meek and solitary and confused at how much, me simply asking for that extra dollar made her mad. How angry she was at the very notion of me making that choice. How much control she had over all things in my life. How that one moment debilitated my self-worth and drive that affects me deep down to this very day. How I will often suffer alone instead of asking for the help I need out of some secret fear. She always wanted to break me, every chance she got. -Gracie Berry

For Some Life Is Too Long

Thinking about the courageous folks in my life that ended their own lives. So much love between us, having shared the planet together! I remember seeing the light slowly leave from behind your eyes. To watch you suffer that loss made me so sad. And while some say that life is too short-for you life was too long. I hold you and honor you here, behind my left breast.~Gracie

Remember Life Before the Boat? -Gracie Berry

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Thrift find: At first glance I was disturbed by it, then shocked. I realized that I needed to get a grip, literally get my hands on it before that old white lady did, so I slid in to stake my claim. Her face was irritated like I had stolen something from her. She huffed and puffed and stomped away. I examined the image and how it showed the glutenous way businesses have deployed racism to sell their products. Aah yes- Life After the Boat! They used our faces as they used our bodies to not only turn a profit, but to deplete us from ever existing as valuable human spirits on this planet. I approached the counter and the cashier said, “Wow! I’m surprised a person of color wants this.” In sarcasm I said, “Of course I wouldn’t want an image of a person that reflects me.” She apologized and talked some bullshit about how she lived during the 1960’s where stuff like this was really bad. I replied, “Um, Ferguson Missouri-stuff is still really bad.” I told her that she should never charge people of color that wants images like this. She charged me 50 cents from the $10 the store wanted for it. I told her that it’s part of my life’s mission to liberate my experience as well as those around me, and that this was not a purchase for monetary gain-it is a way to honor my ancestors, objectified like the one in this image. A way to honor them in my home and my heart, so that anyone who enters my space will bare witness to them-valued human spirit. They have a place here. It’s easier to whitewash over our history and pretend it never happened. People of color need to take symbols and images that are meant to oppress us and redefine them. It was like her sweet face was waiting to be found by me-someone that understands her, loves her. They can’t hold you hostage if you’re free. Remember life before the boat and how we honored each other and loved each other? Honor the richness from where we’ve come. Images like this are necessary parts of our healing. In solidarity to us still suffered by racism. Gracie Berry #digtheskinyouin #blacklovebeforetheboathelpsmeremeberblacklifebeforetheboat #weareone

Grease My Scalp

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Grease My Scalp

Hair Love Was Different for this Little Black Afrikan Girls-Started with my mama, grandmother, aunty Neece, Diane, Marcita, and Frida. All my first human examples of what being a woman should be like. Thinking about how they each lived so different, yet managed to use the same lingual to teach me all that I know now. Growing up-in my house-everything was ‘STANK’ lol! Stank could show approval or not…mostly related to cute, bitch, funny, sassy, grown, irking, sexy ass, and odorous-cause you can’t have stank without stink. My mama called us Berry women movers and shakers. And instead of our fleshy fruit being produced from one ovary we were produced from many. The Berry’s like wildly staccato infused edible berry goodness planted all over West Philadelphia. My family loved to the intense-degree, unapologetic, ancestral, so deep, genuine, moving, doing everything-grand, natural, fleshy, ancient,  rooted in our DNA. They cooked together and not just on Sundays. They taught us girls how to be ladies and ‘big kids’. Showed us how to play double Dutch, Jacks, hide and seek, hand games, rhymes and riddles, had water fights on the block, in the park, even in the house.

My family always knew how to get a party started and more so how to it keep going. From loud belly laughs that filled stagnant air to stories of survival and hard times. I caught a feeling every time one of my them pulled excess hair from a comb or a brush to burn in hair fire rituals, on stove tops for our protection. They conjured spirits by waving they  magic lady fingers-healing fingers. They had no fear of the dead, so I wasn’t scarred. Showed me how to worship those transitioned, how to burn candles to light their path, how to call on them in times of need. Showed me how the wind and birds gave us gifts and messages indeed. Our lineage ran deep like dirt-on earth grandmothers, mothers, mothers lived abundant on west Indian soil, loved masculine partners from First Nations ancestry shacked up on state sides, shipped to Antebellum South to slave plantations, settling in Philadelphia in the hood of sisterly affections. They dialogued something chatty between Patwa, Ogeechie, to some artful urban-dialect that I loved to understand. I was a captive audience to their stories of glitter, enchantments, death, voodoo-magic, dolls, birth blood, and spells on how to keep a man which honestly didn’t work for me lol! Each story pulled at my heart strings and I smiled.

A jar of Blue Magic pomade was never far away, always partially full, and always in plain sight. When times were hard Crisco, Land-O-Lakes butter, or Vaseline would do just fine. They would always catch me right before bed to grease my scalp. They must have needed the soothing comfort of the experience too. They each would instruct me the same: grab a pillow, grease, brush, and comb-and sit on the floor between their legs, or on some chair. And I loved the way everyone, greased my scalp with the exclusion of my aunt Marcita. It was like she was always in a hurry. She rushed and roughed-up my tender little nappy head soo. And she wouldn’t hesitate to smack my face with comb or open palm at the notion of me nodding off to sleep, acting squeamish, or crying. I was ‘tender-headed’ as they used to say back then, so I hated anything that resembled rough on my head. Since my aunty was the youngest of 5 girls she was the most hip, dressed hip, did everything hip. The hair styles she came up with on me were thee dopest! I did like that part despite the pain. My grandmother and mama would yell at her saying, that the styles were too stank (too grown) in this case. She would defend me by saying that I looked trendy and cute. She always adorned my hair with cowrie shells, colorful beads, and other shiny ornaments. I felt pretty going to school.

They all would begin by parting my hair into four sections. My mom and aunt Neece perfected the craft of paying attention to all of my signs and signals of discomfort, my unspoken body language. The instant either of them noticed me squirming around or tearing up in silence they used their hands instead to part my nappy, thick, wool like mane, brilliant! This was their inherent mama intuition kicking in and I loved them for it. They dolloped a generous amount of grease into the palms of their hands and rubbed it over each strand of my hair before zigging and zagging in-between my scalp with the finesse of a farm tractor. With gentle fingers and palms my mom and aunt Neece held the nape of my scalp and combed til the ends were big and puffy. Their fingers felt with the ease of feathers on skin.They took their time with me and greased each section, parting piece by piece until my entire scalp was oiled. I always got goose pimples from this deeply pleasurable and highly emotional experience-made my head draw in close like a baby nursing, but toward their fingers. I succumbed to sleep on their laps every time. I would awake with the most creative braids, twists, corn rows, or plats beneath an old pair of my grandmothers pantyhose. And oh how I yearn for my mama and aunties touch in my head. Scalp time was our love time. It’s like all of the harshness I remember behind my eyes from my childhood, eases away from my temples for just a moment when I recall this story. Thinking about how organic it was, and how envious I am of my own memories. Longing for one moment more. Sharing in this type of hair love between fingers on my black scalp denotes the experience of truly being in love with me. Dedicated to all of my aunts. And Rest in Love mama and aunt Neece ❤

Warm love,

-Gracie

Girlrillavintage Cash

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Girlrillavintage Cash

“My aunt used to give me one of these, tell me to get myself 50 cents worth of something, and then use the change to get her some ‘loosies’. I think you could get 5 loose cigarettes, for 50 cents around that time in Philly. I also remember watching my mother miscarrying a baby on one of my birthdays. I think it was 1989. It was spring and warm outside in North Philadelphia. We lived in the Patterson Street Projects on the19th floor. Just moments before, I saw her standing in the middle of the floor, bloody baby dangling between her legs. The sun filled the room, so I could see everything. I was scared. And she said, “Gace, help mama. Please help.” I helped her in the only way I knew how. She kept thanking me, telling me that I was her strong girl. Then she gave me a stack of stamps all bloodied. She said, “mama’s gonna rest, but go to the store with your brothers and ya’ll get whatever ya’ll want. Happy birthday Gace! Mama loves you.” She went next door to get high with the neighbors. She always got high with them. The blood was dried up on her hands, pants and shirt too. She smiled as she looked back before leaving with a concerned look and voice said, “ya’ll better come right back! Take this bat in case somebody try to mess with ya’ll down them 19 flights.” I was so embarrassed cause all of the money had so much blood on them. Me and my brothers were so excited cause the world of junk food seemed at our disposal. We felt rich. I told the Chinese man we called Mr. Lee that it was my birthday and that I was going to buy everything. Mr. Lee was reluctant, but didn’t dare question why the money was so bloody. He accepted all of my stamps and asked me was that all. He was one that I remembered being kind to me and my brothers.” -Gracie

FOR THE LOVE OF BLACK PINUPS: HONORING THE ORIGINAL HANG HER ON THE WALL GIRL

1383991_367781190022898_986335139_n-3.jpgMy black pinup collectible series is the art I’m most proud. I first discovered that our legacy surpassed the obvious like Josephine Baker and Dorothy Dandridge about 5-years ago. I attended an event at the Art Scape festival in Baltimore Maryland. My best friend and I went to a “fetish” themed, interactive art performance. There was so much going on that it took us nearly all night to get around to everything. Towards the end of the performance there was a scene on pinup queens and burlesque. All of the pinup performers were white. The film they showed starred a white woman. The magazines, calendars, jewelry, tees, and art they sold were plastered with white women. My best friend and I shared a brief glance, a glance filled with unspoken sorrow and disappointment that we didn’t exist there, how black women in history could literally be glossed over in the 21st century without a thought. There was a void that only black women can understand.

IMG_1825.JPGI asked the curator and one of the artists of the show where the black pinup models like Josephine Baker were. I assumed that there was more to the performance. She told me that she had never heard of any black pinup models before and that she really wouldn’t put Josephine Baker in the category of a “real” pinup model. I was hurt-it was written all  over my expression. I couldn’t shake the feeling of how even a seemingly free thinking, college educated, white, female artist from a metropolitan area had no clue about any black pinup models, even just by chance during one of her college courses or something. I vowed to myself and my best friend that I would get to the bottom of all of this. It took me sometime, but I finally did my own research. I was down on myself thinking why I hadn’t thought of it sooner. It took me several weeks to find viable and honest resources about black pinup queens of the time, but I found about 100 images.

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Aside from the images I was shocked to learn that there was no representation of art online or otherwise featuring vintage black pinups. I felt isolated about the whole thing, so I started generating conversations about it with family and friends. And after discussing the topic with several women I realized that I was no longer alone and that other women of color had similar convictions. I was moved by the excitement and curiosity in the conversations I was having, the spark that was lit in all of us. Something that I had tapped into, filled something in us all, stirring something much deeper than a mere moment. There were so many concerns from the women I conversed with for example, feeling tired of being underrepresented in media and history books, being subjected to white pinup models like #marilynmonroe #bettiepage and #bettegrable as if they represented the standard of beauty in all women, and lastly the sadness of seeing young black girls wearing teeshirts and other fashion trends that mimicked white women-how so many young black girls despised their own bodies so much to change their very own images, altering their Afrikan heritage, a rich and ambitious heritage all its own.

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As a trendsetter in my community, lover of vintage errrydamnthang (well maybe not everything), but basically as a creative person I was disappointed that my search revealed nothing. Naythan reflecting vintage black pinup models online. ZERO Y’all! The lack thereof set forth in me a spiritual motion. I decided to be the first, but certainly not the last to create such art the way I envisioned it. I knew that my vision was not going to be like anyone else’s, so I went for it. My goal was to create wearable vintage art for people of color to be proud-to identify with. I thought of how dope it would be start a movement, a revolution, an awakening of something we know so little about. My earlier pinups were “buttons/pins” comprised of personalized sonnets and some adorned with  mixed media materials. I gifted them to the women in my life. I did that to guesstimate how many would actually be brave enough to wear them. I know “brave” is suggestive, but you’d be surprised of how many of us black women feel shame and ridicule about our bodies. I was proud of the folks that willingly engaged my art, a topic that is otherwise taboo and unheard of.

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Over the years, I began to transform my pinup button collection into other forms of wearable art like earrings and necklaces. My creative process with the pinups has been one of #spiritual fortitude. Freeing with an abundance of creative energy. And while I’ve added my own creative twist to the collectibles I wouldn’t be able to do any of it without them. The women’s images themselves-women that posed for a myriad of reasons. Brave birds. I always thank them. I always ask them to find me. I always tell them how I wish to honor them, never overpowering or overshadowing their stories, their beauty because they’re enough. I always ask them for guidance. Our relationship is similar to the way I view my ancestors and the alter I worship them on. I view each pinup as her own alter that will be a blessing to the lovely person that is called to her.

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Sadly, the majority of the magazines and news spreads graced by black women were disproportionate, often hyper-sexualized, and lewd. Unlike #white pinup models of the time, praised for their #beauty, black pinup models were #fetishized for their #sexual prowess and curvaceous attributes. #Blackgirls who weren’t cherished by soldiers overseas, pinned on walls, or lockers, but were hidden under mattresses, beneath floor boards, cloaked in secrecy, fetishized in private, disposed of and belittled in public. Black pinup girls were not idealized versions of what was thought of as #beautiful or attractive. And despite the fact that #josephinebaker #dorothydandrige #lenahorn & #earthakitt were all categorized as #burlesque or #pinups of the time, black pinup models in general weren’t as widely distributed or paid as white women of the same time period.

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I felt a sense of pride, the bravery it took to be a black woman, sexually free, an exhibitionist during a time of racial disparity and civil unrest, a time when hate crimes against black bodies-Afrikan bodies born in America-born in different parts of the world was as natural as breathing air. To the ones exploited, demeaned, and murdered I lift you up! Your stories deserve to be told. And although we weren’t acknoweledged by our names more so by our frames we were never insignificant and we exist for every reason. We deserve to be upheld triumphantly, free to be sexually empowered and beautiful-valued just as the white women were. How the single encounter at an art show some years back ignited so much more inside of me than simply creating art.

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This collection is to honor, not overshadow those black women before me like mama #SartjeBaartman taken from #Afrika to #England and placed in a freak show because of her “disproportionate” body parts. To those that took risks and loved it. To those that loved art and #selfexpression. To the women in these images I thank you for letting me find you. I thank you for giving me cosmic permission to #honor you this way. Through #blackart from my #brown #black hands and beating #heart! To all black women learning of black pinup queen honey bees for the first time know that we were there! We are here now! And we are in the future-#INLIVINGCOLOR!

Art heals,

Thee Amazing Grace