WRITING MY DREAMS: Official Blog of Author C. Michelle Ramsey: AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT: IMANI WISDOM

WRITING MY DREAMS: Official Blog of Author C. Michelle Ramsey: AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT: IMANI WISDOM:   Last week I spotlighted the book Zion's Road by Imani Wisdom. I thoroughly enjoyed reading the book and was extremely excited to l...

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Let the Journey Begin...

Seven years ago, I've taken a childhood daydream and turned it into one of my most-loved stories – Zion’s Road.

The vision of tabooed-romances while living in a place of the unknown and unseen captivated me as a young girl. The story was so strong in my head that I used to stare-up at the clouds – visualizing who or what was up there. God? Angels? Or maybe one my relatives were resting on a cloud as they were smiling down to me. Still, the relief of looking to the sky – painted in its glory only the Supreme Being could do – brought forth a vivid imagination.

As a kid I didn't quite know how to transfer my thoughts to paper – I pretty much acted out anything I've imagined. Creatively, I used to play with my grandmother’s what-knots in her living room – pretending her treasured trinkets were actors and my daydreams were the movie. I would play for hours until I would hear her say, “Child, if you don’t get out of my what-knots or I’ll…”

Visit the new Zion's Road blog to read more.

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The Story of James Cameron

There have been many infamous photographs taken during America’s dark time of racism. Among one happened not in the South but in the heartland—Marion, Indiana.

This particular photograph had inspired poet, Abel Meeropol, to write the song Strange Fruit, which became one of Billie Holiday’s greatest hits. The emotions of Meeropol, perhaps, aren't different compared to anyone who views the picture today. You would not be human if it didn't spark an unnerving anger as you see someone’s son or brother hanging lifeless on a maple tree.

Worse, the crowd that swelled by the thousands stood proudly in front of photographer, Lawrence Beilter, which later sold the photograph for fifty cents. With boasting smiles and pointing fingers in the photograph as if they were at a County Fair, there was supposed to been a third person on that lone branch. Yet his life was spared.

On August 6, 1930—eighty-one miles from the capitol of Indianapolis—James Cameron (16), Thomas Shipp (18), and Abram Smith (19) were accused of armed robbery and murder of factory worker, Claude Deeter, and the rape of his companion, Mary Ball.

By Cameron’s accounts in a 2006 Washington Post article, he recalled Shipp and Smith wanted to rob someone and saw Deeter’s car parked at Lover’s Lane. Cameron remembered one of the teens placing a gun his hand but when he discovered the man in the car was the person he shined shoes in town, he refused and ran home. While in his pursuit, the sixteen-year-old heard ringing of gunshots. He continued his mission home without looking back.

The youths were later arrested and sent to jail, and the news of the murder and rape went rapidly through the small town—forming an angry mob. Indiana University Professor and the Author of, Lynching in the Heartland, James H. Madison wrote: “The mob broke into the jail and removed the prisoners. First Shipp was hanged through the bar windows and dragged to a maple tree to the town’s square and lynched.”

The facts if Shipp or Smith were already dead before the noose went around their necks were sketchy. In an online video, Marion Indiana 1930 Lynching, there were actual witnesses speaking in detail of that night. One of the witnesses had said Abram Smith was alive all the way to the tree. "As they placed the noose around his neck, he tried to loosen rope but the mob lowered him back down to break his arms and hoister him up again and lynched him."

Another witness from same video said the crowd began to sound like spectators at a football game by chanting: “We want Cameron!” In a February 2003 article with the Associated Press, Cameron vividly described the moment as he was led through the crowd: “Pearl-white glowing moon, the roar of the frenzied mob, and the rough hands forcing my head into the noose.”

While waiting for his demise, he began to pray to God for his sins. Cameron said a voice came from the crowd. “Take this boy back—he had nothing to with any killing or raping”. According to him the voice sounded angelic, almost as if came from Heaven. He also continued to say the crowd became quiet and obeyed. They released Cameron, and he returned back to the jail.

Cameron was later convicted and served four years in prison for the crime. And at the age of twenty-one he was released and began his new life with hope. He moved to Detroit and worked in a factory. As Cameron settled into married life, he returned to Indiana to live in the town of Anderson. Yvonne Shinhoster in a Washington Post article wrote that he owned the only black business in town—a combination of shoeshine parlor, record shop, and knickknack store.

James Cameron

 For ten years living the Indiana town, Cameron founded three Indiana chapters of the NAACP and served as Indiana State Director of the Office of Civil Liberties, but his passion for civil rights work grew difficult in the heavily-Klan state—so he moved his family North. Cameron’s initial intention was to go Canada but stopped in Milwaukee, Wisconsin for prospective job opportunities. He became a self-taught historian as well as working for a brewery and enrolled at a local trade school to become a boiler engineer. Cameron continued his civil rights quest by working with Father James Groppe to end housing discrimination in the city.

In the late-1970’s, he and his wife went to Israel and was inspired by a trip to Yad Vashem Memorial—a museum to remember the Holocaust victims. Cameron were so moved by what he saw that he told his wife it should be a museum in the United States to honor the lost lives of African Americans from racial injustice.

When he returned to Milwaukee he was determined to build the museum that told the stories of thousands of Americans—of whom were predominately black—lynched from 1882 to 1968. More importantly, it would be an institution to house the contributions and sacrifices of African Americans. “I wonder if God saved me for this mission” Cameron later said to the Associated Press. “It had to be. And I thank him for that”.

In addition of opening The Black Holocaust Museum, James Cameron published his memoirs in 1982 titled, A Time of Terror as well publishing articles and booklets; such as, What is Equality in American Life and The Lingering Problem.

In 1993, Cameron was pardon by the Indiana Governor, Evan Bayh and the Mayor of Marion, Indiana—the town that changed his life forever—by giving him the key to the city. In 2005 he went to Washington D.C. in frailty of his life, for the U.S. Senate apology for the failure to end lynching.

On June 11, 2006, James Cameron—the only person to have known to survived lynching—passed away at 92. He left a lasting legacy spanning from that sweltering night in Marion, Indiana, to neighboring town of Anderson leaving an imprint of his civil right causes, and to Milwaukee where a simple dream became a reality—the Black Holocaust Museum.

In a video titled “Marion Indiana 1930 Lynching, Cameron proved he was beyond the resentment from leftover scars from racism after his pardon: “Indiana forgave me, and I forgave Indiana”. 

Sources:

ChicagoReader.com – online article, Fredrick H. Lowe

Hypetext.com – online article, unknown author

NPR.com – online article, unknown author

NPR.com – online article, Abel Meeropol Biography, unknown author

Washington Post – online article, Yvonne Shinhoster, June 13, 2006

Youtube.com – Strange Fruit, Billie Holiday

Youtube.com – Marion Indiana 1930 Lynching

Youtube.com – James Cameron, Being Saved from Lynching

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Beauty: From the Inside and Out

Our self worth—it’s that main ingredient that makes us strong and a better person. Without it, self-pity can tame our true selves. However there’s one question to ponder—why do we as humans allow our pain to define us?

The question looms in my debut novel (titled to be announced later) about my main character’s self-worth. She suffered many storms including years of domestic abuse—and when that chapter of her life had ended—she moved on but did the suffering as battered woman define her? The brutal beatings, the name calling, and the unwanted forced desire upon her spouse all left a burden in her heart for years. My character’s psyche—unknowingly—allowed one person’s act to define of who and what she was. And unfortunately, there are millions of women like her.

I won’t get into the details if my character’s strength has helped overcome her demons—you just have wait this summer until the release of my book. However, there are women you may know, or it could be you, or it could be me that has allowed our pain to define us.

Beauty is more than just wearing short dresses, Mac products, and Maybelline—beauty is an inner glow that shine of our confidence. It’s the ingredient that brews our self worth. We know we deserved to be loved and yet choose to stay in questionable relationships. Or become bitter from heartbreak because our pain is too great to love again.

Love is not supposed to hurt you, or strip you from your true self. Love is not meant to be used as a weapon for guilt and shame. Love shouldn't be used as rage, or inflate one’s person ego while leaving another in tears.

In essence, self worth doesn't discriminate. There are men that walk with prominent scars of abuse. Their invisible tears hide behind their pain, confusion, and guilt from their childhood, or suffered heartbreak from a woman’s bitterness all because she would rather hurt them before she’d get hurt. It’s a mere reciprocation of pain.

In a blog I wrote years ago about bitterness, anger, and pity—and how it would lead to heartache and pain. I've taken this quote from the text because it rings so true: We are KINGS and QUEENS of our destiny; the Authors of our own story, and the Painters of our canvasses. We can fight it, we can do it, and we can be it!

So, again, are you going to let your past define you, or learn from it to manifest it into the person you are meant to be?


Courtesy: Put A Wedge In It (Katrina Gurl, Inc). This blog is a must follow!

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AN OPEN LETTER....

In a recent news story, MSNBC’s Melissa Harris-Perry recited a powerful open letter to Indiana’s Senatorial Candidate, Richard Murdoch toward the end of her self-titled show on his recent remarks of how it was God’s will for a woman to get rape and pregnant by her attacker. The video of Ms. Perry was so inspiring that I've decided to express the same sentiment. Yet my open letter is not to Mr. Murdoch but to a group of people that I've met during my lifetime—my attackers.

Dear Sad and Unfortunate Ones,

After going through years of counseling and prayers, I've come to terms as to why every relationship I've been in went awry; or why I end up in inappropriate affairs, or why I accepted being the second option, the backup, and the two a.m. booty-call. Every relational decision I've made, every tear I've cried, every how-did-I-get-into-this-situation rant, every self-loathing, suicidal thought and guilt, all stems back to you—the cowardly attacker.

However, I won’t give you the satisfaction of placing all of my bad choices firmly on you because the key word in this sentence is CHOICE. The backbone I should’ve grown to end that madness was a part of me. The only thing I place squarely on you is most likely you've been abused yourself—either sexually, physically, or suffered some type of neglect—but it doesn't matter. What you've endured on me, I didn't inflict on someone’s child—I didn't continue an ugly cycle of lifetime pain and mistrust. I'd chose to move on with my life the best way I knew how, despite carrying that shame and guilt. My personal hell was mine alone, but that was less I can say about you. Your choice was based on selfishness, and didn't give a flying fuck about the consequences.

But that wasn't what it was about, wasn't it? Rather, it was a few minutes of lust to sooth your pleasure. To make you feel superior next to my vulnerability. Just because you suffered abuse with the images of whomever had hurt you playing your head, you chose to inflict that same hurt on the defenseless. Releasing your anger and rage by fondling my sacred parts or elevating it by penetrating deep into my innocence--you flat out didn't care as long as you got it. Then after you reached your shameful point, you knew how much you've hurt me—the window to my soul was transparent. You went your way and I went mine, as if nothing had happened.

The salutation in this letter, however, is plural, and yet I’m treating this as one act because the guilt and shame I wore for years. At the tender age of eight I was confused with her inappropriate touch that left me wondering, this is wrong but why does it feel good? Then my confusion turned into fear two years later when he crushed any trust I had in men—and then that mistrust turned into self-hatred when I was sixteen…I became the train at a party.

So to you, Sad and Unfortunate people, please don’t take this open letter as pity. My words are my strength. Your few minutes of perversion only gave me temporary grief. I chose not to swim in your bullshit but gathered any strength I had to not let the past define me—or you define me. I chose to wake every morning and rejoice on the future; I chose writing as my therapy to blossom into something more; I’ve chosen happiness; I’ve chosen the free will God gave me to use my gift as awareness for lost souls like you—and more importantly, I’m choosing not to be the victim or just surviving but to thrive. I’m holding the keys now and not you.

Sad and Unfortunate one, this may come as a shock to you but I do forgive you. Though, I’m not doing this for your benefit but for mine. I have to free myself from your psychological bondage to love myself the way I should’ve done years ago. You, however, need to do the same to whoever hurt you. That person had planted your seed of a pedophiliac life. So I’ll ask you this, when will it ever stop? When will you fight those personal demons and stop the cycle? Although you cannot go back in time and return my innocence, you should rectify the wrongs by opening your eyes at you've created. At least facing them is a start and to understand what you've become.

As an author of Zion’s Road I do believe in second chances—everyone no matter how much they screwed their lives or to others—they, too, deserves a chance to get their life right. So, I’m going to leave it up to you with your thoughts and the past. There’s nothing you can do to me. I’m too empowered to even worry about the yesterdays because your selfishness didn't break me; it only strengthened me.

You see, I’m still standing.

Sincerely,

Imani Wisdom

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BLOG EXCLUSIVE: Daniella's Story

 I’m usually afraid of thunderstorms. The loud crashing of its thunder rocking the sky used to make me tremble enough to go and seek the comforts of my mommy. I would lie next to her while she read one of her favorite books on the corner of the couch and soothed any fear I had toward the bad weather. “Thunderstorms won’t you hurt, Daniella,” she chuckled as she paused from her reading. This was followed by her motherly smile and the soft pats near my single ponytail.

It had just been me and my mommy for years until the day she met my stepfather. He was nice to us at first by taking us to fun places like Chuck E. Cheese, the park, or Disneyworld. He would take mommy to nice, grown-up places like fancy restaurants and overnight vacations to expensive hotels. Everything was going fine with the three of us until my stepfather, who was no taller than mommy, came home one night and began to hit her. The sounds of his hand hitting against her skin still makes me cringe.

Later that night I played alone with my baby dolls on the living room floor. At seven years old, I sat between the couch and a recliner chair combing the kinks from one of my doll’s hair. As I hummed a tune I learned in school mommy shouted from the kitchen, “Daniella, dinner will be done soon.” I smiled back at her since she could see me from the stove. Whatever it was she was cooking smelled awfully good and it made my mouth water with excitement.

 Then my stepfather suddenly returned home and he didn’t look too happy. He slammed doors shut and pouted like a little kid before he sat on his recliner. Plopping his feet up he rubbed his dark colored forehead and let out an unhappy sigh. This was his usual routine night after night.

Looking into his eyes used to bother me because all I saw was someone who didn’t care. My stepfather’s vibes rubbed the nicest people into the saddest, but I grew used to his mean personality. Mommy told me all the time that mean people weren’t born mean they were made. I would quickly answer her with, “Isn’t that tiring for a mean person to stay mean forever?”

 Then my stepfather moved on to the next step of his routine. He went to the kitchen with mommy and pierced his eyes through her as if he wished she wasn’t his wife. I knew mommy felt what he was going to do by how nervous she acted, but she been used to it for three years. Stepfather would come home mean, pick fights with mommy, and hit her for no reason at all! That’s how it has been. I learned to find ways to live with it even if I had to hold in my tears.

Next thing I knew he was yelling at her like she did something wrong. Rushing behind her while she tried to cook he pulled her hair back to force her to look him in his eyes. “Why are you doing this,” she cried. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” She was right. Mommy never caused the fights. She only tried to be a good wife.

“Shut up,” he yelled.

“Please, stop!”

“Did you hear what I said? I said shut up!”

His routine continued as he slapped mommy hard making her fall to the floor. She crawled underneath the kitchen table to get away from his grip and was crying for him to stop. Part of mommy’s routine was trying to trade for the beatings to stop and then she would give him anything he wanted. Sometimes it worked and sometimes she got beat more. That night he ignored the bargain and the beating continued.

I turned away from the madness to play with my dolls and hummed any tune I could think of. That night the slaps were so loud that I focused on the booming sound of the thunder.

“Why can’t you do what I say,” he yelled as he continued to beat her.

With each blow to her face I could hear mommy’s echoed, blood curdling screams. She screamed so loudly I almost couldn’t hear the pounding noise of the thunderstorm anymore. “I’m sorry,” she pleaded. My stepfather didn’t say a word. He only moved to another phase of his routine which was calling her names.

            I still faced away from the beating. Tuning them out was all I could do. If I cried he’d remind me that I could get it too. I did that before and remembered the terror he gave me. I didn’t want to be black and blue like mommy. Maybe I should’ve worn a brave face and shed tears for her, but after the fact when I saw mommy lying on the floor bloody, broken, or bruised I feared he would’ve done me like that too.

While I heard her crying he told her, “You think you’re going to leave me? Think again!” Then the routine suddenly changed. My stepfather went to the hallway closet and began to throw coats, shoes, and boxes out of his way, but there was one box that stood alone behind the other clutter. I saw him grab a small shoebox and load a small gun from the corner of my eye. I knew this was bad. He was usually just waving the pistol at mommy to make her cry, but this was different… much different.

He stomped toward mommy with his hand on the trigger and then pushed the barrel of the gun to her face. “Are you going to leave me now,” he grunted.

“Please don’t,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry!”

“Shut up!”

“I’ll do anything for you to stop. Please, no more!”

“Oh really,” he said as he turned my way giving me a freakish grin. “Anything,” he asked mommy.

 Her eyes widened as she suddenly realized what he meant by anything. She scooted, crawled, and even got dragged by him while he walked towards me.

“I didn’t mean Daniella,” she screamed while trying to rush to me.

He raised the back of his hand to my mommy and slapped her back to the floor. With the pistol still in his hand and his freakish grin he stood above me and my dolls.

“Your mom said anything, Daniella.”

‘Anything,’ I wondered. Saying anything could mean all kinds of things. Does he want me to say anything to keep him from hurting mommy or does anything mean to beat me too? At the time I clearly didn’t understand the word anything, but I knew by his devilish grin that it wasn’t good.

“Come to Daddy,” he softly said.

The way he said ‘Come to daddy’ skipped beats in my heart. The creepy tone behind his soulless eyes made me fearful of his next move like mommy. With my dolls in my hands I used my fists to crawl to another safe area in the room. ‘He’s not going to get me’, I said to myself.

“Daddy is not going hurt you,” he said “Come here, Daniella.”

 Then out of the blue mommy screamed. She ran toward my stepfather as if she had a mission, hopped on his back, and scratched his face with her nails like she had cat claws. “Stay away from her,” she yelled. He tossed her over his shoulder and she landed on her back.

All of this was getting to be way too much. For the first time I stopped playing with my dolls and sprung from the comfortable living room floor yelling, “Why are you doing this to my mommy?” That made things worse because he told me to shut up or I’d get it too as he pointed the gun toward me.

“Now, if you want to look like your mother I’d suggest you stay quiet,” he ordered.

I wanted to call for help but I was frozen. Then I looked out the window through the thick fog from the rain praying that someone could see through our window.

After that mommy grabbed the gun and told me to leave the room, but again I was frozen and scared of what would happen next. All kinds of things rushed in my mind like ‘if the gun goes off and mommy dies, who would take care of me?’ Mommy didn’t have contact with her parents. I guess they didn’t like her life choices so they cut ties from us. ‘What if the gun goes off and kills my stepfather? Should I cry or pray? Should I even mourn if he has a soulless heart? Or should I really care about what happens to him at all?’ This is not the first time I saw mommy fighting the man who tried to beat the life out of her for three years.

“Daniella go to your room,” she demanded once more, while wrestling the gun from his hand.

This time I did what she said, but as soon as I began to leave the room I heard this thunderous boom different than the sound of the storm outside. The deafening silence surprised my mommy and my stepfather, and I didn’t understand why they stopped fighting. Then I felt a weird pinch in my back. I thought it was him trying to hurt me like he does with mommy, but before I could ask mommy was she okay my legs fell asleep and I buckled to the floor.

“You shot my baby,” I heard her cry.

I heard the sound of her footsteps by my side. Then I felt warm kisses on my forehead and remember her begging God not to take me. I guess her begging didn’t make it to him fast enough because everything suddenly turned black and it felt like my body rose like a cloud. Mommy knelt by my body crying loudly while my stepfather held the gun with the smoke still lightly rising from the barrel. He was speechless as if there was nothing left to be said.

“I’m okay mommy,” I tried to tell her, but she didn’t hear me.

 Everything turned black once again and that was the last time I felt my mommy’s hands on me.

Since then I’ve been in Heaven watching the earthly days go by and now realize so much more. You would think from that night a person would learn from their mistakes. Well, unfortunately someone didn’t get the message. After my stepfather served a few years for my murder mommy went back to him. She lives every day being black and blue and the same old cycle goes on like when I was alive. I pray for her to get some common sense. Just because I’m in Heaven doesn’t mean prayer have to stop or that I can’t forgive the people who brought me here.

The only things I miss are the warmth of mommy’s love, her holding me tenderly until I fall sleep, and getting her sweet goodnight tuck in kisses. Too bad I won’t ever experience a senior prom, learn how to drive, go to college, get married, or have a family. I was robbed of all those things because someone hated rejection, but it may end sooner than later because as the cycle goes on history will repeat.

I want my voice to ring through this text to remind everyone that anger is a letter short of danger. Due to one person’s action time stood still for me and I will never experience anything past the age of seven that normal people do. My mommy’s self-esteem is so low she feels she doesn’t deserve to be loved by someone who respects her. Now I have to get ready to greet my loved ones because they haven’t learned from my death. Like me, mommy has to bury my new little brother. He suffered the same ill-timed fate and most likely he’ll repeat this same story with the very same ending.

©2011, Imani Wisdom

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Imani's "How to" Moment: You're a Writer Dammit, Just Write!

Have you ever sat in front your computer, trying to figure what you’re going to write, but all you have in front of you is the dreaded blinking cursor?

Its six o’clock in the morning on a Friday, and my intentions for getting up this early is either two things: workout and writing—which the first one I’ve done successfully.

Since I’m facing with a case of writer’s block, I thought back earlier in the week when I was asked how do I solve a dry writing spell. I simply told these couple of people to freewrite, freewrite, and freewrite some more.

Since my ideas are dried up like a desert wind, I’m taking my chances to write anything that comes to mind. If my mind goes blank—I would type blank, blank, blank until an idea has sparked—and at this point, it has.

Perhaps this post should be titled, freewriting for all of you aspiring writers and/or authors. Everyone suffers from writer’s block…I mean everyone! It’s a normal part of being a writer. You want to convey your thoughts and your imagination onto paper but it goes blank immediately when type or write the first letter. Then it comes…but wait a minute…there it goes. You get frustrated as you stare at the annoying black slit they call a cursor—reminding you that your dry spell exist. Your mind tells you to relax and do other things like check your Facebook or Twitter pages—which are huge time wasters. And yes, I’m guilty of that too.

So now I’m typing for the Hell of it. Allowing my fingers to tap against keyboard as the rhythmic thud puts in me in a trance. It’s a beautiful sound, isn’t it? Once you feel the groove, then you start to feel productive. The smile comes back and all of your ideas begin to pour like a waterfall. And there after your frustration—and not to mention you started to feel a bit depressed—you’ve did it. Your freewriting had turned into a post. And maybe this particular post wasn’t much of a post—but nevertheless, I feel effin’ great!

My Imani’s “How to” Moment: When you feel as though as you’re stuck in the mud put your thought process into second gear and shift your mind in another direction. I’ve stayed up the night before brainstorming on what to write for this post and nothing, of course. Let this blog be an example for you writers out there. Freewrite your ideas without stopping or pressing the backspace button—let every word pour through your fingers. Imperfections will be perfected once the final draft has been finalized.

So stop stressin’, it’s all a part of being a writer.

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