Global Renaissance Woman
Dr. Maya Angelou is one of the most renowned and influential voices of our time. Hailed as a global renaissance woman, Dr. Angelou is a celebrated poet, memoirist, novelist, educator, dramatist, producer, actress, historian, filmmaker, and civil rights activist.
Born on April 4th, 1928, in St. Louis, Missouri, Dr. Angelou was raised in St. Louis and Stamps, Arkansas. In Stamps, Dr. Angelou experienced the brutality of racial discrimination, but she also absorbed the unshakable faith and values of traditional African-American family, community, and culture.
As a teenager, Dr. Angelou’s love for the arts won her a scholarship to study dance and drama at San Francisco’s Labor School. At 14, she dropped out to become San Francisco’s first African-American female cable car conductor. She later finished high school, giving birth to her son, Guy, a few weeks after graduation. As a young single mother, she supported her son by working as a waitress and cook, however her passion for music, dance, performance, and poetry would soon take center stage.
In 1954 and 1955, Dr. Angelou toured Europe with a production of the opera Porgy and Bess. She studied modern dance with Martha Graham, danced with Alvin Ailey on television variety shows and, in 1957, recorded her first album, Calypso Lady. In 1958, she moved to New York, where she joined the Harlem Writers Guild, acted in the historic Off-Broadway production of Jean Genet’s The Blacks and wrote and performed Cabaret for Freedom.
In 1960, Dr. Angelou moved to Cairo, Egypt where she served as editor of the English language weekly The Arab Observer. The next year, she moved to Ghana where she taught at the University of Ghana’s School of Music and Drama, worked as feature editor for The African Review and wrote for The Ghanaian Times.
During her years abroad, Dr. Angelou read and studied voraciously, mastering French, Spanish, Italian, Arabic and the West African language Fanti. While in Ghana, she met with Malcolm X and, in 1964, returned to America to help him build his new Organization of African American Unity.
Shortly after her arrival in the United States, Malcolm X was assassinated, and the organization dissolved. Soon after X’s assassination, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. asked Dr. Angelou to serve as Northern Coordinator for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. King’s assassination, falling on her birthday in 1968, left her devastated.
With the guidance of her friend, the novelist James Baldwin, she began work on the book that would become I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Published in 1970, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was published to international acclaim and enormous popular success. The list of her published verse, non-fiction, and fiction now includes more than 30 bestselling titles.
A trailblazer in film and television, Dr. Angelou wrote the screenplay and composed the score for the 1972 film Georgia, Georgia. Her script, the first by an African American woman ever to be filmed, was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.
She continues to appear on television and in films including the landmark television adaptation of Alex Haley’s Roots (1977) and John Singleton’s Poetic Justice (1993). In 1996, she directed her first feature film, Down in the Delta. In 2008, she composed poetry for and narrated the award-winning documentary The Black Candle, directed by M.K. Asante.
Dr. Angelou has served on two presidential committees, was awarded the Presidential Medal of Arts in 2000, the Lincoln Medal in 2008, and has received 3 Grammy Awards. President Clinton requested that she compose a poem to read at his inauguration in 1993. Dr. Angelou’s reading of her poem “On the Pulse of the Morning” was broadcast live around the world.
Dr. Angelou has received over 30 honorary degrees and is Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University.
Dr. Angelou’s words and actions continue to stir our souls, energize our bodies, liberate our minds, and heal our hearts.(Source) http://mayaangelou.com
Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – review
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s accomplished third novel is a subtly provocative exploration of oppression and the idea of home
After 13 years in the United States, Ifemelu is about to return to Lagos; but first she must go to the hairdresser’s. So far, so run-of-the-mill, for who doesn’t want to look their best to greet a crowd of people they haven’t seen for a long time? But for Ifemelu, this essential piece of personal maintenance is not exactly straightforward. First, she must take a train out of Princeton, where the few black people she has seen are “so light-skinned and lank-haired she could not imagine them wearing braids”, then she must take a cab to an unfamiliar salon, her usual hairdresser being unavailable because she has returned to Ivory Coast to get married; then wrangle over the price; then sit in baking heat for many hours, during which she will be asked repeatedly whether she knows the Nollywood stars on the television and, more alarmingly, whether she can intercede on her Senegalese braider Aisha’s behalf to persuade either of her Igbo suitors to marry her.
Hair is a big deal in Americanah (the slang term that Ifemelu’s Lagos friends will use to describe her when she goes back to Nigeria). “Why don’t you have relaxer?” asks Aisha, to which she replies, “I like my hair the way God made it”, meaning that she refuses to straighten her hair by means of chemicals and smoothing irons; but it is also a statement made ironic by its context, given that the pair are in the midst of a disagreement about what colour hair extensions Aisha should use to weave into Ifemelu’s braids. “Colour one is too black, it looks fake,” Ifemelu tells her, but Aisha merely “shrugged, a haughty shrug, as though it was not her problem if her customer did not have good taste”.
What is real, what is fake, how many layers of history and culture it takes to construct a national, or racial, or personal identity, and how contingent that identity is on its immediate surroundings are all questions that Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie poses in her third novel; but her real talent is to make those questions seem as if they cannot be contained by neat, orderly language, and instead to animate them, to embed them in messy, difficult lives that are filled with idiosyncrasy and complication and compromise.
Ifemelu has herself created a life based on observing the weirdnesses – mostly painful, sometimes comical – that emerge when different groups of people live together in a system shaped to maintain the dominance of one group over others. Her blog, Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known As Negroes) by a Non- American Black, created so that she could voice her various puzzlements and conclusions about what she saw around her, has become a huge success, managing to keep happy both the kind of readers who routinely use the word “reify” and those who want to chat in more laidback fashion about their experiences. In posts such as Badly Dressed White Middle Managers From Ohio Are Not Always What You Think, about a man who has adopted a black child and finds himself shunned by his neighbours, she chronicles her unexpected discoveries; in more didactic mode, she counsels her fellow immigrants in unabashedly straightforward, no-nonsense terms. Stop telling Americans you are Jamaican or Ghanaian, she writes in To My Fellow Non-American Black: In America, You Are Black, Baby, because “America doesn’t care”: “You must nod back when a black person nods at you in a heavily white area. It is called the black nod … If you go to eat in a restaurant, please tip generously. Otherwise the next black person who comes in will get awful service, because waiters groan when they get a black table. You see, black people have a gene that makes them not tip, so please overpower that gene.”
In the process, Ifemelu has gone from being broke, depressed and alienated to being a condo-owning Fellow at Princeton. She would not wish to return to her early student life in America, when she was forced to help a sports coach to “relax” so that she could pay her rent; when she was utterly bewildered by the customs of the country. But nor is she quite at home with her life as it is; and a kind of weariness, a build-up of “amorphous longings, shapeless desires” has led her to this point of departure.
There are also more concrete reasons: perhaps the example of her Aunty Uju, a doctor who came to America following the death of the military high-up who kept her in fine style as his mistress, but who has found herself incrementally diminished by it; or Ifemelu’s failure to find a definitively comfortable fit with her painstakingly moral and politically fastidious boyfriend Blaine; or by the knowledge that she herself feels a disconnect in what she is doing. “You know why Ifemelu can write that blog, by the way?” asks Shan, Blaine’s jealous and unpleasant sister. “Because she’s African. She’s writing from the outside. She doesn’t really feel all the stuff she’s writing about. It’s all quaint and curious to her. So she can write it and get all these accolades and get invited to give talks. If she were African-American, she’d just be labelled angry and shunned.” The tension between these two characters has simmered for some time, and this is an explosive moment. But Ifemelu barely reacts, saying only “I think that’s fair”.
And there is also Obinze, the childhood sweetheart – indeed, once her future husband – whom she left in Nigeria and who shares, as a lesser partner, the narrative. Obinze’s experience of emigration has been less successful than Ifemelu’s; a brief stint in London sees him working under a false name and paying over the odds for an arranged marriage, only to be arrested on his way to the ceremony and later deported from a country “odorous with fear of asylum seekers”. He has also seen friends from home in decidedly elevated circumstances: Emenike, who has married a wealthy lawyer and subsequently “cast home as the jungle and himself as interpreter of the jungle”, invites him to a dinner party in Islington, at which Obinze is struck by the unmatched artisan plates that would never be used for guests in Nigeria. More unbridgeable, though, is his fellow guests’ inability to understand he is not a refugee: “They would not understand why people like him, who were raised well-fed and watered but mired in dissatisfaction, conditioned from birth to look towards somewhere else and eternally convinced that real lives happened in that somewhere else, were now resolved to do dangerous things, illegal things, so as to leave, none of them starving, or raped, or from burned villages, but merely hungry for choice and certainty.”
Obinze’s enforced return to Nigeria brings power, albeit through chance connections, so that when, towards the end of the book, Ifemelu arrives in Lagos as an awkward outsider, he is very much part of the new establishment. Whether they are able to retrieve their former intimacy, or whether it has been chased away by the transformations wrought in them by their travels, provides a tentative resolution.
But it is also slightly unsatisfactory, because Americanah is a book that works better when it is in transit, detailing people and situations who are in the act of becoming. Its structure is complex and sometimes unwieldy; there is much looping backwards and forwards in time as Ifemelu sits in the hair salon, and one feels slightly lost once her braids are finished and the narrative has moved on. Similarly, some characters are glimpsed too fleetingly to make a lasting impression; in the case of Ifemelu’s parents, for example, this neatly mirrors their daughter’s fading memories of them, but it is also tricky for the reader.
Nonetheless, this is an impressive novel – although very different from Adichie’s Orange prize-winning Half of a Yellow Sun, it shares some of its freewheeling, zesty expansiveness. But that should not disguise its delicacy; it is also an extremely thoughtful, subtly provocative exploration of structural inequality, of different kinds of oppression, of gender roles, of the idea of home. Subtle, but not afraid to pull its punches. We all wish race was not an issue, says Ifemelu, talking about inter-racial relationships at a polite Manhattan dinner party, the day after Obama becomes the presidential candidate: “But it’s a lie. I came from a country where race was not an issue, I did not think of myself as black and I only became black when I came to America.”
We love word
We hate word
Still we dream word
Magical word of thought
Spiritual ideas bought
In poems for poet
Words get details
It can irritate
It can waste a taste
Words in the world
Word is up
Still on top of the word
The answer to our harmony
The light to testimony
World of trinity
I dear to eat up the word
Word’s up on top,
In our world
This is so true.
In this post we look at some of the characteristics between successful and unsuccessful people. These distinctions help us cultivate behaviors that promote happiness, success, gratitude, motivation, achievement and overall positivity!
Let’s get right to it!
We are what we say, show, do and feel. How we stand, the tone in our voice, our levels of energy – all represent how we ‘show up‘ in the world. How we carry ourselves is how the world see us, but most importantly how we see ourselves.
Upon seeing this image I had the following questions:
What are some of our most frequent words and phrases?
What are we showing ourselves, our family, and the world on a regularly basis?
How do we feel most often?
What are we spending our time on?
How do we solve problems?
These might seem like small things, but all of these things add up…
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During this past week, i got this statistic from a book I was reading, and I thought it would be good to share this little inspiring information with you, in other to buttress more on last week tablet (TIME).
According to statistic the average lifespan in American is 79.5 years of age. If you are now 20,then according to the lifespan statistics of American, you have just over 700 months to live.if you are 30,then you have approximately 480 months to live. if you are 50,then you have over 320 months, if 60 then about 240 months, if 70,then approximately 120 months, and if you are 80 or above…..then you are blessed.
Though this are numbers,but we must be cautious of the fact that one day we are going to live this plate(World). No man is going to stay here forever,no human knows how short or how long we are going to live.so why waste away the time when we have just limited time,time flies. It will be a waste if we can’t account for something positive we contribute to this world. Life is too short for us not to live life and enjoy it,it is too short for us to waste away the diamond in it. I really don’t know the reason why I have been writing about this subject,but I stand to believe that it is because of somebody,because of you.funny enough, as i’m writing this blog post listening to the radio,the song on the mix-tape speaks about time. Take your time,don’t loose your life, don’t break it down. Enjoy life, benefit time, never ever shy away your precious moment, to screw time is not worth it. Please drop a comment I really love to see it.*cheers*