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Unless you match my heart and words, saying with me,. In Virginia tobacco fields, leaning into the curve of Steinway pianos, along Arkansas roads, in the red hills of Georgia, into the palms of her chained hands, she cried against calamity, You have tried to destroy me and though I perish daily,. Her universe, often summarized into one black body falling finally from the tree to her feet, made her cry each time into a new voice.
All my past hastens to defeat, and strangers claim the glory of my love, Iniquity has bound me to his bed. She heard the names, swirling ribbons in the wind of history: She said, But my description cannot fit your tongue, for I have a certain way of being in this world,. No angel stretched protecting wings above the heads of her children, fluttering and urging the winds of reason into the confusions of their lives.
The sprouted like young weeds, but she could not shield their growth from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor shape them into symbolic topiaries. She sent them away, underground, overland, in coaches and shoeless. She stood in midocean, seeking dry land.
Assured, she placed her fire of service on the altar, and though clothed in the finery of faith, when she appeared at the temple door, no sign welcomed Black Grandmother, Enter here. Into the crashing sound, into wickedness, she cried, No one, no, nor no one million ones dare deny me God, I go forth along, and stand as ten thousand. The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my feet without ceasing into the camp of the righteous and into the tents of the free.
These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple, honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted down a pyramid for years. She stands before the abortion clinic, confounded by the lack of choices. In the Welfare line, reduced to the pity of handouts. Ordained in the pulpit, shielded by the mysteries. In the operating room, husbanding life. In the choir loft, holding God in her throat. On lonely street corners, hawking her body. In the classroom, loving the children to understanding.
However I am perceived and deceived, however my ignorance and conceits, lay aside your fears that I will be undone,. In my family, like in many other Black families, at least when I was growing up, there were two things that every child was expected to learn without question: The roller rink, with its shiny, polished floor, flashing colored lights, and giant mural painted on the far wall, was almost like a second home.
For years, my siblings, friends and I whizzed around to popular songs including my all-time favorite skate song, Pour Some Sugar on Me. We watched in awe as the jamskaters danced around the circuit, boogying and bouncing and swaying their hips to the rhythm like the skates were just an extension of their bodies.
We did wheelbarrow races and the Hokey Pokey and Shoot the Duck contests. Occasionally, the DJ would turn on a slow jam, which meant hand-in-hand skating for couples, and a Slurpee and popcorn break for us wallflowers.
My own kids, by contrast, have rarely been to the roller rink. So a few days ago, thanks to some coupons and a surge of parental guilt, I decided to correct that mistake.
And Black people skate. They hobbled after me to the floor, where I pretty much wished them good luck and whizzed off. My two oldest kids quickly remembered their skills and were soon coasting around the floor with me, having fun.
My 9yo, however, turned out to be a wall-hugger, barely budging from his spot. I know, I know — probably not a move that would win me Mommy of the Year Award. But hey — it worked. And by the end of our skate session, he was edging forward without clutching the wall. For the most part, though, we all had a terrific time. And I was so surprised by how little the rink has changed over the years, from the flashing lights to the mural to the music.
Of course, now they are playing One Direction instead of Def Leppard, but still. My only complaint was that I had to really work to control my speed with so many little kids on the floor. Once, I actually managed to run over a little boy who cut in front of me. Perhaps one day soon, I will venture out to one of the adult-only skate nights, which are filled with other people like me who remember those early days of disco skate and jamskating, and who still dance their way around the circuit, bouncing and swaying to the music.
A relative of mine recently announced the birth of her daughter. Why is there an H? Does it mean anything? Can I call her Kallie? But still, the questions are there. Many non-black people are perplexed by the naming traditions of many black Americans. To be fair, there are quite a few black Americans who are puzzled by recent trends of unconventional naming, too. For decades after the abolition of slavery in the U.
As more parents caught on to the trend and embraced the idea of expressing their cultural pride through the naming of their children, more unique names began to emerge. Parents strove to create interesting names that sounded pleasing to the ear, often by taking African, English, or French names and adding their own twists.
I cringe in part because of the at times outlandish spelling and the stray from phonetic rules — what may seem unique and pleasing to the ear of the parents may be seen as uneducated and laughable to the rest of society. Jupiter Jones is also the name of a band in Greenville, NC. Jupiter Sheep was once a band, also. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart completed his Symphony No. It was his last symphony. The work is nicknamed the Jupiter Symphony.
Search for a Name. What are his siblings named? Contribute your knowledge to the name Jupiter Report inappropriate content.
How does Jupiter sound to you? To get more knowledge Explanation [ edit ] This comic is a play on the popular school-yard taunt , "Girls go to college, to get more knowledge; boys go to Jupiter, to get more stupider," also commonly heard as "Boys go to Mars, to get more candy bars; girls go to Jupiter, to get more stupider.
Transcript [ edit ] [Megan facing left is sitting on a stool at a table while studying. She is bent over her paper writing on it, while her laptop is standing open on top of two books lying in front of her. In front of her, just inside the panel to the left is the back and neck of another student sitting on a chair visible, with only the rear leg and back of the chair shown.
Behind her just inside the panel to the right is the front end of another table, one leg visible, and here lies a pile of paper, as tall as the two books. Two frames above Megan narrates the poem: He is holding a piece of paper up in one hand head turned toward it. His other hand holds a page, with text shown as thin lines, in the open book lying in front of him. His laptop is standing open behind the book. In front of him, just inside the panel to the right is the back and arms of another student sitting on a chair visible, with only the rear leg and back of the chair shown.
Behind him just inside the panel to the left is the front end of another table, one leg visible, and here lies a pile of four books. Two frames above Cueball narrates the poem: Megan sitting behind a table with a rectangular item on top, holds a model of the capsule that goes on the top of a space craft in her hand pointing to it with the other hand while Cueball standing to the right gestures at the model as well.
To the left sits Ponytail in an office chair, she is wearing a head-set and sits in front of screen, just inside the panel, she seems to be controlling something, but no keyboard is visitable.
Above her is another screen attached to the wall off-panel. The the right there sits a Cueball-like guy on a chair, who is also working on some screen, which is mainly off-panel as is the front of his head. On the wall behind there hangs two pictures. The first shows the curve of a white planet against black space, two continents or clouds visible. There is an insert in the top left corner with a small drawing, and some text or number unreadable in the top right corner.
The other picture seems to show a space craft with two large solar panels, white on the black black background of space. Has some similarities to the international space station. There are four white lines representing text labels pointing to different parts. One frame at the top narrates the poem: A white rectangle right above the tip of the rocket narrates the poem which first ends in the title text: Discussion I figured it was a poem.
Posted a link to a meme with the reverse version which is also currently used in the explanation. Stop the 'sex war' jokes and admit that both boys and girls want knowledge. And to arrive to Jupiter.
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