Ohemaa Writes

Providing A Platform to Empower & Inspire A Sisterhood Amongst Queens, By Exploring Femininity & The Experiences That Shape & Challenge It

[caroohemaa]

🌱🌷🌳

[redbloodedamerica]

…and it’s true too.

[libertarirynn-deactivated202006]

I just always reblog this story too. Because it’s awesome. And because obviously Boggs is the kind of person that should be well known, and become a role model. (And Chris Garcia, Boggs’s friend who rode as well!) 

Also, I wanted to note that there’s a scholarship fund for the two boys set up. You can donate here!: http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/reward-the-heroes-scholarship-fund-temar-boggs-and-chris-garcia

[kuklarusskaya-deactivated202003]

Reblogging for scholarship information

[kickassfanfic]

The scholarship fund is currently at $15k, but we know that even now that’s a pittance compared to the actual cost of higher ed. And it doesn’t look like costs are going to be coming down, unfortunately.

Please donate if you can, and signal boost the heck outta this.

[drst]

Always reblog because someday I hope the first thing I think when we see a photo of a young black man is something like this, not “criminal” or “murdered by police.”

Also Tumblr, if we can raise money for people’s medical bills and sick cats and so on, surely we can send these two young men to college?

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Undocumented Origins Series: Opportunity

I  watched the BBC 4 programme on the moon, a little while ago. I must be honest, although I liked the new perspectives and information the programme offered, what I found most refreshing was the documentary's presenter.

She was a middle aged Black British woman, of Nigerian descent Maggie Aderin-Pocock. I'd heard of her before, but this time, she really grabbed my attention . For people like me, always on the look out for black women whose profession is uncommon, she was far more interesting than the moon.

She was a breath of fresh air, cool calm and collected, she seemed sure of who she was... a scientist.

Seeing her success as a leading woman in a field dominated by middle class, white men, I couldn't help but ask myself one question: what if she and her family had not received the elusive "Indefinite Stay"?  What if she had had to go back to Nigeria and focus on building a business rather than a career in  academia? What if she was still here, waiting for that visa extension, doing odd jobs in the mean time, just paying bills and surviving. Worst of all, what if she had had to take the notorious route of illigal immigration, the undercover "double life"?

I've met so many men and women who have not achieved their full potential, not because they are not hard working, but because of the one door that remains closed to them: "papers". School trips abroad, university entrance, holiday with friends, professional careers, academic careers... brains, skills and talents curtailed by paperwork, stigmas and assupmtions. Politics and ignorance. "We can't let everybody in!" But those who would be most beneficial to this country... are often marginalised because of the colour of their passport .

This led me to ask myself, (at the end of the documentary about the changing faces of the moon and it's effects on our planet) what if?... What if the presenter had not been granted access to the life of a British Citizen, but most importantly, what if the people on the other side of "citizenship", finally were?

Let's talk about it... #UndocumentedOrigins

This piece is dedicated to those who once aspired to be much more, but had to "make do" to make life happen instead: The LGBT activist, the doctor, the professional footballer, the journalist, the radio presenter, the florist and the Arts  Curator. Leine-Marie

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

This campaign fronted by Ghanaian presenter Ama K Abebrese does more than hit a nerve with me... Ever since I can remember, I was regularly reminded that darker skin took you further away from the idea of beauty... And this came from other women of colour!! School bullies "Why are you so BLIC?? Haha!" ----- 'Aunties' with blotchy, uneven skin that clearly bleached "You, you are too dark! How will you find hossband being SO DARK??" ----- from other Black girls "Yeah but I'm going to stay out of the sun because I don't want to get TOO DARK... I want to stay fair/brown"... 😢😢😢 How can we believe we're beautiful when THIS is what we're surrounded & bombarded with? WE NEED TO END THE CYCLE somehow... Why not NOW? #SayNoToSkinBleaching #SayNoToSkinToning #SelfLove #YourBlackisBeautiful 💗

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Playing With Colors ~ Part 2

When I told my mother about the tacky white dolls and showed her pictures of the toy shelves in two of the most prominent department stores, she was dismayed. She couldn't believe anyone thought it wise to sell them to an African market, and even worse that any Black mother and father could be moved to purchase them. I hadn't seen black dolls until this past February and they were priced ridiculously high. Due to rarity and import tax dolls that wouldn't even make it to the shelves in Target sold for about 80 Cedis which is roughly 30 USD, so even if a mother wanted to buy a black doll for her daughter the majority cannot afford to. 

While I was completing my semester in Ghana, my mother and a colleague from work organized “All Dolled Up” A 'Doll-Raiser' to collect Black Dolls to be distributed in Ghana. I was initially blown away by the idea and the commitment the women of my city showed in supporting their children across the Diaspora. I wanted to do more, I had drafted a proposal for summer writing workshops and other empowerment ventures but doll distribution was so tangible and personal that I was surprised I had not thought of it before. In total close to 100 dolls were collected. My mother joined me in Ghana with a suitcase full of black dolls of all shapes and sizes, there were princesses and fairies, business women and cloth baby dolls. My mother and I also picked up an array of soccer balls to supplement the dolls and make sure young kings (and queens who did not want dolls) did not leave empty handed.

We set out on a Saturday morning with two “Ghana-must-Go” bags in the trunk of tax and road 2 hours outside of Kumasi to Senchi and Okaikrom, two villages located near Effiduase in the Ashanti region. Prince Kwame Owusu, a coordinator for my study abroad program accompanied us and helped guide us through the process. At both villages we followed custom, meeting with elders and queen mothers, pouring libation, stating our purpose. The presence of toys caused much excitement. I will admit to being hot and overwhelmed. Kwame's face lit up as he handed out the dolls, my mother remarked that he was almost more excited than I appeared. There was one doll I had grown fond of through the sorting and I was crushed to see her so quickly thrown to the ground when the little girl who received her saw another doll she preferred, but the happiness on the faces of the women and children of the community that quickly overshadowed my thoughts of the neglected doll.

When we arrived in Okaikrom, the village I had lived in, I went to find the girls who had kept me company during my two week stay. I got so caught up in my sentimental reunions that I delayed the actual doll distribution. My girls were so shocked to see the toys. They smiled and laughed and cheered. Their hands rose hesitantly towards mine when I presented them with their dolls. I had left the village in a fury of tears a mumbled goodbyes, many of them thought I would never return but here I was with my mother and bag full of toys that looked like something they had not had many chances to see, themselves.

After akpeteshie libations, hugs, and photos, a chorus of “God Bless You” sang us out of the village. The lump in my throat reminded me that I was again leaving home. When I looked out the window of the taxi I saw a girl, who was resistant to embrace me when I arrived, perhaps because she felt some sense of betrayal when I first left with the group. I was stunned at her dissent from the rallying of her peers around me and my mother, partly because I had come expecting the love I had felt those two weeks as a resident .Ego aside I had genuinely sought her out for a gift, but she didn’t receive it and as I saw her standing there wearing sadness where her sister wore joy, I was reminded that my work was not done. Sure, I had given toys and created some happiness but there was still a more than subtle disconnect between the dolls and their meaning.

The girls deserved a workshop. A productive space to affirm their beauty and self-worth. The dolls are symbolic of this but I did not have the time our means to fill the gap between symbolism and lived experience. But I will return, with more dolls time and resources. With the help of Ohemaa Writes and affiliated Sister-Queens, I hope to promote the holistic empowerment of Ghanaian girls in an academic and cultural context unbiased by Eurocentric standards. 

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Playing With Colors ~ Part 1

In the years preceding, my birth my mother was an esteemed doll maker in the city of Atlanta. As a sculptor and a seamstress she found in doll making a place where her skills overlapped and became marketable. As Co-founder of Positive Images Enterprises my mother hosted fashion shows and cultural events designed to tap into a belief at the core of afro-centricism, that black is beautiful and deserving of praise. Her dolls embodied this ethos, dawning Kente and Ankara print, they were statements of radical self-acceptance in the face of Mattel, which was at the time slowly embracing aesthetic diversity in its product catalog.

Then she made me, a God-breathing doll sculpted not by her hands but by her genes and mediations. When I got old enough to want things, dolls were at the top of that list. My first Barbie was a ragged hand-me-down I met in the waiting area of some office building I accompanied my mother to. I remember her faintly, her dress ripped by overeager hands, her peachy plastic skin and tangled blonde hair. I don’t know why I was so fond of her, but when it was time to leave the building I refused to let her go. She became my little thing. A tool for telling stories – a friend to tell stories to. The office worker did not want to separate us. I imagine I spent hours with her in the worlds our childhoods project around us. Soon, my mother brought me another doll. This one was different, sure her facial feature resembled Barbie’s but her hair was black and her skin was brown – like mine. In the typical cruel fashion of a child I quickly lost interest in Barbie and turned all my attention to “Christie.” I began to notice that my mother would never buy me white dolls unless they were a likeness of a specific person (Mary-Kate & Ashley, Britney Spears, Posh Spice: Don’t Judge). I did not know my mother had spent years making dolls designed to protect black self-esteem, I didn’t yet see the correlation between toys and psychology. I never asked why, but I knew that with Barbie I dreamt up scenarios and played out episodes from TV shows but Christie and other Black dolls became part of my world. They could be sisters, cousins, even my imaginary children.

Fast-forward to the middle school classroom where I first learned of the Kenneth and Mamie Clark doll experiments of the 1940s that exposed elements internalized racism in children through the perception of dolls of different “colors.” This experiment was repeated in 2006 and the results exhibited in the documentary “A Girl Like Me” by African American filmmaker Kiri Davis. Despite integration, The Civil Rights Movement and a world of changes and advancements in American society, Davis’ results mirrored that of Clark. Black dolls were seen as “bad” and “ugly.” This sentiment reflects poor self-conception as a result of decades of the institutional degradation of black self-esteem.  Suddenly my mother’s objection to dolls that normalized whiteness became clear and I was grateful to have spent my childhood learning to love and care for dolls that looked like me.

Walking through the Ghanaian equivalent to a Super-Walmart as a volunteer with an art therapy NGO in 2012, I noticed that in a country full of people whose skin carries the sun’s most intimate blessing of melanin, the shelves were stocked full of the most heinous white dolls I had ever seen. While toys are far from the top priority in any developing nation, I could not help but link the abundance of these poorly constructed white dolls to the pervasive cultural vestige of colonialism. 

In the classroom, when we would ask students to draw them selves in the future, I walked around the room and saw teachers, accountants and pilots - all blonde-haired and blue-eyed. "Why is the hair like that?" "Why are the eyes that color? The skin?," I would ask and my students would respond with embarrassed giggles. In the future they wanted to be successful, they wanted to be able to "fly away from Ghana," they wanted to be white. I was disturbed, but not surprised. I was the only person of African descent in my volunteer team, the only black person in any of the volunteer teams I had seen. If colonialism and media weren't enough, the reality of benevolent white folks sprinkling money throughout impoverished African territories cemented the myth of white western superiority. 

I went home full of experience and forever grateful to have been welcomed so warmly by the people and children of Ghana, but when I decided to return for the Spring semester of my Junior year I was determined to make an impact. More specifically, to obscure the oppressive white fog I observed clouding the imaginations of Ghana's children.

To Be Continued......

Ra Imhotep

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Ra 🌹|| 👑 TeamOhemaa #TeamQueen 👑 || @ohemaa_writes Contributor || Join The Movement #Sisterhood #OhemaaWrites (at ohemaa-writes.tumblr.com/about)

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

On a crowded east London train: I was young and fresh and working. Attractive, eager and dreaming… But I didn’t say a word. When he rubbed his penis against me. I was in disbelief at first… only to hear his grunts and feel his breath as he became excited. I could feel his erection through his...

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Train Affair

On a crowded east London train:  I was young and fresh and working. Attractive, eager and dreaming... But I didn't say a word. When he rubbed his penis against me. I was in disbelief at first... only to hear his grunts and feel his breath as he became excited. I could feel his erection through his trousers, rubbing against my hip. I felt his blubber like stomach against my waist. And I stood and took it. Paralysed by shock, fear and shame, I didn't complain. I didn't kick him or shout out, punch or knee him in that foul place...  I then had "la présence d'esprit" to try and shuffle pass him but he wouldn't let me, he never budged. He stood, seeming "stoical", but enjoying himself too much to make my escape so easy. Bit more than 10 minutes, that's all. But I was his victim and it didn't matter how intelligent, empowered, "black and proud" I was. Just a body to violate. Not a poet, a well raised French girl, working hard and studying, with great friends and family. No, at that moment, I was just a numb and void and voiceless body. Worst of all? Something similar had happened before, in France, I was much younger then. Maybe 10. I had a friend sitting next to me and the man opposite kept squeezing my thigh with his knees. Shocked, I didn't protest, I just pretended not to feel him squeezing away. I'm not sure my friend saw it. She never said anything. You'd think years later I'd be more confident and able to speak out! Shame. These incidents can hardly be called rapes but they are sexual assaults nonetheless and shouldn't be suffered in silence. I regret not speaking out or fighting back. I regret forgetting I have a voice... fists and teeth too! Leine-Marie

[saashepsu]

Yaa Asantewa (Queen Mother of Ejisu) 1863-1923

Her fight against British colonialist is a story that is woven throughout the history of Ghana. One evening the chief’s held a secret meeting at Kumasi. Yaa Asantewa, the Queen Mother of Ejisu, was at the meeting. The Chief’s were discussing how they should make war on the white men and force them to bring back the Asantehene (Ruler of the Asante people). Yaa Asantewa noticed that some of the chief’s were afraid. Some said that there should be no war. They would bring back the Asantehene king Prempeh.

Suddenly Yaa Asantewa stood up and spoke. This was what she said: “Now I have seen that some of you go forward to fight for our king. If it were in the brave days, the days of Osei Tutu, Okomfo Anokye, and Opolu Ware, chiefs would not sit down to see their king taken away without firing a shot. No white men could have dared to speak to chief’s this morning. Is it true that bravery of Ashanti is no more? I cannot believe it. It cannot be! I Must say this, if you the men of Shanti will not go forward, then we will. We will fight the white men. We will fight till the last of us falls in the battlefields.” This speech stirred up the men who took an oath to fight the white men until they released the Ashantehene. For months the Ashantis led by Yaa Asantewa fought very bravery and kept the white men in the fort. However British reinforcements totaling 1,400 soldiers arrived at Kumasi. Yaa Asantewa and other leaders were captured and sent into exile. Yaa Asantewa’s war was the last major wars in Africa lead by a woman. by mekaforqueen http://ift.tt/1nYeNKq

[diariesofamisanthrope]

[balancedbarbiee]

Amen

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

By Jemilea

Sown on the concrete, thrown on stony ground; seeds searching for the cracks between pavement slabs

desperate for fertile ground. A discarded book, pages stained and well thumbed through, ripped, pages

missing. Unidentifable author. Can you accurately judge a book without a cover? Flung in ambivalent

attempts to educate the less fortunate, from a safe distance. A charity store, jumble sale reject. Unwanted,

unloved, uncared for. Like her.

Words. Letters strung together in consonant-vowel combinations she had never witnessed in her

household of angry four-letter, one-syllable vocal wars. Language necessary to navigate the various

territories and battlegrounds she encountered daily. Forming sounds, her mouth adjusting to the foreign

words she tried to pronounce, and practiced in secret. Words would set her free. Dictionary definitions

of captivity; the mortar that held the bricks of poverty she called home. Tower blocks unlike the lego she

built to represent the dollhouse dreams she saw captured on the 12inch screen that babysat her while her

parents argued about who had spent the electricity money on fags.

Inhaling secondhand smoke; the signal of the fire ablaze within her house, she turned to pages, characters,

imaginary friends who whispered to her detailed recollections of their adventures; they invited her. Using

her passport of imagination she became well travelled, well versed, well spoken, well read. Escapism

found in the tiny corner lamp under the blanket that illuminated the darkness and allowed her to read. To

find laughter in adverse situations, to decorate her walls with the colours of her books, paintings created

by the world she visited regularly in her mind. What would have become of her, if the authors never

believed in their stories, if the words never made it to a page, if disbelief and doubt prevented the sharing

of narratives?

And so I write. For her. For you. For me.

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Introducing… Caro Ohemaa: ‘And when the ink dries and the pages turn to dust, so will we’

I still refer to myself as a writer. I mean… I figure if I see it written in my Twitter & Instagram bios every time I log in, it will prompt me to be behave as such. Nah, I don’t mean writing people’s biographies, press releases or action plans. I mean… writing of the soul-fulfilling kind. Yup.

There was a time when writing was my undisputed, go-to form of therapeutic release. I could be on board a packed, overheated First Capital Connect train, on an unbearably cold plane, or at the back of a rickety bus with discarded chicken bones and empty coke cans competing with my feet for space… It was on these mind-numbingly mundane journeys that my mind would feel freest. I would (involuntarily) close my eyes and wish myself elsewhere or recall key incidents of the week before... Or I would gaze outside fogged up windows, piecing together imaginary tales of the undersized schoolboy donning an oversized school uniform and permanent frown who always got on the bus at High Barnet station.

It was immediately after moments such these that the overwhelming urge to write would come over me, like the wave of almost nauseating euphoria I would feel after taking 60mg of Codeine to silence my ailments… This urge would rise from the depths of my innermost core to the tips of my knobbly-knuckled fingers, adorned with chipped nail polish that I kept promising to repaint… At times like this I would subconsciously grab a scrap of paper (the back of an old travel card, a faded receipt scrunched up in a forgotten compartment of my purse, the back of a council tax bill) and WRITE! Anything! Short stories… poems… song lyrics… absolutely anything. But then… life happened. I ‘spose.

  Rather than documenting my spells of darkness, I withdrew. Internalised any and everything. I had no desire within me to write about what I was dealing with. Because that would make everything all too real. That would mean one day, when those dark days were a distant memory and I was finally happy, healthy and fulfilled, I would come across those scrawled messages and admissions and possibly relive it all. I couldn’t risk that. So I quit writing. Frank Ocean’s ‘Dust’ became my anthem for a while.

  Trying to explain my state of mind to my West African parents was not an option. Previous attempts had made me feel like the subject of ridicule. An alien concept that a Black woman couldn’t possibly experience. After all, it was an experience especially allocated to the Europeans. Not we Africans.

  We do we not talk? Why must we silently stumble through adversity when we can assist one another to walk a little easier? Ohemaa Writes is a platform to encourage women to discuss their life experiences, thoughts, opinions, their concerns, their desires. AND issues that may firmly belong in the ‘taboo’ category. Let’s share, assist one another and grow. Telling your story can possibly prompt someone to address old wounds, rethink their thought processes and/or hopefully, inspire.

"I quit writing, I kept living, I kept loving…”

But in my case, what is living without writing?

Support the ‘Ohemaa Writes’ Movement. Exercise your right to speak. Your right, to WRITE. I know I will… x

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Anarchy

I did not vote. I did not register, I did not research, I did not look at the various letters through the letter box: "Vote For Me, Vote For Change". I did not watch the many programs and "special broadcasts" that populated my TV. I did not participate in Political debates, be it with friends, family or colleagues... I am not a conscientious objector: I just could not muster the required levels of "botherdness" to go out and vote for the lesser of 50 odd evils, when currently dealing with nighmares and sleepless nights. It did strike me as harsh to be looked down upon because of this. I seem to have "wasted" a vote, and not have used the "right that some people died for". I have also left my "people" and "gender" down, I have given in to the apathetic way of the "entitled" (white, middle class, young and carefree). Even worse, I have become an... anarchist! -_- It hurts that this comes from allies, who are alien to my current struggles, and oblivious to what I do at grassroot level. I have always voted. I couldn't wait till I was 18 for that very reason. I've even led people to poll stations. I've voted for French Elections and local UK elections. But this time, I just couldn't. I had my own life getting in the way of living, and voting, did not seem like the most important thing to do on the day. I maintain that real change doesn't happen at the poll station, but that voting is highly symbolic and therefore a catalyst FOR that change.  However... voting wasn't on my agenda that day. I still worked my ass off with the children in my school, helping them with the basic skills of calculation, spelling and reading for meaning. And I'm still teaching them how to show respect and give it, accept better love and recognise the bitter kind. Still modelling self esteem as well as selflessness, emotions management and encouraging a love for learning. Still making them laugh and wiping their tears away. Still saying "everything will be ok" and meaning it. Still praying for their little hearts to be mended when parents separate or pets die. Still using my knowledge of Christ to impact their little lives. Still sacrificing my social life as well as sleep, to hone my craft and become a person who can have more influence at decision making levels, having walked the talk... So I did not vote. But before passing judgement, remember that I DID re-enforce the life lessons I teach this nation's children on that day. I remained the smiling, caring and constent rock that does not crumble despite her personal issues. #Leine-Marie #Afropean #Voting #MayElections

[shopzuvaa]

Love this woman #wcw RP @lauracadhani

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Introducing... Ra: "On things that (don’t necessarily) make you a woman"

I remember one moment last semester, sitting in bed exhausted and aching after an overdramatic travel experience from Rome back to my flat in London. I ran into the morning in a pair of white platform booties battling uneven cobblestone embracing a pain I convinced myself was a necessary step on the road to “bad bitch-dom.” Channeling all my energy into the degree of swish in my hips, I decided that the pain added character to my walk. But what character was I hoping to play? What happens when the pain is no longer a petty annoyance? What good is a limping lioness? What is the rationale behind glorifying discomfort? Maybe I just need new shoes or cushy insoles.

This is just one of the many conversations I have had with myself over the past six months about the methods and motivations behind how gender is performed. I always resolve that balance is key and that no one else will feel my sore heels, or come rub them for that matter, so it is foolish to hold myself to any external standards. Whether the subject is my reproductive health, sex life (or lack thereof), make-up application, personal style, or how often I cry, I am the only one experiencing my life as I live it and thus the only one who bares the consequences. My inner Kanye acknowledges this and is constantly screaming “I AM THE ONLY ONE THAT MATTERS.” I have accepted and welcomed this level of “ego” as a means for self-preservation.  It’s not something I parade but more like an armor to protect me from a media culture designed to promote the standards that sell products. This is self-love, this is not being ashamed to assert your truth. This is taking off your shoes outside on the walk home and caring more about the relief you feel than the judgmental gaze of girls who have been gifted with a higher pain tolerance. This is being able to laud the Goddesses with the higher pain tolerance without accepting any feelings of inferiority.

For me this blog will be an opportunity to share the conversations & epiphanies I find myself in as I try to stay relatively sane through all the confusion that is being a woman in the 21st century. It will be insightful, and gross, and cogent and ratchet.  I will be vulnerable often and maybe even a bit controversial, but above all I will be honest.  I am currently at the close of my junior year of university, relaxing in Accra with a suitcase full of black dolls that my mother and I will be distributing to several villages in the coming weeks. Ohemaa-Writes is more than a forum for well-written rants and prose and commentary on current events, we are building a network for empowerment and social change, a global Queendom to work in harmony with progressive thinkers and creatives regardless of gender, age, race or nationality.

Everything about Ohemaa-Writes is a divine step towards my destiny and I welcome you all  to join me on this journey.

[alisolchild]

[ohemaa-writes-blog]

Each crown was specifically designed with you in mind. Be bold enough to wear it. Unapologetically. #TeamOhemaa