Categories
Storytelling

A Conversation with Russel Balenger: The Founder of the Circle of Peace Movement 

Written by Sabrina Nur & Carrie Pomeroy

15 min read

Russel Balenger, is a son, a father, a grandfather, an uncle and a guardian angel to many. A fearless and respected community voice, a son of Rondo, and an elder in Saint Paul. He recently made news when he was appointed to fill a seat in St. Paul Ward 1. Many people in St. Paul and beyond already knew Russel through his community leadership long before he was chosen to represent St. Paul’s Ward 1.

We sat down with Russel recently to talk about his lifetime of work on racial justice and community peacemaking and the ways his efforts have intersected with the work of InEquality and Oyate Hotanin. His efforts have included hosting peace circles for men incarcerated in Stillwater Correctional Facility and connecting formerly incarcerated people with jobs, housing, educational opportunities, and community support. In addition, Russel has been a leader in efforts to reduce youth incarceration in Ramsey County and oppose racial disparities in the juvenile justice system. With his wife Sarah, he founded the award-winning Circle of Peace Movement, a weekly circle aimed at preventing community violence and fostering racial healing.

Throughout his life, Russel has practiced a leadership style that is kind, determined, and deeply rooted in the values of service and hospitality that he learned from his family growing up in Rondo. Russel had so many wonderful stories to share about the ways his life has intersected with key moments in St. Paul’s history, we decided it made sense to present our conversation in three parts. We hope you enjoy learning more about this amazing St. Paul leader and member of the InEquality and Oyate Hotanin organizing family!


Part 1: Growing Up in Rondo

Russel in the 1968 Central High School yearbook

Born in 1950, Russel started his life in a sixteen-room house on two lots at 812 St. Anthony, located on the north side of the Rondo block. Russel says of the house, “It was beautiful!” 

Russel’s father, also named Russel, worked for the railroad. “He was very frugal and was very good with his money,” Russel said. His father’s hard work and frugality gave the family a real sense of prosperity and security. 

“My mother always carried herself and dressed like she was a queen,” Russel recalled. “We always used to look at it like, ‘Where is she getting all this?’’ She was firm about education and exhibiting manners.  

In Russel’s early childhood, Rondo was the thriving, vibrant heart of St. Paul’s Black community, with over 80 percent of Black St. Paul residents calling Rondo home. Officials decided in the 1950s to route Interstate 94 through Rondo, even though there was an alternative route along Pierce Butler Route that would have impacted far fewer people. The highway construction had a devastating impact that still reverberates today. One in eight Black homeowners in St. Paul lost a home because of the highway construction, and many businesses were lost, too. 

When the children of Rondo speak now of the neighborhood and the homes they had before the highway was built, they describe them with pride and their homes as grand. In an interview with Rondo elder Marvin Anderson aired on PBS, Anderson noted that white officials had designated Rondo as a slum in 1935. By doing this, as a 2022 Minnesota Reformer article explains, officials were able to assess homes in Rondo for far less than they were worth, pressuring families into taking less for their homes easing the way for the highway to come roaring through. 

Russel’s family was one of the many families whose lives were upended by officials’ decision to tear a hole through the heart of the neighborhood. “There was a house fire” at 812 St. Anthony, Russel recalled. “But we weren’t allowed to do the repairs because [officials] were taking [the house] any way to make way for the interstate.”

Russel is the youngest of six siblings. His family was split up because they didn’t have a place to go that was big enough for all of them. They didn’t have the sort of insurance that would allow them to go to a hotel after a fire. In fact, what they did get from insurance for the house fire was $4000. Their family got another home, 817-819 Dayton, a duplex four half blocks up the street towards Selby. 

Russel said, “That home cost closer to $20,000. So the insurance payout was merely a down payment on this home that was not as large.”  

His brothers went on to find their own apartment. His eldest sister Beverly, who had a son who was four months younger than Russel, found an apartment, and then his sister Lillian got a job and found a place. Russel, his sister Sandra, and his nephew Steven, who was Beverly’s son, were eventually the only family members who remained with Russel’s parents. 

Russel recalled, “At that time, more and more people were being moved out of Rondo and off of St. Anthony. And they were beginning to dig the hole for the freeway. There were no housing laws. So you couldn’t just move anywhere. You could only move where you were allowed. So most people had to move right around the hole that was the freeway.” 

When Russel moved to Dayton Avenue, the street was predominantly white. He remembered that the adults told the black and white children of the neighborhood that they could not play together. However, Russel recalled that it did not stop their youthful spirits.

“We’d go one way and they’d go around the other, and there was this open field and we would play ball or kickball. When it came time to go home, we’d go around the same way we came and go home. But then, one day we were having such a good time and forgot and just walked home together.” 

Russel described adults running out of their homes and shouting “What are you doing?!” Very quickly, the white families moved out.

“When I say the white families,” Russel explained, “it was a lot of Jewish people. There was a man and his family renting the upstairs of this duplex we bought. I would go out every day and talk to him while he burned his trash. In those days, you burnt your trash outside. You didn’t have a trash hauler. But one day, Mr. Koza came down and said, ‘You seem to be very fine people but we just can’t rent from n—-s.’ My brothers got upset. My mother put her hands on the table which meant ‘Be still.’ It wasn’t meant to be derogatory. It was just the only language that he had. My mother said, ‘Well, you’ve been very good tenants. And if you should need a reference you just let us know.’”  Russel’s mother found another tenant. 

Russel and his siblings were raised to be courteous and respectable young people, and their parents held a high standard. Russel said, “You hear people say that you always had to have ‘The Talk’ about how to interact with police as a black person. We didn’t have ‘The Talk.’ You use your manners and you didn’t want to bring [your mother] any shame. So you were careful about what you did.”

Russel’s family weathered another devastating challenge not long after having to move from their home on St. Anthony to Dayton Avenue. When Russel was 13, his father had the first of a series of strokes. Within a few years, Russel’s father had ended up in a nursing home. Russel said, “In those days, they weren’t doing rehabilitation. You just were there until either you got up or you died…So, my mother would have to take care of us. In those days it was unheard of to have a job downtown if you were a Black woman.”  

His mother worked many jobs to support the family, including working at a local department store selling women’s fashions.  She also was heavily involved in civic leadership, including founding the North Central Voters League with S. Edward Hall, a prominent Black barber and civil rights activist who ran a barber shop in St. Paul from the early 1900s until his death in 1975.

“There’s a statue of him in the park by the [Cathedral Hill] YWCA,” Russel explained. “He was very instrumental in starting the Urban League here. His barbershop had 12 chairs, but it was all for white men.” 

Hall catered to the powerful with a purpose. “He would hear their plans for the city and he would use the information to help uplift the black community. He’s still not getting nearly the acclaim he deserves,” Russel added.

Through the North Central Voters League, Lillian Balenger helped organize voters in the community and who they would vote for. Politicians took note and began to approach her because they wanted those votes. Hubert Humphrey, who would go on to be vice president and run for president, and Walter Mondale who did the same, would come by the house and they’d have coffee. 

Lillian Balenger eventually leveraged the community connections she’d made through her political organizing to found a successful agency that delivered meals to elders.

As Russel remembered it, his mother employed six or seven administrators at her agency, all women of different ethnicities, and one secretary named Bob. Russel proudly recalled visiting his mother in her office suite at the Commodore Hotel on Western Avenue. She introduced Russel to her staff and asked Bob, “Would you get us a cup of coffee?” 

Russel’s mother had to fight every step of the way for that kind of power. She had come from Kansas, which experienced violent divides over slavery leading up to the Civil War. Her great-grandfather was an Irish man named John Park, a slaveholder. Russel said, “When he was 39 years old, he had sex with my mother’s great-grandmother who was thirteen. She had my great-grandfather Asbury Parks. There was an S added.” 

Russel explained, “There was Park and then these others would be ‘Park’s.’ They belonged to him. It appears though, that he gave Asbury some land that he ended up with once he was free. Then he had six children. My grandfather Andrew Jackson Parks was one of them.”

Due to Russel’s father working for the railroad, when Russel was young, the family qualified for decreased fares and visited Kansas a few times. 

Russel said, “My mother, who was a real go-get-it woman, seemed to be very apprehensive in Kansas. You could see that concern on her face.” 

On his mother’s side of the family, there were fifteen family members living in the home plus six children who were orphaned: 21 of them in total. 

Russel recounted, “They didn’t think they were poor, but they didn’t have enough dishes. Two ate off one plate. They would tell the stories during Thanksgiving time about how somebody would have the gravy dammed up on their mashed potatoes on their side of the plate, and the other couldn’t get any gravy, and my grandmother would say, ‘Undam them potatoes and let the gravy flow.’”

Russel told us how most of his mother’s family worked for a white family, with several of the women employed as housekeepers. Russel’s mother Lillian and her younger brother Gordon stayed home. As Russel explained, his mother was never afraid to speak her mind—in fact, the white family that employed most of Lillian’s family called Lillian “Sassy.” In early twentieth-century Kansas, Lillian’s strong opinions and confidence put her as a Black girl at risk, and her family feared Lillian’s plainspokenness might get them all into trouble. They decided it was safer to keep her at home to take care of the house and her brother.

Russel’s Uncle Gordon went on to become the Gordon Parks, a world-famous photographer and filmmaker, known as the writer-director of the 1969 semi-autobiographical film The Learning Tree. It was the first film by a major American studio to be directed by a Black person, and it focused on the racial discrimination and violence experienced by a Black boy growing up in Kansas. In the film, a character based on Russel’s mother was called “Prissy.” Russel said a lot of his uncle’s success was due to following the good advice his mother had given him. She also strongly supported her brother’s career as an artist.

Lillian’s determination and strength, forged by her youth in Kansas, made her an iconic leader in St. Paul. Russel told us of an organization she started and led, The Continental. Primarily Black women, it was a philanthropic organization. Lillian took it nationally and internationally! They threw magnificent balls, cotillions, and teas.

One of the many balls Russel’s mother helped organize. You can see her near the back row on the right, wearing a beautiful pearl necklace. Photo courtesy of Russel Balenger

Russel recalled of these grand events, “I would be put in a tux and pulling down the white carpet for them to march on. Then there would be the waltz and evening prayers. In those days, Black people did not have clubs or places to go. So they had to create their own social outlets. There was the Sterling Club which [prominent Black architect Clarence] Wigington was part of.”

Russel reflected on how colorism was a strange phenomenon for him as a child because of his mother. She always had plan after plan, as he put it, and her political organizing meant that there were often many white people meeting in Russel’s home, so he was used to diverse people working together without prejudice against each other based on the color of their skin.

He said, “It always seemed strange to me that everybody had this other thing going on.”  

Russel was an obedient, dutiful son in many ways—except when it came to staying put when his mother told him to. When Russel was very young and at home for the summer, and his mother left for work, she would say to him, “Don’t leave the yard!” Starting when he was eight years old, he would constantly leave the yard and go down the street. His mother would come home and somebody would tell her what he had been up to. Then she’d say, “Don’t leave the block!” Hungry for adventure and discovery, Russel would go across the street and let his curiosity lead the way. So then his mother would say, “Whatever you do, don’t go up on Selby!”

But being his stubborn self, he just had to go see what was happening on Selby. 

“I was eight years old the first time the police stopped me,” Russel remembered. “Had me put my hands up against the building. They went through my pockets. I was so small and skinny that they could only get two fingers in. I will never forget it. I couldn’t go back home and tell my mother because she had told me not to go up there.”

Russel didn’t let the run-in with the police stop him, though.

“I just began to go a little further and a little further,” he said. “Because I wanted to see and I was adventurous.” 

By the time he was nine or ten, he’d made it all the way to the Mississippi River. Around age twelve, he hitched a ride all the way to Winona, four hours from home. 

As darkness was falling, a white family drove up and asked him what he was doing there. One of the adults called Russel’s mother, who was quite taken aback when he explained where he was.

Some parents might have clamped down harder on their children. But Russel’s mother wisely saw that her son needed even more chances to explore. The next summer, she sent him to Camp Widjiwagan, a YMCA camp on the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. It was a place where Russel could find exactly the kinds of adventures his restless spirit craved.

“You had to try to keep the bears from getting your food!” Russel remembered. “You had to work with a map and a compass to navigate through the wilderness and meet up at a rendezvous point across the border in Canada.”

Russel loved the whole experience and went back to camp for the next three summers, discovering a lifelong love of nature, travel, and wild places. At camp, he was the only Black camper surrounded by much more affluent white teens, and from them, he heard about opportunities he hadn’t even known existed. One of those opportunities was a two-month trip to the USSR, a rare, historic adventure during the height of the Cold War. Russel applied for the program and was one of only sixteen Minnesota teenagers to be accepted. It was the first of many overseas adventures that have profoundly enriched Russel’s life and work.

Russel later learned that a Minnesota judge had paid for his tuition at Camp Widjiwagan. When Russel met the judge as an adult, he introduced himself and said, “I just want to thank you for the opportunity you gave me to go to Camp Widjiwagan. It changed my life.” Russel said the judge told him, “You don’t owe me any thanks.” It turned out that Russel’s mother had played a key role in helping the judge gain his position and the judge was simply repaying his debt to her.

Russel recalled that when it came to community and political organizing work, it was hard for his mother to know when to quit.

“She would work all day and then be on the phone with planning these other things,” Russel recalled. “And she’d fall asleep, and I’d have to take the phone out of her hand…and say it’s time for you to go to bed.”

Russel remembered that his mother always reminded him to leave the back door unlocked overnight, in case someone needed to come in. That reminder was rooted in the horrors of the Jim Crow period, Russel recalled.

“If [a Black man] didn’t have a job and you were stopped, you could be considered a vagrant,” Russel explained. “They could say that you looked at a white woman and call it ‘reckless eyeballing.’ And these were all things that you could be locked up for and made to work your time off.”

The Balengers’ open-door policy extended to all of the family’s Rondo neighbors, not just people facing danger.

“In those days, people would knock and walk in,” Russel said. “And if it’s early in the morning, you might be in bed, they would come to the bedroom and say, ‘Is it too early for me to be by? Do you mind if I go sit down and have a cup of coffee?’ And that’s how it was. So if you were the kid in the family, you got up to see what they had and what they needed.”


In Part 2 of this interview, we’ll share more about how Russel carried the lessons of his youth and childhood into adulthood as he grew into the leader he is today.

Categories
Poetry

Our Mothers

Artwork by Angu Walters via True African Art

Poem by Khadijo Abdi

Do you ever wonder about the mother of Moses? 

I do. I think about what was going on in her head 

and what was happening in her hometown 

for her to find the river Nile safer for her infant than her own loving arms. 

Same thing, I am guessing, going through the head of the Afghan father 

Who lifted his baby over barbed wire into the arms of an American soldier 

Or that long ago mother from Vietnam who raised her baby to the blades of a chopper to safety. 

Same thing as thousands of parents on creaky overcrowded boats across oceans or wading the Rio Grande. 

Same thing as my own mother who walked us across a desert with little water in tow and jungles as lions roared on. 

My mother, who climbed with us into the belly of a truck and pretended to be deaf when Kenyan police stopped us. 

My mother, who boiled dirty lake water to fend off cholera, 

Who went out one night to relieve herself outside the tents and returned to a tent city she didn’t notice when she left us and couldn’t find the tent we slept under. 

My mother, who panicked and walked in circles for an hour, looked into each tent till she found us. 

My mother, who endured that and more, and who to this day, is afraid of uniformed men. 

My mother, who two and a half decades later went to hajj funded by those same babies from that night, those babies she sacrificed everything to keep safe, to keep sane, and succeeded. 

My mother was sleeping in a tent on the eighth day of the pilgrimage; she got up to use the restroom and was right back to the refugee tent city and fell into a panic, thinking to save those babies who have long grown and are raising their own back in America. 

My mother, your mother, the mother of Alan Shenu Kurdi; our mothers are not different from Moses’s mother. 

And even you, if you really ponder it, will place your babies 

your tender sweet babies 

In the jaws of a crocodile, if a crocodile’s mouth is safer than your hands. 


Khadijo Abdi (she/her) is a Minneapolis-based Somali writer and medical interpreter. This poem was originally published in Minnesota Women’s Press.

Categories
Storytelling

p.o.v…of sabrina: -37 ° (WHY?!)

Written by Sabrina

6 minute read

Stillness. Shot by: Sabr.

Let’s talk about winter! Because I don’t like how we as a society are so out of tune with nature that we can’t recognize S.A.D as a symptom of how capitalism is negatively affecting all of us. This year, I greeted winter with a welcoming spirit, unusual for me. My intention was to surrender to winter and lean into all the lessons. I thought this year I would try something new. If the last eight years have taught me anything, it’s that I can’t run away from this cold. I must learn how to live with it. I can’t describe this season as anything less than soul-crushing for me. The sun going down at 4:30 pm messes me up. I was literally born on an island by the Indian ocean. I need the sun like I need sustenance. I need to feel the warmth of the sun like I need air to breathe and water to quench my thirst. I AM NOT BUILT to live in Minnesota. When I see my siblings who go outside in shorts in the middle of December, I know they carry ice in their veins, just like their ancestors before them. Me, there’s lava flowing through mine. I applaud people who have the motivation to be active and go outdoors during this season. I can hardly find the motivation to breathe on certain days.

Despite all that I knew I would be battling, I was determined to not let this bitter winter crush my soul. The winter solstice is a dear time to me. The celebrations are a source of hope for me, at least, the shortest day of the year is now behind us. One of the other ways I found hope during this season was by reflecting on the wisdom of the teachings I have learned in the past on how different spiritual philosophies view the significance of this time of year. How to channel the yin energy and work with it, to get through it. I crave adventure and newness even in my daily existence, that’s why I know life as a nomad is ideal for me. My ancestors wandered in the desert not searching for a home but bringing their home everywhere. My blood remembers past lifetimes and pleads to return to my ancestral ways. I’m constantly fighting the urge to run away. However, this season of stillness and slowness calls for retreat, it calls for hibernation. Meditation and nurturing of the spirit by diving within, silencing the noise that comes with all the hustle and bustle the rest of the year in this maddening metropolis.

This is the time to reflect on all the seasons that passed and everything that needs to die and be released. What needs to be planted, and nurtured, so it can grow and blossom in the upcoming seasons? This is extremely difficult to do in the conditions we, as humanity live under today. Unless you are making a couple of million dollars a year, there is no such thing as going into retreat for an entire season and reflecting on life. Not in this economy, right? But why not tho? We are told that we have freedom and choice. We make up the rules for society, right? Or does another entity have power over our lives?

Nature will run its course. In the first week of December, I fell ill from a psychogenic fever. Suffering through the hell this fever put me through and researching extensively afterward, I began to understand what happened to me. I learned that I fell ill due to stress, that it all manifested in my brain. I had no idea my body, my brain, my nerves, and my everything was so overwhelmed that they decided to shut me down. This scared me, suddenly at 22, I saw the path before me and what was going to happen if I continued down it. I don’t want to suffer a heart attack by the age of 50. I don’t want to be prediabetic, with high blood pressure and high cholesterol by age of 40. I don’t want to develop thyroid issues by age of 30. All conditions that millions of people live with daily, this is the price we pay for our so-called civilization. People come to the land of opportunity, and end up developing cancers and dying before ever fulfilling that American dream. This fever showed me the future I was headed toward if I didn’t change my ways. It is clear to me and so many around me that the systems we currently live under are not sustainable. So many of us are suffering as a result, how long will we continue to live like this?

Why can’t we come together as individuals who live in a community and talk about the realities of these systems we are living under? A lot of us are anxious, stressed, and angry, each burdened in their own way. Filled with so much fear living under a system that we all inherited. It’s become very clear, that it is no longer serving us nor did it ever. We are out of sync with nature, especially living in places like Minnesota, where the cold pierces through your bones for the better half of the year. I can’t help but keep coming back to the same question: Genuinely, I need answers. What are we doing? Why are we living like this? Because I personally don’t want to continue this and I know some folks who agree with me. How can we come together and not live like this anymore? So we can all have our basic needs met, and be free and content with life. How can we make our short time on earth actually about being human? Instead of barely surviving and being robots who work for a machine to keep themselves alive. This is our earth. Everything else we created, and we have the power to destroy. Yes, us.

We didn’t consent to these systems that we live under. We didn’t consent to capitalism, we didn’t consent to working 40 hours/ 5 days a week and this being the norm. We didn’t consent to any of this. We didn’t consent to not being human. In the middle of an economic crisis, talking about the idea of not giving in, of being antiwork seems almost blasphemous. After a global pandemic, we should be fearless about creating sustainable and fulfilling lives. Free of fear and anxiety. I’m anti going to work for 8 hours a day, 5 times a week when the sun is barely out for 7 hours of the day. I’m anti having to pay for our basic needs. Food, shelter, community, and love, that’s all we need. Naturally provided to us by mother earth. We, don’t have the energy to be doing the most during this time and that’s because we are meant to be doing less! Apparently, we as a society decided what was best for all of humanity, but I don’t recall being invited to that meeting.

If you have made it this far, in this rant about life, thank you for listening. To conclude this blog entry, and as we head into the new year, I want you to join me in reflecting, setting intentions, and visualizing a future where we don’t live under predatory systems and there is no shortage of empathy. I have asked many questions in this blog entry and here are my final ones: What brings you joy? How can you add joyful things to your daily life? Dive deeper into your own inner universe and reflect on how you can live more in alignment with nature, and learn from the animal and plant relatives, the elements and the seasons, the stars, the sun, and the moon.

Categories
Poetry

Sunrise in the winter

Poetry

Sunrise in the winter by Bella

Sunrise in the winter feel bitter 
A cold that seeps into my bones 
Spine start to shiver 
I long to walk and sing along the flowing river 
But there’s places frozen over, dormant just beneath the surface

 
There’s lessons in the water,
I know I am the daughter 
The moon is my mother 
And the sun is my father 
Spirit don’t let me falter 
Fall to my knees at the altar

And I feel stagnant 
Ain’t it tragic 
Fighting against old habits 
Tryna find my balance 
On ice 
I call upon the healers 
My ancestral teachers 
Remind me to believe love
Will bring us back to life 

Early sunsets got me smoking every night
Numbs my body, it distracts me from my mind sometimes 
The darkness whispers that we are divine 
And it’s time for you to step into your light
My child
Remember who you are, the spark the root the heart
You are infinity and beyond 

There’s lessons in the water,
I know I am the daughter 
The moon is my mother 
And the sun is my father 
Spirit don’t let me falter 
I sit by your feet at the altar

Yet I feel stagnant 
Ain’t it tragic 
Fighting against old habits 
Tryna find my balance 
On ice 
I call upon the healers 
My ancestral teachers 
Remind me to believe love
Will bring us back to life 

Categories
Poetry

I am light as a feather and free as forever

Feather In Space is a photograph by Brian Hershberger which was uploaded on February 7th, 2013.

Poet: Fazayah Augusta

 I am light as a feather and free as forever

I am the thread that holds you to the ground. 

Grounded in reasoning but high as I want to be, high as I need to see.

See,

it’s above me now 

And we not backing down 

Our glow too bright for you 

and there’s absolutely nothing we can do 

For you, you see our lights too true

Solar connect too strong and our family lineage too long 

The way yall move, upside down

 shits too wrong 

I worry bout yall but long for my talls 

My victory 

my loves

 my copper colored kin

Hair shaped like DNA so all we do is win

 I am light as a feather and free as forever

I am the thread that holds you to the ground. 

Grounded in reasoning but high as I want to be, high as I need to see.

See,

it’s above me now 

Categories
Poetry

a.m. autumn reflections 

rare pink aurora after solar storm, november 2022. Photo by: GREENLANDER.NO

a.m autumn reflections by sabr.

the crisp autumn wind welcomes winter 

within the comfort of cocoa and cinnamon, 

there lie the lessons. 

people come and go 

seasons change, we must let em go. 

there is no life without death 

there is no yin without yang 

we must always maintain the balance. 

shed our leaves, conserve our energy 

dive within, and commune with the divine. 

see that we’ve always been whole, 

everything we’ve ever needed has always been ours. 

remember growth emerges in the dark. 

Categories
Poetry Storytelling

Childhood fawn 

Childhood fawn By Kaija Long Crow

I mold myself to be whatever you want or need, I paid attention to your social cues. I noticed you give affection to those that pay their dues, this is the service conditioning of survival. Sometimes we fawn and end up as someone’s pawn left to deal with their shadows.

Adolescent fight and flight

Sometimes you just start hitting back, you get stuck in combat. And one-day cps takes you away, they then label you as a runner, that’s in your file now, they say “your like a little rebel warrior” we’re in denial now because I just didn’t wanna be at that place and, I didn’t choose to be this way. I need something to soothe it hurts to feel this way I can’t go to school, I mean really step in my body, it feels so heavy, and sometimes I can’t breathe what’s happening to me?

What they failed to convey, it’s spiritual warfare going on here. You’ll start to feel like you’re just better off fading away. You take a sip of alcohol and think maybe this’ll help me stay. pretty soon it’ll become a violent exchange with the person you fell in love with this is the person you’re supposed to struggle with you guys will get into everyday bawling brawling thinking love is pain and then suddenly you’ll realize what you thought was love wasn’t. Then you’ll meet this crazy beautiful girl, your soulmate you and her will Eat papers and plants and fly away together in her cool spaceship.

The wind hits and it’s warm, full of courage and wisdom, and guidance. This whole experience is what they call metanoia- a change in one’s way of life through penitence or spiritual conversion. Sometimes I think it was Katrina’s presence-RIP along with the psychedelics, what sparked a change in me and probably my brain. I started seeking sobriety, healing, and peace. This is something I had never seen

Big baby freeze!

At this point, you’re just running in place scared to face all that’s coming. You hop from one addiction to the next, self-diagnose to make it make sense, cry drunk cry high, cry night, and the next morning cry baby cry. They’re gonna tell you “You don’t need treatment you’re working and sober for most of the week.” Little do they know there are 5 younger siblings at home that don’t even know they’re the reason you haven’t gone ghost. I dissociate 4 times a day, & have 3 best friends who don’t really know what to do with my broken beaten lost, mind-body, and spirit. 2 sisters and cousins who are also going through it, and one baby nephew on his way.

I gotta break these chains, this cycle, and start paving the way. Creator knows all I ever wanted was to be better, for myself. Maybe that’s why I wrote this letter, but definitely, for our youth, they’re the ones that deserve better. 

Categories
Storytelling

p.o.v…of sabrina: flower power 🌸

Flower Power 2022 Shot by: Tim Evans

Written by: Sabrina Nur

The morning that Flower Power took place I woke up to the voice of my soul sister, Bella. The alarm that I had set the previous night failed to wake us up. We’d been planning this day for a year. We couldn’t afford to be late for one of the most significant parts, the sunrise prayers. We had to be there to start the day with the right intentions. I was pleased to see everyone who came to start the day with us when we got there. We stood in a circle and filled it with good intentions, song, and prayer. The way we start the day is of the utmost importance because it sets the tone. As a lead artist this year, I felt responsible for the energy and tone of the day. I needed to feel grounded and calm so that every one that came to spend a few minutes or stay for hours with us could also feel a sense of peace. This is the culture we are cultivating. A culture of mindfulness, compassion, and love. 

I felt so blessed that morning as the thunder and rain came to greet us and start the day with us. I was feeling absolute bliss. I ran and ran until my legs gave out up on that hill, getting soaked. I was transported back to my childhood, so carefree and so present in the moment. As the rain was washing over us, I couldn’t help but feel as though it cleansed us. It set us back in preparing the flowers to be laid in the installation but that was the vibe of the day. To just go with the flow, literally. As we were designing our universe of planets and stars with these flowers, I watched our community show up and connect. Many stimulating conversations and stories were shared. Micah Nickey, a healer in his own right, led us in a healing moment with the trees. He so graciously shared his knowledge with everyone present. The voice of Carrie Owen singing in her native tongue, while we collectively connected with the trees around us, was so soothing. Darren Thompson peacefully played the flute as the flower artists were working on the universe of stars. 

I had Indian tacos for the first time, it was so mouth-wateringly delicious. The mango salsa is an inspired culinary gift to humanity. By the time sunset was approaching, I was exhausted, yet so full of hope. The journey to a billion good relatives is not going to be easy. It is going to be slow, it is going to require patience and consistency. But it is very much possible. This is what Flower Power means to me now, the ability to bring people together for one day, and create something beautiful, that is nurturing our spirits and our earth. 

Categories
Poetry

LIDLESS

LIDLESS BY STRONG BUFFALO

A LIDLESS CUP OF COFFEE, MADE TO ORDER, 

APPEARS UPON REQUEST, HOT AND BOUGHT, 

SOUGHT AND NOT, MY CUP OF TEA,

YET, 

BOTH DESIRED ONLY TO BE QUICKLY CONSUMED OR SPILT UPON MY LAP,

WITH A LITTLE FUSS AND SOME SUGAR AND CREAM.

SHUT UP, YOU, INSUFFERABLE POET, DRINK IT UP, AND STOP WRITING ABOUT IT!

This poem was originally published on this blog in 2017.

Categories
Poetry

Strength Within

Strength Within by Trinity L. Thompson

In a distance, I hear faint cries
although I know you must heal,
let me dry your tears…
we all have a weakness…cry if you must
allow me to help dissolve your fears,
I too lost grip of so much that I cherished in life…
I often daydream wondering why…
until I’m smiling knowing one day that it’ll be alright,
courage and strength come from within
no one can give us those qualities,
so shine like the brightest star…
dissipate the ignorance of darkness
show the world who you are,
one door closes to lock away the pain…
another door opens to release happiness and change,
just as the tears you cried have dried
then also allow your wounds to heal,
let the magic begin…
reach deep down for your strength within.

This poem was originally published in “Under Dark Skiez” A collection of poems by Trinity L. Thompson”