In this
short video clip I speak with Amadeuz Christ, C.E.O Vigilance Records LLC.,
recording artist, producer, engineer, video director and newbie film director
of the groundbreaking documentary Out of Darkness. Out of Darkness is a
three act documentary starred by some of the most genius sociopolitical, minds
of the 21st century. The framework is a visually stunning, intelligently
introspective, archaeologically-sound masterpiece. Act I, A War on
History, vividly illustrates why so called African Americans (Pan Africans)
continue to suffer daily injuries in every sphere of life. I give you the
architect: Brother Amadeuz Christ.
Act I: African Civilization: A War on
History – Why?
Professor
Kaba Hiawatha Kamene:
“As we begin
to look at who we are as a people and as we begin to look at the role Africa
has played in the shaping of our intellectual world (our achievements historically)
you will begin to understand why there is a war on history. For a people to oppress another people there
are three things you must take from them: their history, language and
psychological factor. The psychological
factors are the values, interests and principles (VIPs). Take their VIPs from them and then,
superimpose your history, language and VIPs and no matter what conclusions they
come to in the challenges they face they will always act in the interest of the
oppressor who took their history, language and VIPs. So when we wonder why the choices we make
never serve our best interest, we have to change the paradigm. We have to study
our history, our language and our values, interests and principles.”
Prof. Umar Johnson:
“Without question there is
a war on African history. The war on
Black history is only a larger symptom of a much larger war against the
opportunity for African people to resurrect themselves. Knowledge of self is not the goal but, a
means to become an independent self-sufficient people.”
James Smalls:
“The War against African
people is about rulership of the world; it’s about rulership of the planet and
access to raw materials and resources in the continent of Africa and parts of
the world where African people live in Central and South America and, the
Pacific islands.”
In a November 20th
2014 post titled: The Rise of Puerto Rico's Nationalist Labor Movement:
The Politics of Resilience I
wrote in honor of Puerto Rican Nationalist & Freedom Fighter Oscar
Lopez Rivera. Here I lucidly illustrate
Professor James Small’s indictment of US Imperialism on African & Pan
African people.
“The North American ‘Fair’
Trade Act which (currently), installs corporate factory farms and insular
governments in Mexico to protect US corporate interest while consequently,
driving small farmers out of their own lands and forcing them to immigrate to
the United States in search of work (where they are then criminalized,
imprisoned via the private industrial prison complex or, forced to work in the
“Black” market without labor rights) parallels the Jones-Costigan Act of 1930.
The Jones-Costigan Act
imposed a quota on production and exports of sugar to the US causing 15, 000
laborers to lose their jobs and join 150,000 unemployed laborers in Puerto
Rico. Small and medium growers were penalized by mills whom refused to grind
sugar and by US banks who denied financing of their crops. As a result of the
quota, sugar growers faced the possibility of losing their crops and
land. According to an article
published by Emilio Pantojas-Garcia titled: Puerto Rican Popularism
Revisited: The PPD During the 1940's "Throughout a five year period
(1931 – 36) a total of 207 laborer and small/medium farmer strikes occurred; 91
happened in less than one year from July 1933 – June 1934."
Puerto Rico’s radical
politics has never been a part of (U.S) elementary, middle and high school text
books. I vividly remember illustrations
of benevolent Europeans generously giving indigenous Native Americans corn,
turkey and squash; child-like depictions of brown men and womyn docile,
defenseless and dependent. These
depictions insidiously coded our consent to inferiority. Why would my elders leave what they referred
to as “La Isla del Encanto” (the island of enchantment) for inner city slums
and humiliating welfare rations? I never
knew my people struggled against US imperialism consequently, I inherited
shame. I did not want to be associated
with being Puerto Rican. I refused to
speak Spanish. It wasn’t until my late
teens when I began interacting with dark skin Dominicans (from the Dominican
Republic) that I began speaking a little Spanish.
Dr. Joy DeGruy, a renowned
researcher, educator, presenter and author of Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome
explains not understanding your history causes the psyche to experience cognitive
dissonance: “Black Americans who are trying to distance themselves from
anything having to do with Africa do so because they’ve bought into the false
notion that African culture is not worthy.
Yet, it is not understanding your history that leads to the trauma we
see which results in [“I just need to escape from this”…] becoming afraid of
what you don’t understand. When you
understand it; you can navigate it.”
It was
winter when Nola arrived to the new place with Magdalena her first born five
year old, Valeria her three year old and Clara, her one year old. Even though Joaquin did not know where they were, the fear and violence followed them.
“Why did you have to come out with hair like your father’s family!”
slamming the handle of the bone-dense hair brush against the skull sent Valeria
into a spastic squirm. “Stop crying!”
Nola threatened the six year old. Self
hatred dried her tears and swallowed her cry.
In the bathroom Valeria climbed on the toilet seat and pinched the flesh
of her nostrils pulling the rounded tip of her nose upward. “I hate you,” she said to the mirror.
Winter
released its grip and Nola no longer needed to warm their clothes in the oven. The
summer sun beat down on the concrete pavement outside. No trees on their street
to shade them from the heat. When the
hot humidity became unbearable somebody would go outside and pry open the fire hydrant
in front of the five story tenement building; the only edifice on the street. One of the guys would place the hollowed shaft
of a large can at the mouth of the fire hydrant funneling the water to ‘pump’
out fiercely in an upwards arch. “The
pump is open!” someone would yell. Anyone, who came outside, a kid, a teenager (and depending on your relationship with the adult) and parent was game for being soaked; it forced us to laugh at and with each
other. Everyone jumped in and out of the
water arch; gasping for air and chasing each other around.
One summer day, Nola walked into the living room with a six foot two, larger than life
dark skinned man in a police uniform. “Pol,”
Nola said in a heavy Puertorican accent “esta es, Valeria.” [This one, is Valeria.] Arms crossed in front of her, Valeria refused
to give him eye contact. “Esta, hmm,
tiene un jenio!” [This one, she has a temper,”] Nola warned. Paul bent over and with his index finger playfully
poked the six year old in the ribs. “Stop!” she grudgingly giggled trying to stay
hard-faced. But, Paul picked her up,
swung her around high in the air and dropped her back down onto the sofa
chair, with a thud. Before she
could stop herself, Valeria laughed hard. Somehow that small act of pursuing her
laughter let her know he cared.
Paul,
was the first man to earn the most precious gift she could ever offer - trust. Months later, he carried a large musical
instrument up five flights of stairs to our apartment; it was as tall as Valeria.
The long, oval shaped, wooden body made
different sounds when he tapped the top with his palm or fingers. Paul called it a Conga and when he left that
night, the Conga stayed as if promising his return. Nola changed when he was around;
she smiled, laughed and played music while she cooked. One evening, Valeria began to dance to Paul’s
drumming; her timely movements soulfully synched trial
and triumph, joy and sorrow. “Oh, my
God, look! This one, she’s African,” Nola pointed in shock. Her arms, legs, head and torso flowed
to his rhythm, like a river in its bed.
Valeria beamed with pride when Nola and her comadres said “Asta se
parese a el…puede ser su hija.”
After two summers, an overshadowing sorrow darkened Nola's eyes and pursed her smile. Valeria was awoken by Nola’s angry whispers.
Through foggy vision, Valeria saw Paul kneeling before Nola. She faintly overheard Paul begging “por favor no me deje.” “No,
Pol! Ya son tres años que tengo esperando y tu no dejas esa mujer.” Valeria drifted back to sleep. Days and then, weeks went by without a visit
from Paul. With her head cocked to one
side, now almost nine years old Valeria asked her mother “Mami, where is Paul?” “Paul is not coming back,” she blurted
without any explanation about the man she loved like a father. Valeria’s heart took a free-fall leaving her
numb and lost in bitter resentment.
Magdalena, affectionately called Maggie by family and friends was
fair-skinned and had silky, curly, jet-black hair down to her waist; everyone
said how beautiful she was and that she was the spitting image of Nola. At 10 years of age Maggie was forced to get up
early, make breakfast, dress and comb both Valeria and Clara’s hair. Together the three girls walked about a half
a mile or more through somewhat desolate streets, to school. Nola’s migraines kept her in and out of a fog
of pain. When she was not in pain she
was easily enraged. If they woke her in
the morning there was hell to pay. She was
Catholic but, never went to church.
Valerie didn’t have the language to explain church was never a welcoming
or nurturing place. Life size paintings
of white angels shooting their arrows at brown and black demons caused her to
feel suspected, accused and condemned to hell.
In catechism class, one day, Valeria just couldn’t take it anymore. She raised her hand and asked “why are all
the angels White and all the demons brown?” The fair skinned teacher offered no
response just a perplexed, indignant and disapproving look. Just as she turned 10 years of age, Valerie
completed her requirements for “communion”. On graduation day she was fitted in an all white ensemble with a tiara, gloves and
cape. After the ceremony Nola took Valeria to a photo studio and had professional
photos taken. Weeks later, Nola returned from the photo studio without the photos. The owner of the shop told her he had been burglarized. There were no photos to remind Valerie of her spiritual
subjugation but the memory of God remained statically oppressive and estranged. She never went back to
Church and wanted nothing to do with “God”.
The first
time Valeria ever saw a Black saint was at Sarah’s house. She shyly glanced at the altar of African figurines,
with candles, beads, water, flowers and sage offerings. Sarah’s honey colored skin was similar to Valeria's. Her hands were pudgy and warm, loving
to the touch. Her laughter bounced off
the wall and hugged you. We lovingly called her Madrina Sara even though she was only Maggie's godmother. Sarah would sing “Que viva Chango!....que
viva Chango!” Valerie had no clue what it meant but, she loved the rhythm and
transcendence in Sarah’s voice; she went somewhere when she sang that. Valerie was so curious about this dually
beautifully affirming yet, dark unspoken part of her culture and belief
system. She wondered why her elders, who
prayed, received spiritual and cultural strength and guidance from these Black
saints, songs and sagging practices also attributed negative or ugliness to
being African or Black.
During the late
Spring, on weekends, Valerie would go up to the tar roof of the tenement where
she watched the planes fly overhead; closing her eyes she imagined herself on them. She
didn’t just wonder; she (mind) traveled to distant places. Twelve years later, while walking across
campus Valerie was approached by her journalism professor. He said his son was traveling to Cuba and
that she should go too. She didn’t know
what made him tell her she should be going to Cuba. His son never went. Valerie did.
In 1998, Valerie traveled to Cuba to study Afro-Cuban culture. In Santiago de Cuba, Chango the Yoruba Orisha,
who opened the way for her when she only 9 years old became flesh and bone.
Philippe
Matthews author of SHOCK Meta physics writes: “We know that we must reclaim our
original memory and become avid students, investigators, scientists, and
researchers of our own history and not rely solely on society, educational
systems and other races to teach us about our heritage and our contribution to
all humanity.”
I often asked myself: “what happens when we remember our past
or envision (pretend) ourselves in the future? Are we time traveling?
Stay tuned for Act II of Out of Darkness: European
Colonization by Ơ
AfroLatinaLivinMypassion
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