Blogpost #3: Space

A box is defined as a container with a flat base and sides, typically square or rectangular and having a lid. It is an enclosed space with the inside characterized by darkness, quiet and for me calm.

II was never afraid of the darkness. As a child, the wheels turning my stroller moved quickly, darting back and forth from one place to another as my sisters completed numerous activities. Through this active movement, a blanket covered me completely, engulfing me in darkness as I slept and awoke, slept and awoke. Sleeping with a night light was short-lived. Pleads to my mother to turn the lights off, close my curtains or shut the door remain frequent resulting in my family often refer to me as the vampire. I realized there was comfort in the darkness. Darkness is a vacant and almost boundless entity, full of endless possibilities. Darkness is an important aspect of the appeal within a box, yet silence trumps darkness in how a box provides comfort.

For me, it is as the saying says, “silence is golden.” Speech can often get muddled or twisted, and facial expressions speak loud enough without any words. My ability to withstand silence is astounding. In the mornings when I wake up, it is hard for me to speak and I don’t until some point in the day when I am forced to speak because of an obligatory good morning. I can allow my thoughts to consume me, dreaming of scenarios and creating stories which are always better than talking with others. Silence gives the opportunity to be alone even in a crowd full of people, and as an introvert, this is alluring to me. It is not just closing the door to interactions with other people which draws me into silence but also, the quite selfish and almost delusional notion of the world being separate from me, rather than me needing to be apart of the resounding rush in life. 

So, I find solace in any sort of box. I sit in closets or cabinets, shutting out the sounds of the outside world and interruptions, entangled in a space filled only by my thoughts. Starting with thoughts about myself in the present moment, their imagination takes me through infinite possibilities of the future until they circle back to me. This continuous loop relaxes me into a state of tranquility and I emerge from this space, less irritable, more compassionate towards the situations of others and ready to overcome any adversity. For these reasons, a box holds much importance to me. It is my saving grace on a bad day and my happy place on a good one.

Blogpost #2: Food - JJ JonesMitchell

The sound of oil sizzling in the cast-iron skillet, hot water rushing from the faucet, patting hands together, my grandmother’s laughter, everyone’s laughter. These are the sounds which, together, paint a vivid scene in my mind each time I eat hot water cornbread.

Hot water cornbread is a simple meal, though it is very hard to learn how to cook well. It contains cornmeal, a little flour, some seasoning which is all mixed together. Steaming hot water is then poured into these ingredients and mashed together using hands to create a flattened and round structure, then placed into hot oil and fried.

This bread is a staple at all family events and my sisters and I placed it, alongside other foods,  into what we would call a “traditional grandma dinner”. My grandmother always prepares it. The cornbread was always my personal favorite because it didn’t take long to cook and it diminished everyone’s hunger-induced bad mood before the main meal was finished.  This personalized view of hot water cornbread and its significance expanded as I aged and I saw how this food had a deeper connection to my roots.

My grandmother painted the scene for me. Slaves, on the run for their masters, late in the 19th century. The civil war brewing. They were to be as quiet as the could, as not to alarm any white person. A little thing could set them off: a baby crying, one misstep, a singular dog barking. The ease of making hot cornbread, called hush puppies at the time, with it’s fast cook time gave slaves the ability to make food quickly and move on. The name hush puppies came from throwing little bits of this food towards the dogs so they would eat, not bark, therefore keeping them safe from being seen. This story, though heavily rooted in convoluted and fabricated stories passed down from generation to generation, does hold true to who I believe black people to be.

From this story, I learned that we are a resilient people. Whether it be escaping slavery or working to get out of systemic discrimination we continue to fight for our right to equity. I found meaning in how the slaves ran together, understanding that we have a culture rooted in togetherness and not individualism. I related this to my mother’s constant praying for us to remain close as a family. With making cornbread quickly, I realized that we are able to achieve our goals even when placed in constraints of discrimination. Through using the cornbread to give to the dogs, I saw black people’s ingenuity, connecting it to the many inventions we have created which are often overlooked. Though it may have a quick cook time, there is no quick backstory to this food which has much history and meaning. These connections I made have had a lasting impact on me and the way I see hot water cornbread whenever it is placed in front of me.

The sound of oil sizzling in the cast-iron skillet, hot water rushing from the faucet,  patting hands together, my grandmother’s laughter, everyone’s laughter. The sound of chains, bare feet on dirt, hushing the puppies. The sound of beatings, “we shall overcome”, marching, praying. The sound of my own voice in conjunction with everyone else, always struggling yet always hoping for more. These are the sounds, which together, paint a vivid scene in my mind whenever I see hot water cornbread.

Belonging - JJ JonesMitchell

Every school day, I walk out of my class to lunch with a purpose. I already know that I will be sitting at the blue, circle table near the counselor’s offices with a group of seven other people none of whom are completely the same as me. When happy, I can be seen bouncing towards the table with a beaming smile on my face, ready to tell my friends the good news. When frustrated, the blue table is always there for me to vent in anger. When melancholy, I can trust that my spirits will be lifted or that my sadness will be met with compassion. For me, this is what it means to belong. It took me a long time to reach this feeling in the black community.

Both my parents are African-American and proud of their heritage. However, their blackness comes from different places. My mom grew up in Bayview Hunters Point where she had the only house in a group of almost all-black friends who lived in the projects. Athletics were extremely important to her and she attended undergrad with a full scholarship for basketball at a D1 school. You could say my dad was the opposite. He grew up in Palo Alto in a neighborhood filled with houses. Most of his friends were white and always had the mindset of going to college as if it were part of the trajectory in life. He was never teased for getting good grades, but people always expected less of him. When he got into Stanford, he often felt inadequate in comparison to classmates. 

Though I feel more attached to my dad’s experience as I too grew up in Palo Alto with only one friend who is African-American, I often don’t identify with either side My parents put me in situations where I could meet black people but I seldom made friends. I thought couldn't relate to the extroverted, loud kids who made beats on the desk and rarely listened to teachers. Even still, I couldn’t relate to the kids who almost reject their heritage, identify more with being white than otherwise and looked in disgust towards the aforementioned. I was stuck somewhere in the middle and didn’t see anyone else who was like me.  

This past summer I went to a teen conference for Jack and Jill, a national black organization I have been a part of since the age of 2. I was not excited. Meeting with multiple different chapters from those in SoCal to those in Alaska, seemed extremely daunting to me. I wasn’t prepared to see an even bigger extent of the two extremes I thought I knew. What I experienced changed my perspective. On the second night, three people shared spoken words surrounding the theme,”The Theft of Our Identity”.  Three completely different speakers spoke on their experience with cultural appropriation. During the presentations, there were those who yelled their “mhms” their “preach!” and there were those who simply nodded along, waiting until the end to applaud. When each speaker finished, I saw people who had skin darker than mine and those who were white-passing erupt into the loudest applause I ever heard. This night allowed me to see that I could be uniquely myself and still, whenever I choose to share the community will stand and applaud for the simple fact that I showed courage in telling my perspective. 

Just like the blue table I come to at lunch, my black community will always be a place I can come to whether I am sad, joyful or frustrated. Some will have a similar sentiment to me, and others will not. Some will look like me and others will not, but there will never again be the questions of whether or not I belong. I know that I do.