Conscious Syllables

[original photo] For the last nine months, I spent many of my Saturdays working as a College and Career Coaching instructor with high school students. This was a challenging and, at times, discouraging experience. Though I had experience teaching before, high school students are a unique group. I found myself more easily frustrated with their behavior because I felt they were old enough to know better. Even more so, as young black men and women, I had a strong desire to see them succeed and was annoyed when they didn't seem as motivated as I felt they should be. [original photo] Perhaps my moments of frustration were due to my need for immediate results. I like it when I can see a student apply what they've learned. That proof that I accomplished something is comforting. I can't say that didn't happen at all this year with my students. We've had discussions where these students blew my mind with their level of insight and awareness about the...

HOMESICK by Fatimah Finney Pictures of Spring Break visits to cities like Barcelona London and Paris fail to give comfort like my mom would give on days like today where the piercing winds and absent sunshine have little to do with the sudden chill that has settled on my heart. Happy Mother's Day! Weequahic Park, 2010 [original photo]

Don Cornelius. Then, Junior Seau. Then, the second student of the year found dead in his dorm room at my school. And then...and then...and then... Suicide. It's real. And maybe if we acknowledged that truth, we'd be able to help the millions of people who are on edge at this very moment instead of waiting until their gone to think about how we could've helped. Back in the Fall, I learned about suicide and how it relates to depression in my psychopathology class. I was completely shocked by the statistics. Suicide rates are higher than homicide rates? As shocking as they may be though, statistics easily become "just numbers". No matter how big, they slowly lose significance in the minutes after hearing them. Before I knew it, I too added my voice to the massive silence our society lends to this issue. It wasn't until I began to volunteer at a suicide hotline that those numbers became voices. Men, women, and even children calling out for someone to acknow...

I have some good memories with fortune cookies. Once, I had my high school advisor tell me to reread my fortune and add the words "in bed" at the end to make it more interesting (awkward indeed). I also had a fortune that read, "This is not your day". I had to laugh at that one. Then there's the fortune that's tucked in my wallet: "Opportunity knocks on your door every day - answer it." I like this one because it has the philosophical quality I expect in a fortune, yet the simplicity of tangible truth. Really? I get an opportunity every day ? So there's the opportunity at life we all get when we wake up (which is indeed the BEST opportunity). But, if this fortune was about that, then it's not really my fortune. It's everybody's! So, I thought about it.  What are my opportunities? Sometimes we expect them to come in specific packages - a job offer, a man, free grocer...

It’s not often that I cry unapologetically in public. I’m not talking about the joyous flow of tears at graduations or wedding engagements, but a cry of fear, regret, and disappointment in myself. Besides yestrday, one other time sticks out in my mind. About a year ago, I was in the audience at the MSA East Zone conference when Boona Mohammed performed this poem (below). I got chills thinking about dying without repenting and the tears just flowed.      Yesterday’s Jumah had the same effect. Not only did it take me back to Boona’s poem, but to all the times I promised that I would do better, pray more, procrastinate less...yet didn’t. It hurt knowing that I was the person of weak faith that the Imam was describing. And who else could I blame but me? By the end of the sermon though, my chills were turned into relief and gratitude. Despite my shortcomings, Allah has been extremely merciful to me throughout my life. Being at this service was a m...

 FREE WRITE by Fatimah Finney Writing poetry Becomes difficult And problematic For me Specifically when I can’t keep my truth And experience From peeking between The lines. How ironic, right?   What good is a poem If it can’t free you From limits and fears by exposing them? After all, a poem Is nothing more than A revolution in words.   So perhaps I must Reevaluate What I am writing, Or yet, fighting, for If it isn’t for freedom.

A little over two years ago, I was in London preparing for an upcoming performance. I wanted to mark my study abroad experience with something personally memorable and slightly epic. I decided that performing at an open mic would fit the bill. (How many people do you know that can say “Yup, I performed in London” ?!) I wrote a hand full of poems then, one of which I performed there and in other places since. Somewhere along the way though, I completely forgot about the other poems until I rummaged through old documents on my computer two weeks ago. It was like finding money in an old pair of jeans, only so much better. Reading them again was like meeting a part of myself that I forgot ever existed. What stood out most about them was the limit I imposed to write them. Each line in these poems could only contain five syllables (or less). Limitations are often thought of negatively, but in this case they brought out something beautiful. When I had only so many syllables to wo...