Editor’s Note: Am Angela Afrikan/Black PresTech-Blog Unapologetically Does NOT Edify Europeans or Anyone of European Mindset.
Thanksgiving 2002, my youngest sondear and I were fast-paced packing to visit home. These were fantastic mini-vacations. My vacation days were swallowed up as sick days, due to periodic hospital “maintenance” stays to treat Crohn’s dis-ease flare-ups. The drive was about three and a half hours. I would stay in a hotel even though we were welcome to stay at mama’s house. I enjoyed giving my son the-closet-thing to a vacation. It was best that I worked third shift. Mornings were the worst with nausea and it would take all day to physically and mentally prepare to work an eight hour shift. I found third shift a perfect fit; accommodating side-effects of medications and symptoms of the dis-ease during the day and transcribing medical reports at night on site at Marion General Hospital. I loved it! Illness was new to me having been diagnosed at the age of 32. Extremely difficult to accept taking pills and constantly having doctor appointments. I coped well having come from a strong and supportive family.
We arrived safe and sound in Indiana.
Grandear (my mother’s mama), my mother and myself have no sisters. Whenever the three of us were together, we had the best of times. Those times are the sunshine in my heart today. Funny that three generations of women: mama, Grandear and myself had no natural sisters. Mama’s Thanks-giving dinner was fabulously delicious. We returned to our hotel room and went to bed at a reasonable time that Thanksgiving night.
Awakened in the wee-hours with nausea, I got up and went to the restroom to throw up. There was nothing on my mind. Nausea and throwing up meals were symptoms I had become used to for I was diagnosed in 1993. Stumbled to the commode somewhat still in-my-sleep; sure enough I threw up the complete Thanksgiving dinner I had earlier that evening at mama’s house.
What came over me instantly after vomiting; I do not know. A fit-of-tears, quietly moaning and groaning (not to awake sondear who was sleeping in his bed) for I had a double bed hotel room. I stood in the corner of the hotel bathroom. Standing there (deep sigh) covering my mouth with my hands and my hands wet with tears as I slid down the corner of the bathroom walls to a sitting position. Hurt and devasted all I could think was “Freakin’ Crohn’s!” Here I am giving my all to be content and fight this health-battle with a smile and I found no smiles in that moment of loosing my mother’s Thanksgiving meal she lovingly prepared.
IT WAS TOO MUCH! Breathing became difficult with thoughts of despair. I worked myself up into a hysterical quiet (not to awake sondear) crying fit. Here I was on my ass in a fabulous hotel room’s bathroom, corner floor with my knees to my chest and face buried in my arms. Felt like hours passed.
Like lightening, suddenly I thought: That’s Not My Mama’s Recipes. Spirit whiplashed my thoughts to-the-fact that everything mama prepared to nourish me all of my life was not her recipes. You see, my mama and ancestors made a meal out of trash! Whose Trash? The slave master’s trash! Started wiping my tears and sniffing-my-snot; LOL, coming back to myself. Clarifying what I knew was true. There were Irish, Italian, Portuguese, Spaniards’ children who had their mother’s recipes which were handed down generation-to-generation and these recipes were from their motherland.
Utterally a disgrace, I was not eating anything my mother would have gotten out of her Afrikan-garden or meat that Afrikan-hunters brought back to the village. A recipe with healthy ingredients for her children that was handed down from generation-to-generation made in the land of Afrika.
You know, people do their ancestory. My daddy was born in Mobile, Alabama. My Uncle travels to Afrika every other year and a few summer’s ago; I learned from him exactly where my father’s people came from in Afrika. Am not faking myself out! I am a child with what they call a “slave gene.” When we were young children (I am the oldest of three brodears) daddy and mama (they were married thirteen years) took us on a drive to Mobile, Alabama every summer. When I was probably five or six, daddy was showing me the Slave Market Site. A plaque stands there stating how the slave trade ended in 1808, the law was violated in Mobile, Alabama until 1860. A child, I remember thinking to myself for this is a vivid memory. We were sight-seeing and I loved learning. When daddy was telling me about the plague representing slavery. I did not tell him, but I immediately thought… “Man, how does daddy live knowing he comes from such a horrible city. I am glad I was born near Notre Dame because Notre Dame is my sight-seeing place of where I was born.” I felt ashamed for him and he was not ashamed, he was not proud either.
There you have it. The straw that broke the camel’s back. Throwing up mama’s Thanksgiving dinner afterwards having a hysterical-crying-fit. The night, I became angry enough about slavery and my ancestors having to eat trash that the white master throwed away. Not having my mother’s genuine recipes. Sure, her lemon meringue pie was probably the closet thing to a handed down recipe. The straw went deep when it broke this camel’s back speaking as a metaphor, the straw being slavery and the camel’s back being food. The axist which pivoted my will power to change what I ate. Astonishing over time, weeks turned into months, months turned into years and now… I despise the whites diet or whatever you call it that they fed to the slaves and still manufacture food that is intolerable and not fit for hue-man consumption. I digress.
PresTech-Blog Upcoming Topics
The Rasaurian Calendar of Our Ancestors:
I want to blog regarding how having a Gregorian Calendar Year of 365 days affect Afrikans who had a Calendar Year of 360 days. I will be using a quote of Dr. David Imhotep: “They Stole Our Time.” I find this a curious phenomen because the sky is a 360 degree circle. Are not all circles 360? How did Europeans defy logic and the cosmos by making a 365 Calendar year?
Sound/Vibration Healing Frequencies:
Am sharing a phenomenal experience I had with sound and vibrations of the body. Will explore why Afrikan medicine treats the body as a whole unit unlike European medical practices which treat the body in sections. Example: A arm, a leg, a back, ect. Also blogging how Afrikan medicine doctors could listen to the sounds of one’s body and determine what physical alignments (with sound) needed to be done. Am using the following quote from Mr. Mzimkhulu of Azania: “By the way, what do they know about War Chants, Drums, Horns and CIRCULATION of energy (CHI-PEMBERE)? We definately defined all of those Sacred Rituals. NIGERIA-KEMET/AFURAKA CHI-PEMBERE 432mhz frequency 2 vs ICELAND/VICKING GERMANIC 440mhz frequency 0.”
PresTech-Blog Official Song
Author: Con Funk Shun
Love In and Peace Out,
Your SoulSista aka Angela aka Afrikan aka Activist