Tek Wuh Ah Tellin Yuh
No matter where I lay my head at night, I'll always be a proud Brooklynite. Doscher Street's seen countless skinned knees, block parties, and backyard cookouts set to Pump Me Up with too many bottles of Presidente.
Growing up in the 11208 as the first-born child of two Caribbean parents and 1 of too many to count cousins, my worldview is different to say the least. I lovingly call my blog space Tek Wuh Ah Tellin Yuh as nod to the Guyanese creole that narrated my childhood and peppers my speech during phone calls with my mother. She'd tell you that I'm a platanos and the only Dominican thing about me are my hands - a perfect replica of my father's. Tek Wuh Ah Tellin Yuh also pays homage to my late aunt, Sharon Vanita Azeez, who never shied away from taking up space and owning it.
This space is for me. Tek Wuh Ah Tellin Yuh means listen up, pay attention, and that's that on that. All of these things are exactly what this corner of the internet affords me- a place to process and lay out the messiness of my life, like the limitations of my family's commitment to assimilation and respectability, the loneliness of being caught between the Black/White racial binary as an Afro-Caribbean woman, intergenerational survival strategies that require self-abnegation, and the struggle to undo and unlearn the internalized -isms that permeate my childhood. This is a home for letters addressed to me, my loved ones, and sometimes to you.
This is an opportunity to take up space for a voice typically silenced. Here's to no longer being complicit in my own erasure.
To My People, Thank You
Today I became a doctor and I am SO proud of myself - all that I survived, created, achieved, and let go in a journey that took so much from me. Without my people, I would not have made it to my final graduation stage. To my people, I love you:
Whole and Well 🧠
Explore this collection of resources meant to nurture our mental health and wellness needs. The university works to disappear and exploit Black women intellectuals and I want us to survive the journey in one piece and in peace.
*It's important to note that the design and intention of this thread, originally developed for the Our Sistren's Garden Discord, is not meant to operate in place of mental health professionals and/or services.
Soundtrack to the Season 🎶
This thread on the Our Sistren's Garden serves as a place to share anything "audio" that you keep on repeat or listen to as a reminder of who you are in spite of American academia's commitment to keeping us at the figurative bottom. Maybe its Tina Turner's entire discography (a personal fave), a podcast you love, spoken word, or something in between - share your soundtrack to this season of our lives as emerging scholars!
Please enjoy our playlist, Soundtrack to the Season - a compilation of songs that got us, the sistren of the study, through the journey when we needed inspiration, a pick me up, or an invitation to dance it out.
Community In Real Life (IRL)
The Our Sistren's Garden's #communityIRL thread acts as ahub to share/discuss community resources in real life and on the web - organizations and groups may offer services or a place for support as Black women navigating this chapter of life. The degree and the process are only one component of the full lives we're meant to lead - so grow your community!
Money Moves
A collection of funding opportunities that I've compiled over the course of my doctoral journey. This feels especially important considering how challenging it is when we don't receive full-funding and trying to be well can sometimes feel impossible when we are not paid living wages. Have suggestions? Holler at me here!
Our Sistren’s Gardens
The Our Sistren's Gardens Discord server is our slice of the internet that heavily draws inspiration from the life & legacy of bell hooks and Alice Walker. I’m interested in curating spaces for us – educators, dancers, scientists, creatives, activists, dreamers, disruptors, and artists – to “talk back” as Black women, femmes, and non-binary folks.
Letter to My Daughter
My body is the first language I learned to speak. Eyes crinkling, stomach a flutter, the ache in my throat. Hunger, of course, for love, the pain of knobby-kneed bruises, and the satisfaction of saffron on my tongue. You can forget it, the way the body talks to you. It's ways of knowing. I've forgotten how to translate its messages, overflowing like voicemails on a dust covered machine. I hope you stay fluent.