EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE AND CHAOS IN OUR COMMUNITIES

By D. A. Sears  Image courtesy www.crttbuzzbin.com
 
Our communities have become spiritually and psychologically toxic environments.   How did our communities get this way?  Chaos abounds.  Why?  Emotional baggage!
Let’s go back to the day that you were born.  When you emerged from the womb and entered the space and place we know as Planet Earth — our global village — your soul and your spirit were pure . . . intact . . . You were a whole person.  You were a sensitive, trusting, compassionate and loving soul.  You were curious about the new world you found yourself in.  You gurgled with joy and laughter when you were happy and amused.  You cried when you were hungry, angry or lonely in the hopes of getting the attention of the adults who were in your world so that you could get what you needed for your intellectual, physical, and emotional development.  As time progressed, you developed a vocabulary.  You began to speak — first in words — then in full sentences.  You reached a point where you could clearly articulate what you needed and wanted.  You learned these words and sentences from the adults in your immediate environment and from other children.  You asked questions about everything you saw, heard, and did not understand.  Your eyes sparkled with delight as you made new discoveries about the world inside and outside of your immediate environment.  You sang when you were happy.  You were resilient, enthusiastic, spontaneous, energetic, and so very imaginative. 
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The Education of My Mother and Myself

By Wensley Roberts

The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines the word education as: “The action or process of educating or being educated, a field of study dealing with methods of teaching and learning.” My lack of education has lead me to this 8′ X 9′ cell that I am now forced to call home.

Scholastics were not embraced by me in my youth. The school of hard knocks was my institution for teaching and learning. Pupils in attendance gained the knowledge of every phase of robbery, drug distribution, and every other crime imaginable. 

As I sit in my prison cell, I sPhoto courtesy thebrightlines.wordpress.comometimes flash back to my earlier years and wonder what went wrong. My mother was a caring and willing woman who fed and clothed me to the best of her ability. She was a black single parent who could not read. However, she pushed and encouraged me to be a good student.

I remember having to read the newspaper and other documents to my mother. I was just eight years old and was already writing checks for the household bills, due to her illiteracy. This continued up until I was sixteen. That’s when she kicked me out of her house for dropping out of school and doing other things she didn’t agree with or even understand.

My mother was a Jamaican immigrant who came to the United States in 1982. She worked three jobs and saved for years to bring me to this country. I came to America at the age of six. I find it to be somewhat ironic that I was issued a scholastic visa to enter this country as a student.

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