Photo borrowed from: Puerto Rican Day Trips The following poem written by Cristina A. Perez is an excerpt from a longer work. Read a sample of the collection now. The trees bear witness In Puerto Rico, there are so many trees on this tropical island of mine Trees that have remained for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years You can tell it’s been such a long time just by looking at them They are so large and thick– they almost look overgrown These trees must have been here for over 500 years at least These trees must have witnessed all the history of Puerto Rico Beyond the 500 years I try to research Because that’s as far as the written word can tell me anything beyond theory I imagine the trees bear witness to the true history of Borikén These trees remained after the first European invaders came The trees were there to witness the invaders genocide of Borikén’s people Through disease, battles, slavery, abuse, and more. The trees witnessed that some of the Borikén’s people remained like the trees themselves While others jumped into the ocean to avoid the inevitable The trees saw that too The trees bore witness when Borikén officially became Puerto Rico The trees heard when Borikén was renamed after it’s use, a rich port, to these invaders who began to live on this land The trees saw Borikén’s people number dwindle drastically and continuously The trees witnessed another group of people come with the invaders But most of these new people came in chains The trees saw the new people treated similar to the people of Borikén The trees became so horrified with all that happened in less than 100 years They could not look anymore They refused to look But they kept hearing everything– The invaders language become the language of the land The sound of bullets and bombs The anguish of the people who came in chains and Borikén’s people that remained The trees heard battles and revolts The trees heard pleas of freedom and mercy from the earth from gods from God The trees heard too much The trees begged God to no long bear witness The trees begged God to let them be cut down To burn in the breeze, or be thrown into the sea The trees could bear witness no longer God heard the trees Some he granted a hurricane to take them into the sea Some were pulled by their roots out of the earth While other trees pleas, God refused to grant He told the trees it was there job to bear witness To be a testament of history But more than the cruelty and evil of man, The trees were to be testaments of God To demonstrate growth, despite tragedy, Demonstrating strength and durability to remain and not bend to the evil of man To demonstrate hope and life that freedom can be found beyond what the world could ever offer The trees are testaments of God’s creation and his love For even the trees that bear witness can remain and endure How much more will God be near to us to remain and endure? How much deliverance and freedom is offered with the promise of Heaven? If the trees continue to bear witness to both good and evil, cannot we be relieved that our time to bear witness ends sooner than the trees? The trees remain to bear witness as they are some of the only things that can remain for over 500 years in this world Now, all the trees clap their hands rejoicing to their creator God for only the goodness of the land and the death of evil men The trees bear witness and clap their hands

Tags: Boricua, Puerto Rico, el general, Panama, reggaeton

Tags: Muslim, Children’s stories, Kid’s stories, Islam, Ramadam

Tags: Caribbean, History, African, religion, non-fiction

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Reflections on A Life by Rhonda Weaver An excerpt from a novel in progress I remember a plaque a friend of mine gave to me about 40 years ago. I had left my very stable full-time job to pursue something less stable – writing. I wanted to bring the fantasies and the stories in my head into the world. It was such a need at that time that my friend, being a great supportive friend, gave me a plaque. It was one of those, “If I had my life to live over…” kinds of things. It was supposedly written by a 96-year-old women reflecting on her life. There were three paragraphs and each paragraph began with, “If I had my life to live over I would…” Some of the things the author would do if she had her life to live over again included running barefoot somewhere or traveling more. As I sit in my comfortable recliner with my cat, Lady Marmalade, on my lap, I can’t help think of that plaque. It was supposed to inspire its readers to live life to the fullest, but it always made me feel bad because there were some things that I didn’t care to do and some that I couldn’t physically do. Now that I am 67 years old and the cancer has decided to reappear, I can’t help but think about that plaque and wonder if I had my life to live over, what would I do differently? Now that I am feeling close to the end of my life, was my life a life worth living? I have been and continue to feel spiritually bankrupt. When I think of death, I think of eternal darkness. I think of not knowing life the way I had known it. All of my beliefs, desires and consciousness gone. I will never be a person again. I will never feel feelings again and it scares the crap out of me. I look to the clock. I have been sitting in this recliner for 6 hours. I had turned the TV off at midnight and had meant to go to bed, but the draw of the dark and the comfort of the recliner made it difficult to move on. There’s also something about sitting in the stillness of the late evening early morning that conjures up the darkest of thoughts like leaving this life and Lady Marmalade. I thought I had come to terms with where I was at this point in my short existence, but maybe I need to go back. Back to the beginning of my life to prepare for the end of it.

Wael's Project “Working on this project has been a joy. From interviewing to finalizing the project it’s all been quite fun. The interview was really interesting as I learned so much from Ellie and truly thought her life was interesting and the way it’s meant to be lived. Transforming the interview was the hard part as I had to do something I’d realistically be capable of and something Ellie would like. I’ve settled on my format of a voice-over with pictures of flowers using Ellie’s real autobiography as a model. Much like the Autobiography, not only does my video talk about Ellie’s life it also uses flowers as Ellie believed that it would bring some happiness to such a story and I totally agreed. Moreover I wanted this video to feel personal and something truly highlighting Ellie so that was further reasoning to take motivation from the autobiography.” -Wael Go Back to Inspired By ... 2024 Project List

Chapter One: The House By Slyvia Simmons As I closed my bedroom door and began my nightly rituals, they began to move, to prowl, to greet each other. I could not see them, but I could hear them. Who are they? Some may scorn, others may laugh, yet others will know. They are the ghosts of Clifford Street. I was not afraid, I did not yell and scream, I felt at peace. I felt protected. The house where the ghosts or spirits dwelt is on Clifford Street, number 19. The house is what you would call “a big house”. It would be seen as a mansion in other circumstances, but it was a victim of its location. I was the sole inhabitant. At the time of this writing my husband had passed away, and my children and grandchildren, who once filled the house with noise and laughter, had departed to focus on their own lives. My first attempts at first to sell Clifford Street so I could move on with my life had been fruitless—no off-street parking, no yard, the location and on and on. At the time I had a vision of myself as Mrs. Havisham from Great Expectations, as she sat dying among the cobwebs, sweet and bitter memories of the past circling around her. Let me tell you about #19 Clifford - this house of ghosts that was a central part of my life for so many years. It was and still is an imposing Queen Anne structure at the end of a street that connects two main thoroughfares. You could have seen a similar house as the imposing structure in a haunted house movie or as, described in a history about Boston, as the perfect summer home for the residents of downtown Boston which was only two miles away. The house was built in the 1850’s when a carpenter from Beacon Hill decided to move away from the city to a town, called Roxbury. At that time, as was mentioned before, Roxbury was a summer colony for the Beacon Hill crowd. We do not know the circumstances that motivated the carpenter to build a home for himself and a home for his mother-in-law at 19 Clifford Street. Perhaps the mother-in-law was a widow, and her daughter would not move beyond the city limits without her or perhaps the carpenter was a loving and compassionate man, and just thought that this was the right thing to do. Whatever the motive, my husband’s family benefited from this decision and the Simmons’ in 1930 became the fourth or fifth owner of 19 Clifford at a time when few families of color lived in the neighborhood. My husband grew up in this house until his parents divorced. As part of the divorce settlement, my husband’s father remained at 19 Clifford and his mother moved on to a new house, a new life and new marriage. I first met my husband when I was about 11 years old. We were good friends for many years but did not start dating until I was a senior in high school. I remember the stories he would tell of his weekly visits to Clifford Street where he would receive his allowance for the week -- always being greeted at the door by his stepmother who was always polite and welcoming. I remember the first time I saw this imposing Queen Anne structure and was given the grand tour of this magnificent house. I entered from the porch through a huge oak door that opened into a hallway. The first thing I noticed were the high ceilings that were perfect for chandeliers, glowing with candles, and eventually electric lights. The living room and the dining room were on opposite sides of the hallway. Both large rooms had fireplaces and long windows demanding custom-made drapes, and curtains. The original wallpaper in both rooms was of flowery figures on a golden background. At the end of the entry hallway was the kitchen, the door to the earthen cellar and the doorway to the side yard. Near the back of the kitchen was the butler’s pantry that led to the dining room. Ah, if only more houses had such pantries, an extra space for special cutlery, dinnerware and special items that cannot be housed in kitchen cabinets. Come out of the kitchen, back into the hall and go up the wooden staircase to the second floor, and step into a large reception, space or sitting area surrounded by a bathroom and three bedrooms also with long windows and fireplaces. Fireplaces were also part of the living and dining rooms on the first floor. If you keep going up the wooden staircase to the third floor you will find a sitting area, three smaller rooms and a bathroom. This floor may have been used as the servant’s quarters. There were 38 steps from the first floor to the third floor. Many years later, I counted these steps and was satisfied that this was my exercise for the day because I walked these steps at least five times a day. On that first visit, I found the house a bit strange, not in a scary way, but in a way that I felt there was more to the house than this structure and its inhabitants. Did I sense even then that the house was home perhaps to others who did not want to leave a special place? When it became my home, I continued to feel it wrap around me like a warm blanket. I continued to feel that it was strange in a comforting way. The odd noises, shadows and unexplained events became what I loved about the special place. For my husband, it was always home-an imposing structure that continued to be his birthplace. And now as I look back and remember our homes together in various places, I realize that he always hoped that one day he would return to 19 Clifford, the six bedroom three story house that for over 150 years had been witness to wars, social movements, waves of immigration and times of poverty and prosperity. During our time at 19 Clifford, the house was one among other big houses on the street. A street that also included an apartment building, a seller of marble blocks at one end of the street, along with a florist shop, and at the other end of the street, a local grocery store, and— The site the marble seller occupied was once a stable, housing the horses for the residents of Clifford Street and the surrounding areas. During the days of our residency, Black families, many who had left the south after World War II, now made their home on Clifford Street. Once a place for the Beacon Hill elite, Roxbury, and Clifford Street became, after the elites with modern transportation moved to locations further from the city, a street with Jewish and Irish inhabitants. Many of the new residents were immigrants and lived together among a plethora of Jewish delicatessens, Jewish bakeries, and Irish dance halls. I visited this neighborhood as a child. It was not very different from my neighborhood. My Irish grandmother lived near Clifford Street. I remember walking with her and her dog, a Husky named Butch along Blue Hill Avenue strolling past the vegetable stands, the kosher meat markets, the delicatessens and following the scent of freshly baked challah bread. The circumstances by which Clifford Street became our permanent residence as were due to the death of my father-in-law, the patriarch of the Simmons family. His wife, my husband‘s stepmother, wanted to move to Florida after his death. So after months of struggling and meeting with lawyers to sort out the estate of my father in law because he died without a will, the way was cleared and my husband purchased 19 Clifford. It appeared to be the perfect solution at the time. My husband worked for the city, and there was a new requirement that city workers had to live within the city limits. My parents were in need of housing. My father had just retired, and my mother was ill. But we had various concerns, particularly me. We had a dog. I loved the dog. My husband tolerated the dog. After my husband moved into Clifford Street, I had tried several times to bring the dog to the Clifford Street house, but the dog could not adjust to city living, so I schlepped back-and-forth from Clifford Street to that western suburb to keep the dog and my husband happy. After a while, I realized I had to decide. As my parents needed housing, Clifford Street was the best solution for them. I could not expect my husband to live with my parents without me so we tried to figure it out. Lest you think it was an easy decision, it was not. But after rounds of sound and fury, and quiet and contemplation, the issue resolved itself. My daughter and son-in-law would move into the suburban house since they were renting an apartment and needed more room for their young twins. I would give the dog to a trusted friend. All barriers being removed. I became a permanent resident of 19 Clifford and my parents joined us. So there we were - my husband, my parents, me and the spirits and ghosts who welcomed us with a soft whoosh or the flash of a shadow. We were all happy to be together. Go Back to Inspired By ... 2024 Project List

Debby's Project María When we roam, change unlocks doors to new bonds, new home "Me vine a este país por mi hijo," Maria softly said, Her sacrifice echoed by many, hearts heavy with fear. Chapters start and end Leaving kin behind, for your own, a familiar immigrant's dilemma, Building a new life, among struggles, under foreign light. Language barriers rose, obstacles to surpass, "Me sentía totalmente desconectada," a whispering recount. In roles assigned, sometimes our own selves we neglect, "Uno es esposa y madre, pero uno también es mujer," María reflexionó. Chapters unfold, as María paints her path in bold hue, Not a journey to tread alone, but with companions true. Her son, her steadfast advocate, by her side did stand, Through gains and losses, navigating this foreign land. For age knows no limit, nor does the changing tide, La esencia de la vida persiste, más allá¡ de lo que alguna vez vemos When burdens weigh heavy, holding back our flight, It's in letting go, we find our wings, taking flight. "I love you," whispered to oneself, with sincerity true, Opens the door to self-discovery, revealing life anew. -Debby Go Back to Inspired By ... 2024 Project List

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An excerpt of Maya Adenihun 's storytelling project is below. Experience the work in its entirety via the social network platform, Are.na. https://www.are.na/share/axtLkIC The platform allowed Maya the opportunity to present daily observations and journal entries as one collection that show a year in the life of a college student. Excerpt 1: I Never Thought about Them before, September 23 A lot of my suite mates and girls I talk to talk about boys. I realized that I don’t think about them that much (unless it’s about compulsive heterosexuality). Like they talk about how there are no cute guys and about guys they think are hot a lot. And when I think about conversations I’ve had before, I never talk about boys. I never realized how prevalent physical attraction is for people. It reminds me of how my best friend in high school said she could see how I am lesbian because I never talk about boys I think are cute. Excerpt 2: Small Earths, October 5 Excerpt 3: December 21, Alternate Universe (A Dream I Had) I’ve been having this reoccurring “middling experience” where I feel like I’m in an alternate universe. Usually I don’t remember them, but this time I did a little bit. I was awake, fully, but then I heard a low blaring siren like *BLAAUUWWWHHHH. Then i sink into my bed. That’s always how they start. Then the world spins in the swirls that I draw (think Vincent Van Gogh Starry Night). And I felt the presence of angels and demons in my room. It didn’t feel like a dream at all. I was awake and conscious, but the reality of the world around me was breaking. These experiences have happened several times, but they could just be weird middlings between reality and dreams.