Donda appears to be a mixed bag for many mainstream critics. Even Pitchfork, a publication that has mostly heralded Kanye’s music (including issuing My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy an elusive 10.0 rating) was not feeling it.I have to wonder though how much that has to do with the album rollout.

Kanye's life-defining relationship with his mother has me thinking more about my own life and my understanding of motherhood, both as a son and now as a new parent. Though I will examine the album from a musical standpoint, I also aim to explore my personal connection to Kanye as one of my favorite musical artists.

Misinformation breeds fear, shame, guilt, and stigma - it also gives folks a false sense of security leaving them vulnerable. This has been born out over the last year with more than just STDs/HIV, but with how folks have handled COVID-19 safety precautions like masks and vaccinations. The danger for folks across the board is not just a lack of information but misinformation and disinformation. I am not going to overload you with numbers, but I am going to share a few really important fast facts:

As I learned how to dribble the ball and ran drills, I quickly picked up the nick-name “sugar foot” from coach Dan, when it became obvious in shooting drills that, no matter how much force I intended to put behind the kick, the ball would barely roll into the goal—if it did at all. These drills were without a goalie.

I just bought a house in a developing neighborhood but don’t worry, our family isn’t racist or unknowingly contributing to rampant displacement or anything. Hey there, and welcome to our new house! Make yourself at home.

The youth pastor’s wife invited all the girls to an unnamed event. We were told to show up in a formal dress and to bring our moms. So, I did. I thought it was maybe going to be some sort of cute dance thing for the other girls since many of them were homeschooled… however, it became quickly apparent that a dance was not what was happening. They led us away from our moms and made us watch a movie about purity, and then told us that we needed to make a commitment of purity with Jesus.

I’m not writing about music in this one per se. I’m writing about the recent suicide of my good friend Nathan, who just so happened to be a preternaturally talented musician.

To be fair, most of my close relationships with people have something to do with music. But Nate and I shared the experience of being drummers in our respective high school bands. (Spoiler alert: I was good and he was WAY better than me.)

Even while I worked from the comfort of home I found myself falling into despair. I rarely slept from many late nights scouring the news for understanding. I let my health go. I stopped running after the marathon I had trained for months to race was canceled. I worried about the safety of my family and friends, but also lost track of them. My island was dark and I didn’t want company.

I’m thinking of spaces—distanced and farther. I’m thinking of NASA’s rover, Perseverance. In the midst of the pandemic, it launched in July 2020 and landed in February 2021. It, too, was in limbo or perhaps on a predisposed trajectory over seven months. So much can happen in so short a time. From Minnesota to Mars, I’ve felt like I’m rooted beneath an umbrella in Bradbury’s science-fiction story, “There Will Come Soft Rains,” because I’m teaching through a screen in a universe indifferent to life. I believe even summer and winter may not have remembered passing through.

What does it mean to be present to the unknowing, the uncomfortable, and the painful experiences of teaching that we may want to quickly push aside? How can we, through connecting with this side of our teaching, increase not only our students' capacity to care about their learning, but their emotive connections to their peers, communities and those that guide their learning? If there is one thing that the pandemic gave me and my students, it was the understanding that all of us, myself included, are flawed and human, and that this mutual care work of knowing and valuing each other is integral to our survival. 

It’s August. We are six months into the pandemic at this point, and fears are still high. I have just accepted my first job as a public school teacher in the city. I’m feeling every emotion under the sun. I’m excited to finally “make it”, finally graduate and land my dream job. I’ve known I landed the job since July so I’ve had about a month of anticipation, and lots of time to make my Pinterest perfect classroom. I took many trips to Lakeshore Learning center to gather plant borders, birthday wall stickers, and sight word world walls. Charlotte Mecklenburg Schools finally makes the call…

On March 13th, 2020, I told my third-grade students to clear out their desks and pack anything essential because we would have to stay home, for what we thought would be two weeks, to help prevent the spread of COVID-19. It was a Friday, the end of a particularly hectic week with a full moon, time change due to daylight savings, and change of the season. As we packed our belongings, the fear of uncertainty filled the room like a nimbus cloud, bigger than the ones we studied in our science unit. Two weeks became fifty-two, and we are still in the middle of the storm. 

Just look up  “hot take” on twitter’s search bar and see what happens. The hotter the take, the more inflammatory the replies. Sometimes that irritates me. Perhaps it shouldn’t. But, as someone who is passionate about all art (particularly music), I find myself irritated that so many people reduce music to an opinion that they shall defend to the death. It’s almost like vile political conversation.

Consent is necessary, but also sexy! It doesn’t have to be awkward. It might feel awkward at first, but think of it like a muscle: the more you use it, the easier and stronger that muscle becomes until you get to a point where not checking in and asking consent will feel awkward. Check in to see if they are okay, and if they don’t seem to want to talk about it that’s okay too. If it’s not a “hell yes!” it should be a “hell no!”

I will inevitably get to an age where I won’t understand the appeal of something new—from a stylistic or cultural standpoint. Because I’ll be too “old”. I don’t suspect, however, I’ll have too much trouble bonding with my daughters over music. Just because two people don’t have identical tastes does not mean that they can’t enjoy anything together. And that’s what makes music, film, literature and hobbies fun. They are all better shared.

This “holiday” sucks. How did we even get to it? I’d do the research if I cared more about it, but I am just going to assume it was some guy in the 16th century named Bob who once put a dead rat in someone’s mutton as a joke, and now people fake pregnancies just for shits and giggles. We do not need this holiday anymore. April 1st 2020 is the day the siren song of bad jokes and insensitive pranks died. Between a reality show President who ignored a global pandemic and every single commercial brand trying to be the lamest on social media, we are better off just cancelling the whole thing.

Currently, the number of states that require sex education to be medically accurate is 17. You read that number right. Only 17 of the 39 states, plus DC, that mandate some form of sexual education and/or HIV education require it to be medically accurate. Furthermore, even though sex education is mandated in 39 states, abstinence-only is still considered sex education despite it being proven not to work.

When I opened them I marveled at a large dinner plate adorned with a vivid orange monarch and then I , like all the times before, meticulously repackaged it, placing the boxes in the back of my closet. They were stunning and I dreamed of the day that I would have a home for myself and use them. As I mused, however, I never suspected that nearly two decades would pass before I would open those boxes again.

Prayers, as a treatment, are cheaper. Like pharmacy shopping on the way to a party you’re late for, Rite Aide cards for tangent condolences, they do the job for which they were made; broken arrows of the spirit, loosed from the hole inside our gut, messengers from the seat of the soul.

I’m visiting my mom in Wilmington, Delaware for a few weeks in the summer of 2006. I’m fifteen. Mom drank and did a few lines before retiring to the bedroom we shared during our visits. My younger brother stays up with her as she looks out the window for cops, while I escape downstairs to watch MTV. I know from bits I’ve heard on the radio and seen on the Internet that “Miss Murder” is in the top 10. I have to see Davey. I have to hear his voice. I need the song to enter my bloodstream. I don’t care if I had to stay up through the witching hour to hear it. I need it now.