 for people to enter the room. Thank you so much for joining us today for our performance, Sisters Across Oceans. So good morning, good afternoon, and good evening. Welcome to our program today of reading with writers from Sisters Across Oceans, a poetry exchange between women in Hawaii, California, and Ghana. Thank you for being here with us today. I have a few announcements, and then we'll get started with our show. So we are broadcasting from the area now known as San Francisco, which is on the unceded ancestral homeland of the Ramaytu Sholoni peoples of the San Francisco Peninsula. As the original peoples of this land, the Ramaytu Sholoni have never seated, lost, nor forgotten their responsibilities as the caretakers of this place. We recognize that we benefit from living, working, and learning on their traditional homeland. As uninvited guests, we affirm their sovereign rights as first peoples and wish to pay our respects to the ancestors, elders, and relatives of the Ramaytu community. We also have an ancestral acknowledgement that's adapted from the African-American Reparations Advisory Committee of San Francisco. We also honor the gifts, resilience, and sacrifices of our Black ancestors who toiled the land, built the institutions that established this nation's wealth and freedom, and survived anti-Black racism, despite never being compensated nor fully realizing their own sovereignty. We acknowledge this exploitation of not only labor, but of our humanity. And through this process, we are working to repair some of the harms done by public and private actors. Because of their work, we are here and will invest in the descendants of their legacy. So summer is here for many of us, and that means summer stride at the San Francisco Public Library, our annual all ages, learning, reading, and exploration program. Visit any of our locations to pick up a tracker or sign up online to log 20 hours of activity and earn a free tote bag. There is much going on during summer stride, including a free book giveaway for youth and a grand prize raffle drawing at all our locations. Visit sfbl.org to learn more about the program and sign up and see our fantastic lineup of all ages programs, reading lists, and more. So we have a couple of programs coming up that may be of interest. This one will be online. We'll be talking with author Chris Manjapra. He's the author of Black Ghost of Empire, a book about the emancipation processes around the world and the legacy of slavery that still exists with us today. Also our on the page book club is a bi-monthly book club and our May, June selection is last night at the Telegraph Club. We have a virtual book club on June 27th and Melinda Lowe in conversation on June 29th. And at the corrette, we will be welcoming author Mark Burford on Thursday, June 30th at 6 p.m. to talk about his book, Mahalia Jackson and the Black Gospel Field. So excited for those programs and I hope you can join us. So now, again, welcome to our program today, Sisters Across Oceans, a poetry exchange between Hawaii, California and Ghana. We are delighted to share this screen with Carla Brundage today, the founder of the West Oakland to Africa Poetry Exchange Project. She is a Bay Area based poet, activist and educator with a passion for social justice. She believes that in order to restore balance and to reclaim our humanity as Black people, racist structures that uphold disbelief must be dismantled. Her writing is primarily for Black women and people disenfranchised by poverty, abuse, neglect and or violence. Sisters Across Oceans expands on her first similar poetry exchange and the book, Our Spirits Carry Our Voices. Please welcome Carla, who will be our host today. You're muted Carla. Thank you Shona. Okay. I'm so happy to be here today. I'm gonna share a little bit about West Oakland to West Africa before introducing our group of fabulous women writers. West Oakland to West Africa was first formed kind of as an artistic dream. It was something that when I really think about it cannot be traced to one moment in time. There was this idea that as a Black person in America I felt so displaced and perpetually without a location to which I was viscerally connected by history. There was this history I learned and heroes I was inspired by, Maya Angelou, Malcolm X, Giant and Spaldwin, Kwame Ture, and of course my mother, Catherine Takara, others who made the return journey. And on a personal level, there was the moment when I became a mom and wanted to have something to say to my daughter about our inheritance in American society. But when it comes down to the moment it happened in 2013 when I met Sir Black of a holocaust in Ghana. He had started a slam poetry movement there and was just getting it rolling, but you should see it now. I was so amazed by the work he was doing with youth and he told me that youth in Ghana all wanted to be rappers. They were kind of forgetting their history. So he said, so I use hip hop to show them that their people inspired such greatness in American music. And I wanna pause and repeat that. In Africa, the motherland, teachers are using American hip hop to help their youth learn about their own culture. After thinking about that for a while I said to Sir Black, well, in America we use hip hop to connect to the African oral and griot traditions to teach our youth about our great ancestors in Africa. And at that moment, I realized how much had been lost. We had this conversation when I was living in Cote d'Ivoire and we were actually in Accra, Ghana at the moment when we had that conversation. So Wotawa hopes to begin building bridges back to repair, harm and reunite people by bringing joy. I also wanna read a tiny bit about this particular exchange from the introduction written by Catherine Waddel-Takara PhD. She will be reading later on tonight, but I thought I would read about this exchange. This is our third exchange and with the help of Catherine and Daphne, women in Hawaii connected with women in a holocaust. And basically Ghanaian women. And we have some of those women in the room tonight who are very instrumental in helping this exchange be a success. So let me just read a little bit of the introduction here. In collaboration with members of the Lynx Incorporated Hawaii chapter and a holocaust of West Oakland, West Africa, West Oakland, West Africa hosted an eight week poetry exchange between women in Hawaii, California and Ghana. Many of the writers in this book have been previously published and all are outstanding, successful in their arts, their communities and their professions. What occurred was an extraordinary, almost instantaneous international connectivity. When presented with the opportunity to have a conversation through exchanges across two oceans, the women in this collection created a fresh community that relied on modern and traditional technologies of communication, email correspondence, telephone calls and Zoom meetings. These exchanges culminated into an international women's poetry collection and readings enjoyed by audiences of the African diaspora. These forums gave voices to mothers, daughters, grandmothers, she-ros and children. The women remain fierce, strong women who are teachers, healers, comforters, brave leaders and historians. The poetic themes you hear tonight center on strong women, colonialism, post-colonialism, freedom, politics, motherhood and love. I'm very excited to be able to introduce the women as they perform. And I have put the reading line up in the chat. Our first reader, Crystal Tete, is a woman who was in our first exchange as well as this exchange. And Crystal and I have actually become friends throughout time because of this close connection. And I respect her work. She's a fierce advocate for women in Ghana. I'm gonna read her formal bio. Crystal Quadah Tete is a poet and songwriter in 2011, she self-published Love, Madagana, a poetry collection clad in generous expressions of collage, cursive and sketch art. In 2013, Crystal launched her maiden music project, Faith, Madagana. Both her 2011 and 2013 projects were heavily influenced by her dual origins in Ghana and Madagascar. Crystal is creator of Curating Dreams, a creatives podcast. She also co-hosts and co-executive produces the aforementioned podcast. Crystal is set to release another groundbreaking music project in 2022, which has probably already happened. She's a fabulous woman. Follow her on her social media and welcome, Crystal. Thank you, Carla. First off, the love and the respect is most mutual and I'm really grateful, humbled by the opportunity to be featured in this book. As Carla mentioned, I'm featured in the previous, these backgrounds in the previous book. So I'll start off reading from the book, Sisters Across Oceans. I have two poems ready. And then I'll read one from our Spirit's Career Voices, which is from, it's the previous book, both edited by Carla. Then if time permits, one more poem. This is Bofi. Three days curtsy, announcing the farewell. A quah titana to ambushtra, a sinister final call. Bofi's physical remains shelled in the family tomb, made adorable and white for her reunion without foregone. Mamasha and I kept awake, tributes, tails, cigarettes, tears. You should have met her, Ninikely said. I met Bofi. I was one. We flew in on a Russian Boeing to greet the tribe, announcing the arrival. Always here, cups of coffee and mufgas. You smell like vanilla, tastes like fire. Dance to guitars carved from rosewood. Yours is the firm handshake of my angel, born on Monday. A joyous reminder, you are here, always here. The next poem from this book is 4.44 a.m., 4.44 a.m. Love is knocking. Have I let him in? 11, 11 p.m., 4.44 a.m. He fills me with ease, knows my longings. Always a notch, always a gentle breeze to keep the sheets undone. Love is knocking. Love has come knocking again, celebrates. So those are two pieces from Sisters Across Oceans. I'll read one now from our spirit's career of voices. And this one is inferior, which I wrote with my partner, Wildflower. The label is inferior, uncivilized, for one imperfect in the master's language. Shipped me, worked me, murdered me, and never returned me. I learned poetry in neither mother nor father tongue. What would Edgar Allan Poe make of this tragedy? Cursed to express emotions that do not inhabit me. Words closest in meaning, not nearly a match for my thoughts. Shipped me, worked me, murdered me, and never returned me. Cut off from my lineage, given a name unpronounceable, asked to be thankful for my new home. Shipped me, worked me, murdered me, and never returned me. So those are poems for my two books. I don't know if I have time to read a poem that's featured in neither. Carla May I? Thanks for the thumbs up. So this one is he, her, him, and Sundays. He, a stray man found my home. In a year my mind long ago hit. He wore no grays, weak limbs, dry cough, and drunken eyes. A stray man lay on the porch every night from then on. Loved less than a dog and fed worse than a beggar. Her, I bleed gray on Sundays. Ashen from wearing a dead woman's shoes. Her hair, coarse and unloved. Here's libation, taste and smile in wrinkleless sleep. Him, he drags his feet like a house owner would. Puts his arms around me like a lover who knows his place. Says my name as if he birthed me and Sundays. Sundays are for the depressed, half-naked, dancing in alleys of fiction or factors. Sundays are for feeling small, submerged in our dreams. Green drapes and country music, misty eyes and mild madness. Sundays are free from wandering eyes, hairy armpits, lazy fingers, long stares into nothing. Thank you. Thank you so much for that beautiful reading. Crystal's partner was Kimberly Keys, who was the artist for our beautiful book cover. And it was just so wonderful to hear the exchange, especially the late night poems. Those were so wonderful and revealed so much about the connection. So thank you so much. We have two poets coming up next. Daphne Barbie-Wooten and Apiakor Surya Masahong Abbey. And I'm gonna read both of their bios right now. It'll be Apiakor and then Daphne or however they choose to read together. So Daphne Barbie-Wooten is a former president of African-American Lawyers Association of Hawaii and a member of both the National Bar Association and Hawaii State Bar Association. She has written poetry and published poetry articles about life experiences and has books, Justice for All, Writings of Lloyd A. Barbie and African-American Attorneys in Hawaii. She has traveled to many countries in Africa, including South Africa, Botswana, Egypt and Zimbabwe. And in Ghana, she visited Accra, Kumasi, the Coast Slave Dungeons. And in 2015, she received the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Hawaii chapter of the NAACP as well as the Civil Rights Attorney of the Year Award from Sisters Empowering Hawaii in 2016. Daphne's partner, Apiakor Surya Masahong Abbey is a Ghanaian poet, writer, author, literary critic, media practitioner, activist and versatile creative of God, Janim and Awa Iwa Ancestry. Please forgive my pronunciation and please feel free to correct it once I finish. Author of the matriarch's verse, her work is noted for its rare narrative prosaic nature which is uncommon in poetry. She has also been commended for the sharp vivid imagery of her pieces living in Ghana, where oral traditions are intricately interwind with a deep immersion into culture and history. Apiakor performs within West Africa's most sophisticated spaces and has been featured on two TEDx platforms. She's also been a speaker at Republica, the largest conference on internet and digital society in Europe. So let's welcome this amazing, powerful poetry pair, Daphne Barbie-Wooten and Apiakor. Thank you. Hello. Thank you for the introduction, Carla. Daphne, I don't know, would you like to go first? Both of I go first? Good to see you. Aloha. Aqaba. You can go first. Okay. Okay. Hello everyone and once again, Aqaba, welcome. I'm going to read two pieces from Sisters Across Ocean and then I'll read one of my other pieces. So this one is titled In Our Souls, Love In Our Souls. In Our Souls, they told us that love is red. That love takes a beautiful gas with every deep, airy breath into our lungs and every pump of our flowing, watery blood. But love does not camp in our hearts. It lives in our souls. They told us that when love encapsulates and binds us, we no longer belong to the world and that everything is bright, perfect, new. But love can cause us to bleed until we cannot stand anymore. And love is birthed with a pain of labor as our abdomens contract our ladyhole stretch beyond imagined possibility to make way for newborn wonder, helpless and hopeless without our care. Love is completely lost without love. They told us that love can heal all sorts but they forgot to tell us that love can slash through iron blocks, diamond rocks, right through our air hungry lungs, our blood pumping hearts. They forgot to tell us that love which has been tortured and murdered can leave deep gushing, bloody wounds. Wounds that will not stop bleeding, that bleed even after we are dead in our souls. Disgusting wounds are permanently stamped and graved tattooed and lived in our souls, forever reminding us that even in our souls, love and time do not stand still. So that's loving our souls and sisters across oceans. And then I'll read another one from the same book. This one is of, and during the residency, we were writing about strong black women, you know, strong women, queens, women who have made an impact in our lives and my maternal grandmother came to mind. So this is that a key tip to her and it's tied to the queen frozen in time. Out of nature's breathing palace of mango trees, coconut shells, high businesses that could be the blood in our veins, you emerge. You loved to community our garden and be our crown morning sun. Your chunky pinky coils are half wet from your queenly bath, balmy wetness from early morning dew, kissing the crown of your head. Your shiny black skin is lacquered West African earthenware. You would scrub your kitchen clean at 4.30 a.m., adorn yourself in royal beads and rich drapey fabrics like the queen that you were. Your crying, singing voice echoed for miles. All of the birds, bees, women, men and children would awake to your heralds. But we were not to be fooled. As your screaming would turn into yelling in an instant and you screamed us into shape for grandchildren must behave properly. A proper example for all to see. I close my eyes. My tongue begins to swim in garlic, onion, ginger, cayenne pepper, taposhita, spiced palm oil in which you fried your famous tatale, your perfect golden plantain pancakes every Sunday. And then long before I would dress up to embrace my sexy yadda-barna cra with my college girls, girls and boys, boys, you would have us cleanse our palates with your herbal lemongrass, ginger, and coconut cocktails. I can smell the peppermint on your breath, grandma. And even in death, as you lay there, a queen flows in in time. Your skin so clammy in your white gown and bellish with everkin tea without shiny beaded yarra on the crown of your head. You weren't to be mourned. So we celebrated and healed you like the queen that you always were. So those are two pieces from Sisters Across Oceans. I'm going to read a third one, a last one maybe. It's titled Fearless. And I wrote it for my TED performance, a TED woman performance in 2020. Bask in the majesty of the kings on the crown of my head. Allow the bounce of the fullness of my supple breast to cushion you in the darkness of the bedroom and in the thick smoky darkness of this treacherous world of undying flames. Take a bow when my skin of pure gold reflects the beams of the golden sun, which blind you and cause you to see the respect that I deserve. Drink in and get drunk on my stretch marks, my bulging belly, my hips of Jupiter, and my thighs of the forest. They are the badges and medals of the battles that I have fought and won overcoming my own blood and streets of agony in the labor ward. Clear the way for me as I plow through the torch. Looks like she's frozen. Yum. Yeah, it was beautiful. I was really getting into the groove of it. Lovely. Wonderful writer. Yeah. Do you want me to go ahead and then call her back in? Yeah. Yeah, maybe so. Do you know if she left? Yeah, okay. Maybe start with that line, like the queen that you always were. Were you gonna start with that? No, I was gonna start with in her poem. You want me to finish? No, you all had that beautiful exchange about the queens. So I just didn't know. Right, well, she started off with in our soul's love. So I was gonna respond with soulful journey and then go into the queens. Perfect. So her first poem was in our soul's love. This is my response. Love and her last line was love and time do not stand still. So my first line is love and time do not stand still. Soul smiling, welcoming, heart beating with love. Hips or flips high in the sky, touches, stars, plays around the moon and then returns to earth for sharing. Yes, love extends to tomorrow, today and yesterday with no time restrictions, no boundaries, a constant wave of golden happiness. Creating memories of long ago, queens giving wisdom, strength to us. Follow the path that love soul leads us to. Painful love teaching lessons to remember, our souls are forever evolving. Pause, take a breath, then continue the soulful journey. She's not on yet. Okay, I'll continue with the queens. And this is in response to her poem about her grandfather, a queen frozen in time. And so I responded with for the queens. Like the queens, like we queens, like us queens that we are and always were. Celebrate, celebrate our destinies, goals, loves, likes, powers, ups and downs, and many spirals leading to a better world. Hail to the queens with peppermint breath, papaya kisses, mango smiles, we celebrate. Remember we are loved by the queens in our lives, Nefertari, Yala Santawar, Nanny of the Maroons, Amentori of the Kandakas, Beyonce, Makiba, Rihanna, Hatshepsut, Lilio Kalani, Kamala Harris, Stacey Abrams and Kataji Brown Jackson. Queens were crowns of golden light, wisdom and visions, paired with Hibiscus, Miley, Plumeria and roses. We celebrate all queens within us. And then I had one more I wanted to read from the book. And this is actually for my husband and for my mom. Wedding memories on Bellows Beach, nice windy day. We celebrated, changed from shorts to a white mini wedding dress in the van. White shoes got stuck in the sand. A few friends with poopoos. Potluck food shared with all. As we tied the knot with our Miley lays and shared wedding cake. Champagne for all. The ocean gently lapping as the sun began to set. Sun changed orange to bright red. We took a brief plunge in the ocean, friends smiling and nodding. Thanks to the judge who was a neighbor and volunteered. None of my marriages end in divorce, he promised. Help push a friend's van out of the sand and drove to our new apartment for new beginnings. I understood belatedly my wedding cake, a gift she bought for my wedding, carrot cake with nuts, raisins and sour cream frosting, delicious. On our wedding night, we took the remains of the cake to our newly purchased condo, broke into our apartment. It was still an escrow. We devoured the rest of the wedding cake except for a small piece left on the kitchen counter. It told of our entrance, the wedding cake saying, announcing we were here ready for our new life and place. Did I remember to thank her? Thanks. Beautiful. Thank you so much, Daphne. Yeah, just thank you again for all your support in bringing the Hawaii group together. And I wanna take this moment to share that Apiakor is back and that, you know, it really is two oceans. It's almost 12 hours distance. It's across the planet. And the fact that the women in this group are able to be here, to show up for each other, to exchange on such a deep level is just so profound. So welcome back, Apiakor. We were really feeling your poem. So we'd love for you to finish your last piece. On my side of the ocean, of course, I really ring. Oh, sorry, your volume is very low. That's her? Okay. Yes, I was saying that it really is two oceans. On my side of the solution, internet on any day can be a challenge. But when it rains and when the rainy season, it's even more, you know, sketchy. So my apologies for that. So I'll start with PLS again. Bask in the majesty of the kings from the crown of my head. Allow the bounce of the fullness of my supple breast to cushion you in the darkness of the bedroom and in the thick smoky darkness of this treacherous world of undying flame. Take a bow when my skin of pure gold reflects the beams of the golden sun, which blinds you and calls you to see the respect that I deserve. Drink in and get drunk on my stretch marks, my bulging belly, my hips of Jupiter and my thighs of the forest. They're my badges and the medals of the battles that I have fought and won overcoming my own blood and streets of agony in the labor world. Clear the way for me as I plow through the torturous blades of the savannah and the concrete slabs of the gentrified forest. Align us out for the kill, going for the juggler to feed up pride and nation, including the one they call the Lion King. Deal with my aggression, my arrogance and my dissidence as you describe it. Because regardless of what you do or say, I will now bow for your expectations of who I am and what I should be. I would not stitch my lips, shuts, nor bite my tongue so that I choke on the blood of my own silence. I will not be shackled and chained by the doctrines of men who manipulate religion when I live in a democracy of liberation that the woman before me fought and died for. I will not be bullied with a gun to my head when my only crime is my yearning to tell my own story in the way that it should be told. I will not be disillusioned and delusioned by the delusions that you have of yourself and myself. I will not fluff my wings slowly because you cannot handle the power of the gust of winds of change that I awaken with every step that I take. I will not breath life simply because you believe that pro-choice is your choice and must be every woman's choice. I will not relinquish my marvelous feminine energy to a self-righteous demigod who frowns upon single women, single mothers, career women, knowledge-hungry women, curvaceous madams, motherless divas, high heels, and makeup on fleek. I will not deny that I love to make love because you do not like me too. I will not love my kingdom any less. I will not stop believing that I am blessed. I will not stop demanding that our mother, sister, and daughter be given the space to walk, to dance, to talk, and to take a stance against sexual harassment within every arena and rape without being seen as petty little liars who simply crave sympathy for themselves and their vaginas. Bask in my majesty, bounce on my woman breasts, take a bow for me, clear the way for me, learn to deal with me, for I will continue to step out into the darkness at the crack of dawn, into the unknown, to chase success, to compete, to immerse myself in the tongues of fire that rage around me. It's daunting, but I do it because that's just what I do. For I am the matriarch, the epitome of courage, of fearlessness, of burning desire, and of battle quality, a hurricane so formidable and so intoxicatingly potent. And my life must be a book of woman history and woman heritage, the ferocious legacy of a queen who hungers and thirsts for a life that is unapologetic in every possible way. I am the matriarch, I am the queen. I am the woman who every woman must be. I am healing. Thank you. Thank you both. What a beautiful exchange. Wonderful. Wonderful women. Yes, thank you. And is this your daughter? Yes, it is. Say hi. Hi. Thank you. Thank you. Our next reader is Sandra Sims. Before retiring from the bench as a judge, in 2004, Judge Sandra Sims served on a number of judicial committees contributing to the work of the Jury Innovations Committee and Domestic Violence Backlog Reduction Project and the District Court Civil Rules Committee, among others. In 2012, Judge Sims published her first book, Tales from the Bench, Essays on Life and Justice, a partial memoir and collection of essays drawn from her experiences as a criminal court judge. The second volume is in the works. Judge Sims enjoys volunteering as a docent for the Haluulu Museum of Art and Hawaiian quilting with Sue Gerner Truth, a group of attorneys and now retired judges who quilt for the fun of it. Welcome, Sandra. Thank you. And Aloha. Oh, my God, coming on the heels of that powerful presentation and I'm feeling fearless. Thank you. And also from Japanese poem, which she spoke about, the friend being taken out of the sand in the band. That was me and my husband. We had to get stuck in it anyway. There's so much joy in this project and I've learned so much and it's been such an exciting time to be a part of this. I've written, but not poetry. And so to be a part of this exchange has been very, very powerful and enlightened for me. My partner is not here today, so I'm going to share some of hers. She and I came together and we shared from a base of having both experienced some loss. And so we came from that sharing those experiences in our families. And so some of our writings reflect that, not that it's a morbid kind of thing, but just carrying on the memories. And so I'm going to start with the first thing that I wrote when we were talking about who we were and how we experienced. And my poem was, Who Am I? And who am I? Who am I? Depends on the day. Depends on the time. Depends on the decade. Depends on the music. Depends on the company I am in. Depends on who's asking. Depends on the rain. Depends on the sun. It depends on the day. That's it. So we went from there talking about who am I depending on the day and so forth. So I did another poem that I'm going to read. This one is in the book, Sister Across Oceans, talking about each day. Sorry, Sandra seems to be muted. I think I hit the button inadvertently. Okay, so I'll go back. And this poem is called Each Day. And she had written something and it's, I don't think it's in the book, but this is following from that. So, but I learned from there, say each day, when the bright Aloha sun burst through the Pacific mist to signal still another chance to begin anew. But I learned from there, say each day, awakening to silent sun salutations. I learned from there, say each day, pushing back against creeping emptiness of painful loss. But I learned from there, say each day, when dreams call forth a dimension of awareness, pulling up memories long buried, because sleepless nights and brief naps can't reach deep enough for the treasured memory that brings peace. But I learned from there, say each day, that my newly planted roses will indeed bloom. And that Catherine's collard greens will flourish amidst the yellow hibiscus. I learned from there, say today, that I am alive and well, and I will carry on. The next one is gonna be from Cecilia. I'll read hers because it goes into the next group that we shared together, talking about our, in my interest, my mother and her is her grandma. This is the session that we talked about, women who've influenced us and their impact on our lives. And of course, I think from all of you, I've heard some wonderful, wonderful exchanges about the impact that we have all been influenced by these incredible women in our lives. And for that, I know we are all indeed, I know I certainly am indeed quite grateful. Okay, so this is from Cecilia's point, the kind revolutionary. Mrs. I think this is something about her grandmother. Sometimes I sit and stare at nothing, only to have you be my something. Taking me back to times when you were, those times which are now rare, as I followed your power under your strong tower, to shower a growth, fearless strikes as I sat on your storytelling bikes, which awed me to the core. You sure were the kind revolutionary. I can smell money from your purse in my needs when I think my pocket occurs. I can smell yams from clay pots and hear lullabies to wooden cots. I still see fear from many a chauvinist and applaud your tutoring them like a feminist. I so I miss your cloths warm when I feel the slaps from lonely storms, you were that fierce a revolutionary. Oh, you Maitrearch, who stood the top powerful patriarchs, shouting orders they took as commands, making sure your fairness harvests its demands. Mother of all motherless, friend to our fatherless, regal soul who posted a royal spirit and walked in a respectable kid. You as my generational roof made me with the golden proof. Oh, one I know I'm blessed to have, one I know I need to lead to others. Oh, you kind revolutionary. If love were protection, you were the lioness which fence our home. If care were flight, you were the eagle which flew our souls. If tenderness were light, you were the sun which woke to fill our world with sunshine. If life were a fortress, you were our empire with many a fortresses even in your ancestral firm. Frame, you still shine through making it unbelievably clear. Naomi, Adua, Pakua, you are and will forever be the kind revolutionary. That's kind of cool. That was not mine. The next one was about my mom who was, she passed away at a relatively early age but she was very active with as most of you are experiencing that works in their community. Hers is in her church, the church that my grandfather founded in Chicago. I understand this by the money years ago and she and my father both did a lot of work there. So I'll read from her about her and her work that she did. It's called Third Sunday or carry on carry on. You are and will forever be. And I should preface it by just kind of noting that while my parents were very active in this somewhat conservative church, they had this daughter that's me that didn't quite follow all the rules. So keep that in mind as we move. Okay, you are and will forever be the kind revolutionary. Standing in the gleaming mega church kitchen watching over her matri team, no fancy hats, no Sunday bests, no soaring solos, no little Mark's mom Sherry, preparing for the spirit field but still hungry worshipers. Third Sunday, separate the church, her time, her term, her team, perfectly seasoned, crisp fried chicken, golden creamy macaroni and cheese, soulfully seasoned green beans and apple cobbler to sweeten the palate. Little Mark at her side, quietly watching, seeing, a future caring chef, carry on child, carry on. You are and forever will be the kind revolutionary. When black became beautiful for the first time in America, you surveyed the many Afro, the top might, unveiled, lace-less but still white flowing gal, some brown, Lord Jesus, she's now serving alcohol in the skies. They say, seeing another world, lugging law books along the way, making history, carry on child, carry on. Do I have time for one more, Carla? I think we're close, is it a short one? It's short. Okay. Okay, and this is when we talked about love and this is a real short one, it's called your love, let me be. And this one in kind of compasses the love from my parents and from my husband and love that was shown and given to me that enabled me to be. So your love, let me be. And this was also following from Cecilia's poem, so shall we forever be together was the lie. So shall we forever be together? Cause your love, let me be me. When few understood being. I rise on your short, strong shoulders, even as your life legs were cut short. Cause your love, let me be. When few understood being, you knew that whatever else happened, love mattered. Love lasted, the only thing that counted. Cause your love, let me be. You were the silent, cool star, lighting my way, lighting the path for new stars to develop and shine, yet always the coolest cat in the room. Cool love, warm love, hot love, unconditional love. It rose like that. Thank you. Thank you so much, Sandra. Thank you for making me a part of this project. Oh, thank you. We might, we are countering a tiny technical question. Do you wanna try and unmute and see if your sound is working Paula? It's not, okay. You might have to log out and come back in. And that works cause our next reader is actually someone I'm so looking forward to introducing. She holds a very special place in my heart. Catherine Waddell-Takara, born in Tuskegee, Alabama. Catherine Waddell-Takara PhD is a retired professor, Afrofuturist, echo poet and warrior for social justice, author of 11 books of poetry. And she does have a website, CatherineWaddellTakara.com. With a long career of community organizing, she is a recipient of many prestigious awards, including the American Book Award for her book New and Collected Poems, the History Makers National Award, Black Futures Award, Lifetime Achievement and NAACP Award and was knighted in the Orthodox Order of St. John. A resident of Hawaii since 1968, her work can be found locally in Hawaii nationally and internationally. She has produced and performed in hundreds of poetry events both at the University of Hawaii, as well as on outer islands, paving the way for Hawaii's current upsurge in spoken word and poetry. She is also my beloved mother and she is the founder and publisher of Pacific Raven Press, who published our beautiful book. I have so much love for you. So we will welcome Catherine. Her partner, Patricia, has been trying to get on but has not been able to, but she did share a video. So after Catherine, we will be sharing the video from her partner poet. Thank you, welcome Catherine. Thank you Carla for the lovely introduction. I'm going to read two poems from Sisters Across Oceans and then I'm going to read one other poem. I hope you all aren't tired of stolen jewels. But here we go, stolen jewels. Who stole the jewels from Africa? They missed the essence of what they took, chasms of misunderstanding and misinterpretation. For in Africa, sharing was like sunlight, abundant as sky is blue. Gold was for beauty and celebration of the people. Rubies and pearl dust of brotherhood, sisterhood. Sapphire skies, amethyst halos of consciousness, emerald clusters of community, abundant in ebony and copper drum rhythms, presence, presence in opal harmony like planets to sun. Who stole the jewels from Africa? They missed the essence of what they took. There were no banks, no uniformed law and order of separate we's and they's. And those who introduced and perpetuated we, they abounded like hailstones, collected stolen jewels for elite and noble kings and queens, popes and churches of so-called civilized lands, in imagined devotion to those who sat pretentiously, puppets of pride on paper, machete thrones. Who stole the jewels from Africa? They missed the essence of what they took. Who stole the jewels from the people and gave in mirages of generosity, imitation jewels, turned holy expectation of harmony, honesty and to dengy imagination. Gaudy hopes of betrayed receivers watched as drabness settled in like drearsome fog. Who did you say who it was that with graceless wishes from lecherous fantasy, who it was that turned purity of being into ego safety deposit boxes of threatened stolen jewels? Who stole the jewels from Africa? Whoever it was, you missed the point. And then I was answering to Patricia's poem and the last line was dismembered to snip the sources, dismembered to snip the sources. Am I remembered? Am I a source? Am I a remedy, a cure, a transformative agent? Who am I? I am a poem. Yes, a poem becoming, Agria. My words rise on the surf of nature's tides. The poem grows, a billflower, a tambourine, a drum, a flute, a zither, a balefond. I sing to others, my heart is my drum. I am not defeated. Rhythms propel to soar. I transform like a phoenix into sun rays and moonbeams dropped from life's flames. Poetic words radiate like new leaves and a forest of clouds. I am a poem. And the last one I'd like to share with you from my collection called Turmalines because black folk are many colors and so hard and resilient. I'm going to share Hey Girl, which I wrote in Oakland many years ago as I wrote Stolen Jewels way back in the 70s. I was at the 80s. So I'm sharing with you some old poems, but it's okay. Hey girl, hey girl, hey black girl, why are you going with your head down and shoulders sloping in crisp morning air? Hey girl, hey brown girl, why are you going with a slouch in your walk and your eyes glazed like no one was at home? Do you hear the birds? Hey girl, hey yellow girl, where's your ump in your charm, your strength to go beyond necessity of conformity? Where's your love? Hey girl, hey red girl, why you stay over there? Why you know like my hair? Where's your pride in your tribe? Hey girl, hey white girl, why is your head in the air as if you don't care? Where's your humanity? Where's the woman in we where we walk triumphantly courageous like Angela, determined like sojourner, enduring like Sphinx, aiming toward the son of our being, germinating like seeds. Did I hear you answer woman child? Yes, here we come world, together we marry the moon to overcome obstacles, we push through samaritan soil and sprout, become glorious new hybrids, Isis our moon, segment our will, we burst forth. Martin, recurring legends of our heroines, whispered through Winsong, women of transformed suffering out of time. Their past becomes our present, their experiences, our nourishment, their legacies, our victories, are they all our surrogate mothers? Let us discover the chrysalis of our emerging being and then we can fly free like butterflies to taste the nectars of life. Hey girl, walk on, hey girl, be strong, hey girl, hold tight, hey girl, think right. Thank you so much. Beautiful, thank you so, so much. I'm just gonna, thank you. Oh my gosh, that poem, I can remember being seven and hearing you read that at the like international center in downtown. We're gonna have a video from Patricia Rejoice, my mom, Catherine's partner who responded to who stole the jewels from Africa. And I'm just gonna read a part of her bio as she is really with us today. Patricia Rejoice, Akkosua Benua is a Ghanaian educationist and a published writer and poetist. Patricia holds a BA in sociology with linguistic and MA teaching of English and a second language degrees from University of Ghana, Ligon. She's also the recipient of the Fulbright International Leaders in Education Fellowship and National Treasure of Gate, Ghana and a member of Ghana. So I think we have a video from Patricia. Hi everyone, I am Patricia Benuena from Ghana and the co-author of Sisters Across Oceans, brought about by the efforts of Carla and the team and Blackie. I am so excited. I am so grateful to the whole team of porters that we are able to make it. Thank you so much for bringing us this far, the team for your incredible work. We look forward to greater things to come. I am reading one of our poems, Stolen Jewels. Whoever it was, you missed the point. Dare you dream of keeping the Stolen Jewels? You can only wrapped innocent people aligned with your land. Impunity and deceit. Heartless sons of far away lands, they shamelessly connect the hearty Africans, played on their munificence and marched up the bounds, leaving not even the ticks for a new season. Caverting Africans perish from their artificially conjured farming. At first, that slays a million Africans as they stand by, sniggering, counting the pillaged goodies, courtesy of whosoever stole the jewel from Africa. Those that led discord, you missed the point. Whoever it was, you missed the point. That is why you mustn't keep the jewels. Your leering cliché, filled with spits of dreaded scorpions and pythons, you call it drink, you are aware of the toxicity, a bomb shell caged. You replace their agrarian, Akkadian lifestyle, so let vines shout into the earth, let the echoes pierce the ears, let the thorns from Africa's virgin forest torture, they whose calf the jewels, the verdict from Africa, for they have hit below birds. African virtues remain a maple tree. Let's they be rewashed for hoisted glory, let's they be prostrated, but for the staunch pillar, whoever it was, you have poured water on Ipem Yaburo. Your goal is defeated. You who stole the jewels from Africa, but is remembered to snip the saucers. Thank you. Thank you so much. There was a great response in it. That was another fun part of this exchange. Our next reader is Ava Beeman. Ava graduated from the University of Illinois in College of Nursing. She lives on Oahu as a retired nurse and is an active member of two wonderful community service organizations, the Lincoln Incorporated Hawaii Chapter and Kapa Chai Chai Nursing Sorority. Ava enjoys community service, reading poetry, Bible study, photography, traveling, baking desserts and bread. Welcome. Thank you for that lovely introduction. I enjoy reading poetry, but I never thought about writing poetry. And I have to say that I'm just a seedling, trying to bloom and being watered by my peers, by Catherine who inspired me so, and by Daphne who pushed me to continue, continue. So that's what I've done. And I hope you enjoy this. Thank you. My poem is titled to George Floyd. I think this is his second anniversary coming up on his death and it still resonates with me. So to George Floyd. George Floyd woke up the world. I saw it happen right on TV. I felt like it was happening to me. How could it be that a man could have his life snuffed out by one man's knee right on TV in front of me? I got to call the police, but no, the knee belongs to the police. Oh, Mr. Floyd, wake up, wake up. Everybody looks to see what can be done with one man's knee. This didn't have to be from the police's knee. Oh, there it goes, out his nose. He could not breathe. Did everybody see? That's not fair. We all need air. Why couldn't somebody care? Now look around and see the stairs and the glares. This was seen in Minneapolis, in Mississippi, in DC, in Cairo, Egypt, in Cape Town, seen in London, yep, even Chicago. Yes, Mr. Floyd, your silent exhale was heard at all four corners of the world. We can't now let this be and remain silent. Don't you see? No man should be silenced within me. Thank you. Beautiful. Thank you so much. It's such an important part of this anthology to think about the time that this exchange was happening, such an intense moment in time. I forgot to let the audience know that we do have a brief time for questions and answers. And I think if you are there and you have some questions, you can start putting them in the chat. Also, don't be afraid to send your love to people in the chat as you hear them reading. I'm excited to welcome up our next writer, Paula Major, as a full professor of the division of elementary education at the University of Hawaii, with over 15 years of supervising teacher candidates. Dr. Paula Major maintains a positive working relationship in the Oahu public school system. Currently, she teaches social studies methods, second language acquisition, and an education technology course to undergraduate teacher candidates. She has fostered her love for diversity components and technology within the education over the years. Dr. Major also taught in the Detroit public school system in first and second grade classrooms. She assumed teaching positions in Maturin, Venezuela, and Liju, China, where she taught in bilingual academic environments for two years. Welcome, Paula. Aloha, everyone. Thank you again for this opportunity. I would just like to share that behind the scenes growing up, I was one that would do a lot of journal writing. And I found that to be a way for myself to express what I was going through emotionally or how I was trying to navigate being a young adolescence and how I could kind of connect in different relationships over time. And so I would secretly journal write and that eventually started to turn into some poetry writing. And I would carry around my spiral notebook and just jot down my thoughts just to release how I was feeling. And I did it like this because I didn't necessarily know how to articulate it with anyone since I'm the only child. So I've been writing poetry for a very, very long time, but the way that I started was to kind of work on an interpersonal level. So for that reason, I've never shared my poetry until now. And I now see and feel that it's okay. And I felt such a liberation yesterday when it was my very, very first time that I've ever read something that I wrote and expressed it to an audience of more than one other person. And she knows who she is, but I've never shared this kind of, my parents don't even know. Well, my mom is watching. So she now knows and my dad and my cousin. So thank you all for your support. So I will like to start with, I'll start with sharing life with you. Something different from what I read last night. But I, I'm nine years into my marriage. And learning different aspects of love, if you will. So that's kind of what inspired this one. Love conquers all. It starts with that line that my partner Mariska ended with. Sharing life with you is the title. And her last line was love conquers all. Love conquers all. Life together to build to share special plans just for two, to work side by side, smile with pride as one by one dreams all come true. To love is to help and encourage with smiles and sincere words of praise to take time to share, listen and care, and tender affectionate ways. To love is to have someone special, one on whom you can always depend to be there through the years, sharing laughter and tears as a partner, a lover, a friend. To love is to make special memories of moments you love to recall. In all the good things that sharing life brings, love is the greatest of all. I've learned the full meaning of sharing and caring and having my dreams all come true. I've learned the full meaning of being in love by being and loving with you. Our love can't be described. It has no shape. It has no form. Thank you. May I share Mariska's? Yes. Okay. So remember hers ended in love Conker at all. But let's start with hers. The untold appearance of truth and victory within our hearts. The untold stories. Love that makes the heart flutter. Reading out of one's reach. All the dreams which we see as truth keep us incomplete. Love opens up the window of your soul. Life becomes a mystery with clues coming from the heart. When we speak the truth, we become complete when love is returned. Therein lies the victory. When lovers become intertwined with each other. When the touch sins sparks and shivers. When lips quiver and eyes speak the truth. Then the untold stories become clear for all to see. You cannot hide true love. When the lamp cannot be hidden under a basket. It must ooze out the pores like the flickers of the night that escape from the untorn basket. Love you conquered. And it gave the world the victory again. Love conquers all. By my partner Mariska. Thank you. One more. Go ahead Carla. Thank you so much Paula. That was beautiful. Our next reader. Is Regina Cook. And Regina I'm so happy you came here today. And I put a little note for you in the chat earlier. Were you done Paula? Was that your reading or did you have? It's up to you. I'm flexible. I know it's more me if I didn't mean to interrupt your reading. I would like to just end us on a strong woman remembers. Okay, great. Thank you. And sorry for that. That's okay. I'm monitoring our time. Okay, this one is written by me and I'll just leave this with us. Coming into my womanhood. Inspired me to write this. I am so still growing. A strong woman remembers. A strong woman remembers. She does not forget the talents that all seek. Women you were born life giver. Miracle worker. Magical maker. You were born from many who were born from birth. You were born with the heart of souls that go untouched. You are open, fearless, gentle and sweet. You were born with fire in your blood. A princess who carries the trophy of defeat. Born with wisdom of the ancient tellers of stories. Now, excuse me, no wound. You, no wound. Can you not nurture or heal? Born the teller and the maker of residents. Born the talk of life. Before none should you kneel. You were born the measurable soul. Reaching past the affinity to the gates of everlasting. A strong woman remembers more than what she can see. She does not hold onto visions of hope. You were born to create women. To strengthen women. To guide women. You were born into strength. Breaking the bonds of enduring pain. Thank you. Thank you. Such a beautiful, powerful way to end. And again, this exchange between women has been so wonderful. Thank you so much, Paula. Thank you for the opportunity. Yeah. Our next poet. Is Regina cook. And, um, Sorry. Regina cook, wife, mother, retired army officer, advocate for social justice. She's a member of Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority incorporated the links incorporated the national association for the advancement of colored people. And women's Federation for world's peace. And, um, Thank you so much. Thank you so much. I'm very, very honored. Uh, for this opportunity. And, uh, Seven to Paula. I have, um, Never shared. Uh, Any of my, uh, Writings in the past. I too have been, um, Jotting down my thoughts and poem form. Since, um, Middle school. So, um, This is way out of my comfort zone, but I'm, I'm excited to share what I have so far. I'm not sure. Brittany is with us today. No, she's not here with us today. Um, but I'll speak a little bit about that after you read. She's doing a fundraiser today. Okay. I'd like to, um, start with her poem, um, Entitled she, and then I'll follow up with my response to her. Ritney writes. You may not have heard. You may not have heard, but she did have a name. Right from the cradle. Her mother. Beautiful black eyes and call her. Mojave. My beauty. Raiding the hair of the older women in the dungeon. Padding the backs of crying women. Just been captured. She was there for them. Sorry. Do too many things at once. Okay. Okay. Your camera is off. I'm not sure if that's intentional. No. I dropped mine. I knocked over my. My tablet. Okay. I'm back now. Sorry about that. Raiding the hair of the other women in the dungeon. Padding the backs of crying women. Just been captured. She was there for them. She hums. To dirges. Her mother taught her. She inhales them. Exhales every breath. Showing that the struggle was real. Her own saliva tastes as bitter as bile. She squeezes her face after every swallow. Her heart touches many. Though her hands are in chains. There's one thing that I know for sure. She was always there for the women in the dungeons. In my response. She was always there for the women in the dungeons. A pillar for some. A symbol of hope for others. Steadfast in her determination not to be consumed. Her empathy and compassion. Reveal her longing for acceptance. For love of life. Gentle as the wind. As sturdy as the mighty oak. Determined as the shackles are heavy. She continues to rise. She continues to rise. She doesn't preach. But teaches. She draws strength from each tear. Each drop of sweat. Blood rich with the legacy of dreams. Not yet realized. But alive. She is all-encompassing. Abundant. More than her name. She is the embodiment of strength. She is we. She is the embodiment of strength. She is the embodiment of strength. She is we. She is me. She is mama. And the next point is entitled. Can you hear? It's about. How the beauty of nature is being. Wiped away in many places. To build. More. And industrialized cities and. Buildings and high rises. And nature. Can you hear it? My mind. It weeps of the joy that comes from relaxing summer days. Underneath the mango tree. The sweet aroma kisses my cheek. I smile. But then. My mind is twisted. Tangled in rage for you see. The sweet aroma that once was. Is no more. The natural beauty. And wisdom of nature. Has spated to concrete. Can you hear it? My mind. It weeps. And one last point. If I may. This one is entitled. It smells like grandma. Love is familiar places. Long distance air kisses. Pink tea roses. White water lilies that cause my lips to curl. It feels like the sweet aroma of vanilla feels. The hung. The hug of honeysuckle breezes that hypnotize my senses. It smells like grandma. During a welcoming hug her breath on my cheek. Open their ways and cookies and lemon pound cake. My favorites of all that she bakes. Love looks like all shades of brown faces surrounding me. In case back. Oh's mouth wide open. Teeth shining. Noisy. Loud. Bodies bumping in the crowd. Sorry about that cause. We embrace. Love is exciting. It's laughter. It's comfortable. It's inviting. Love looks like all shades of brown faces surrounding me. In case back. Oh's mouth wide open. It's laughter. It's comfortable. It's inviting. Love is where I reside. As I look around me. And I see us rising. I cannot stop smiling. I love. Thank you. Thank you. Well, we're coming to the end of our reading. Please, if you have any questions, put them in the chat. I'm super excited to introduce our final reader of the evening. A very good friend, a woman of many hats. Shawna Sherman. Shawna and I have a special bond in that she, like, like myself grew up in Hawaii, but now lives in the Bay Area. Shawna is the. Today and is the current director of the African-American center at the San Francisco public library. Shawna McCoy Sherman is a poet and librarian who was born and raised in Hawaii. Currently Shawna lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her writing focuses on race and place and she borrows from history in order to make sense of the present. Welcome Shawna. I think you're muted. Hi, okay. Hi Carla and welcome everybody again. It's so great to be a part of this project and meet, you know, sisters across many oceans. I think this is the third time I've participated and it's such a great opportunity. I too am a new writer. So it's so great to have opportunity to practice my writing and have an opportunity to read in these programs. So I'm going to read a poem from my partner first. She's from San Francisco. She's from San Francisco. Her poem is called Phoenix and then I'll read my poem that responds to her poem. Phoenix. Seeing for all the dust after the noise has died down. What is left is a silent so deafening. The trees whisper the message just so their voices will be heard above the din. It rises from deep within the forest, the softness wonder of the bird songs. Above the din it echoes its message loud and clear to all who have ears. Listen. From the ashes of the pyre shall rise the storyteller to tell the story of the new creativity in words so elect eclectic, a mix so eclectic, a reflection of the beauty of the mind of the new woman. I see her words, kiss paper, glittering hard, hailstones pelting the earth in fury, butters soft, pillows waiting to welcome home her lover, woman. The African storyteller arrives in all her splendid creativity, born of the ashes from the ashes she rises, woman, we are her legacy. The plat eye. We are her legacy exclaimed mama rose when I told her from my adventure on the way home from the river. Here's how it happened. On the road through the woods I counted the fixed stars shining, I touched the moss hanging low, then ahead in a flyery glow I spotted a giant toad. I am not afraid. I said this toad is not a ghost, and it hopped and flew right at me. Running, I came upon a raccoon, blaming red about its eyes, then I heard a scratching up the path, a wild boar, a newborn baby on its back. It dropped the infant to the ground and hid behind a tree. The child lay wrapped in a lily leaf, wailed three times and shed five tears from two tiny black eyes. Then she dissolved into a miss ascending, fading into the sky. Mama rose listened, smiled with a knowing look. We are her legacy, her legacy she exclaimed. Zana was her name. She walked in the woods whispered to the animals and the animals whispered back. The baby you saw was small Jane Whittle, her charge in the house downtown. Little Jane died during her afternoon nap. They blamed Zana, found her on the path with a fishing bolt on her back. They tied her up. They set her afile for all, a fire for all in town to see. When a toad, raccoon and boar jumped in the pyre. In the end they said whose bones are these? Did you catch any fish as Mama rose? I said yes, I caught three. I ate one, the other two I set to freeze. She mixed, she took out a bass, cut out an eye and grounded in the blender. She mixed it with sulfur, with gunpowder and put it in a pouch. Carrie this on your walk, she said, it'll help you to see clear. Two days later, a scar appeared, a mark on the back of my hand. And you know, I never did see those ghosts again. Thank you. Beautiful. Thank you so much, Zana. Welcome. You can find Zana's work. She's been published, publishing in the library Chronicles, which is super cool. And one thing she does is she, could you talk about how you use those old texts to create your poems? Oh yeah, you know, at the African-American Center, we have a great set of resources that have been collected here since the mid 90s when the Center was formed. And one of those is a selection of all runaway slave advertisements from several colonial states during the revolutionary period. And when I first started as the librarian here, I saw those books and was very interested. So I've actually read through them all and, you know, pulled out all the names of the women and, you know, the circumstances of the ads and I'm trying to work that into poetry to try to recreate their lives because, you know, we'll never really know their stories. But like I had so admire them for the courage it took them to, you know, escape being enslaved. Such a fabulous project. Thank you so much. So Patricia has worked very hard to join us. We did see her video and I did read her bio already, but it would be lovely. Patricia, in the interest of time, if you have one poem, one more poem you'd like to share, we'd love to hear one more poem from you and welcome. We can't hear you, Patricia. You're muted. I have. Hello. Yes, great. We hear you now. Yeah. Okay. I am really grateful to you for the effort you put into bring me to this platform. I'm so grateful to all of you and I'm happy to be here. I would like to read the Strong Woman poem. My inspiration of writing this poem is my own mother, the life she lived to bring us this far. So I read, mother hand, five eagles, pythons, and cheetahs, incubating others' eggs, hatching all together with herds, tending and grooming the lamb and the calf, your guard vying, entertained, and satisfied us. As we pounced on your bullseats, your calf-flowing spring falls on sandy, clay-like loamy soil, softening the siffled diamond into tuck, soothing worried souls, a delightfully clear, bright stream full of fishes, feeding indiscriminately as you cop your saline, navigating the Amazon forest and the Sahara, a cheerfully-fed and annuity, your branches and abode for flying and climbing creatures, your canopy, a rest stop for relaxation, your fruits, self-animate and inanimate. In the mind's eye, I still see you with the hoe and at last cultivating to fill the barn less famine strikes us, your butterfly-sewing machine-making and mending dresses for a few pursuers to support papa. No doubt the smoke never vanished from your kitchen. Your pot were never emptied. The unforeseen visitor was always scattered full. You carried your weapons of transformation thoroughly, even during your brown-leaf age, your deepened watch over, praying, advising, mentoring and, of course, reprimands and rewards, never eluded as your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, as well as all who cherish you, nana, your tackles, smacks, mess, the wings and stitches, meant a lot to us. How can we stop admiring these? The linger in our memories, a sentient reminiscence, flogs me at the aroma of to me, the special pampouin, the special pampouin and mushrooms, not forgetting aroma emitting from sunka, the kind of yam that you enjoy sharing, your warm arms curled around me, nana, your tender hands woven into mine as you poured blessings worth of caution on me. The whispers we shared in laughter, I know you are fulfilled as we sprang from your shoulders to catch the sky. We honored you, nana, by celebrating you. You are our witness, your affection, tenacity, vision, hospitality, brilliance. We perpetrate less austerity than you, the ray of sunshine in our lives. Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you so much, everyone. It would be really great if we could see all the people together now as one big group. This has been a very beautiful reading. Thank you so much, Patricia, for that beautiful poem. And I just want to thank all the readers for coming. I don't know that we have any questions. Do we have any questions in the chat? Okay. I just wanted to ask just for, since everyone is here, but I guess we stopped the recording, so I guess it's okay. I just wanted to ask just for, since everyone is here. Is that better? Okay. All right. So I guess the reading is over. Shawna, you want to say anything? Well, I really enjoyed all the, all the, all the poems from everybody. There were such great words. I'm wondering if you're going to do this again, Carla. Yes. We are having another exchange, but it hasn't, the date hasn't been set. I think we have, this book is available on my website at West Oakland to West Africa.com. So if anyone would like to purchase this book, you can get it there. And I think the big news is hopefully we will be making a journey, we'll be making a journey to Ghana or to Kenya, depending on the exchange in the near future. So that's super exciting news. And once we conclude this exchange, then we might think about another one, but thank you for that question. I just want to say thank you. This has been such a wonderful opportunity and a wonderful exchange. I've enjoyed listening to everyone's poems and experiences and reading them. Thank you so much. Carla, you and Shawna have done a wonderful job. And thanks to, of course, Catherine and Daphne playing this all together. This has been a real honor to be a part of this. It really has. Thank you. I see a question for Shawna. It says, can anyone come to the San Francisco library and read the notes and the postings about slaves. Or runaway slaves. Yes. So we're, we're at the San Francisco library. And we have a, we have a book store and we have a mostly reference collection now, and you can always request to see anything we have in the collection when we're open. Yeah. So there's five books. And I think there's some databases out now and everything. So yeah, there's a lot of information on that now. Thanks for the question. And you can also check out our. The book, sisters across oceans from the library. I think they're cataloging it right now. Okay. Well, thank you everyone for your work and sharing your hearts. And since there aren't any other questions, I think we can all go on with our Sunday. So have a beautiful day. Thank you again to Shawna and the San Francisco public library. Thank you to the members of the links incorporated and to a holocaust. And to all the people who've helped make this happen, including Cal humanities and the Oakland cultural fund. So we have a lot of people out there helping us out to have such a wonderful exchange of Carla. I was, this is Daphne. I was wondering if, if this link or webinar is going to be available for us to share with our friends. It is. And I can, I'll send everybody the, the link after this program. It's on the San Francisco public library's YouTube page. Wonderful. Thank you. Fun with thing. Shawna, did you want to get a group photo of everybody? Did you do that already? Oh yeah, let's do that real quick before we sign off. Let me change my background. Hold on. Somebody going to do the screenshot. Natalie, do you mind doing it? Yeah, yeah, I can, I can take care of it. Thank you. And we can hold up our presentation. Yeah, yeah, I can, I can take care of it. Okay. Thank you. And we can hold up our books. Okay, wait now. And then anybody else that has their camera off, if you want to be in the picture, just turn your camera on. I'll stay one, two, three, and then I'll take the photo. So one, two, three, smile. I'm going to take one. That looks great. Cool. Thank you. Great. Thanks for all your help, Natalie. And thank you, Carla. Check us out on SFPL.org and on the SFPL YouTube channel. See you later. Have a happy Sunday. Thank you. Thank you, everybody.