Cowboy’s Movie Corner: Ms. Raimondo Goes to Washington Woo-ee! Hollywood’s addiction to remakes, reimaginings and reboots has no shame. The latest moving picture to get this rehashed, cashed-in treatment is that beloved American classic and scourge of 10th graders in second period everywhere, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. The Newspaper Cowboy can report that a certain famous local sibling filmmaking duo have dusted off some old timey cliches and rewritten the script to resemble our esteemed boss, Governor Gina Marie Raimondo. Jimmy Stewart’s kindly old Jimmy Stewart-esque boy scout troop master is replaced with an eye-talian Rhodes Scholar, plucked from the upper echelons of power to become the secretary of commerce (with product placement, of course). That Rhodes Scholar is taken under the wing of the more experienced Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen, who’s caught up in a scheme involving too many online geeks and too much GameStop stock. The script itself disintegrates after that. The famous local brothers were hoping to collaborate on their big hit Washington melodrama with famous DC fanfic writer Aaron Sorkin, but Sorkin vanished in search of some powdered inspiration. Who Was That Masked Man?: The looey guv steps out of the shadows P&J reckon that eight put of 10 Vo Dilunders could’t tell you the name of our looey guv, while nine out of 10 couldn’t ID him in a police lineup. Not that being mayor of Cumberland for 12 years is small change for Daniel “Who He” McKee; most non-native residents could find it on a map of the state. This is due in part to Governor Gigi putting Who He in the shadows for most of her terms; he shouldn’t be expecting a Christmas card from DC anytime soon. But to his credit, he comes across as experienced and intelligent, and we wish him best of luck when he moves into the governor’s office. But may we suggest he wears a “My Name Is” sticker for the first couple of months? Living for the We: Raising children, mothering a community, stepping into greatness Black women hold multiple identities. My identities include Black woman. Mother. Activist. Community leader. Healer. Each identity can stand on its own, yet it is difficult for me to separate them. In fact, the roles enhance each other, especially in the work that I do for and with the community. Having all of these together makes me feel empowered to find solutions that benefit not only my own family but also the community – my larger family. Being accountable to work for and on behalf of the Black community — children in particular — allows me to draw from the strength that it takes to raise my own five free and empowered Black children. I hadn’t recognized the relationship between motherhood and leadership until it was brought to my attention; it was an “ah-ha moment” for me, so to speak. I was told that my mothering was apparent in the work that I do. Since then, several people said they definitely see how I show up in spaces as a motherly figure. I fight hard for my children, protect them, correct them when they need guidance, check in to make sure their needs are being met, work on conflict resolution and give them the tools that they need to better relate to each other, educate them, bring them together so they can be in each other’s presence, love them unconditionally and most importantly: feed them. I do the same for the community, as I see them as one in the same. The community events for my nonprofit, Sankofa Community Connection, have the same components, coming together, education and food, to name a few. I strongly believe in working collectively toward finding solutions and in supporting each other. As that saying goes and I am finding it to be more and more true: “All we got is us.” I wanted to find more information about how motherhood, activism and leadership intersect and came across this quote by Cat Brooks, a community organizer and activist in Oakland. The message resonated with me, it moved my spirit: “Black mothering is a political project, and our mission — should we choose to accept it — is nothing short of revolutionary. Our job as Black mothers is to keep pushing the liberation ball down the court. Our obligation is to leave the world better for them and to ensure that they are equipped with the tools that they need to fight. We don’t have the luxury of living normal lives. I tell my daughter all the time — and it’s harsh — but we don’t live for the I. We live for the we.” “We don’t live for the ‘I.’ We live for the ‘we”. That has been my entire existence out here on these Black woman, Mother, Activist, Community leader/healer streets of Newport. All of the things I do are about the WE. Being a Black mother adds extra tasks and at times it’s extremely overwhelming. We have to create safety zones, promote black joy, be a catalyst for healing, educate ourselves about our real history and where we came from so this will add a layer of protection around our children and community in a world that is full of anti-Black racism and stereotypes. We will be able to help them move past just surviving to thriving and even flourishing — finally stepping into our greatness. We have it in us. I hope that sharing my story will help others recognize the same qualities within themselves. We all have what it takes — even if you are not a mother. Let’s build and empower each other to make collective changes and reclaim our humanity and dignity. Dare to Imagine: Storyteller challenges listeners to dream As a kid I devoured books. I especially loved biographies. I hated history, but loved the stories of real people. Especially stories of women. And Black people. If the stories were of Black women, I was in heaven — curled up on the couch, or lying across my bed, far from the world around me, deep in the lives lived before me. I can still remember the tattered paperbacks I read over and over again: Harriett Tubman, Conductor on the Underground Railroad, and Mary McLeod Bethune, Founder of Bethune Cookman College. In those stories I could see myself and imagine what I could be. I believed what my parents said: that I could be anything I wanted to be. My dad used to say, “You could be the next Wilma Rudolf. Or maybe you’ll be President of the United States of America.” When I was finishing high school, I wanted to be Marva Collins, or at least a powerful educator like her. I remember speaking about her inspiration to me at my college interview. When I got to Brown in 1983, I thought I would be an English teacher who directed the high school play. That seemed the logical place to combine my loves of stories and drama, teaching and learning. But when I got to Providence, I was fortunate enough to meet Ramona Bass Kolobe and her late husband George Bass of Rites and Reason Theatre. There I was fortunate to be surrounded by Black people committed to Black storytelling. I had found my place, my people. I designed my own major in storytelling and began the practice of telling stories that had inspired me as a little Black girl growing up in predominantly white spaces (with a white mother, to boot, who was responsible for my having those paperbacks, by the way). I looked for stories I wish I had when I was in school. I remember finding a book called GREAT SLAVE NARRATIVES edited by Arna Bontemps and Langston Hughes in the discount bin at the Brown Bookstore for $2. In it I read about William and Ellen Craft for the first time. I knew I had to tell the story of this Black couple that had fled from enslavement arriving in freedom on Christmas Day in 1848. I knew I had to tell it in Ellen’s voice. So many of the stories of Black women in our history were recorded by men, mostly white men. I wanted to tell it as I imagine Ellen might have told it. I still do. I am full of emotion today. It is Inauguration Day. I just witnessed Kamala Harris, a Black and Asian woman, become the Vice President of the United States. She and Michelle Obama made eye contact today that spoke volumes. The poet today was a 22-year-old Black woman, and the Pledge of Allegiance was led by a young Black female firefighter who signed as she spoke. Today is also my Dad’s birthday. He would have been 89. The last Inauguration he and my mom witnessed was Obama’s. I can’t help but think of how he opened possibility for me. And my mom, who made sure I knew my history, to help me dream a future. I didn’t become President, nor do I want to. But I have lived to see both a Black President and a Black woman Vice President. This is what Harriet, Mary, Wilma, Ellen, Marva, Mom, Dad and, and, and, fought to make possible. I became a storyteller so I can share these stories and more to inspire others to be whatever they dare to imagine. This is why Black stories matter. Dignified and Indignant: Finding acceptance among Black women I remember the first time my sister ever called me sister.