From Cairo to Compton: a self reflection

I traveled to Cairo, Egypt this summer.  But by no means am I a “deep” siSTAR belonging to an Afrikan consciousness group whose members have changed their names to something that reflects their Kemet energy.  As a matter of fact, besides the commercialized ankh—which I’ve tattooed thrice on my body; the pyramids—which I throw up to express my sorority affiliation; and Queen Nefertiti—whose 18k gold head I used to rock around my neck in the 90s, I know very little about Egypt.  I mean, of course I know (from elementary school lessons) that the Nile & Sahara represent the longest river & largest desert in the world, & I also know that hieroglyphics are a pictorial mode of communication.  However, other than that, my Black self—whose father used to tease about being a revolutionary with no cause—knows very little about Egypt. Very.  Little.  I went on this trip, a pilgrimage, really, simply because my sorority sister was going.  As a result, I could safely take a trip to Africa with a friend.  That’s it; nothing more, nothing less.

I—along with 16 others—traveled with Yirser Ra Hotep of Yoga Skills through Cairo, Luxor, & Aswan/Nubian Village, where we toured pyramids, tombs, & museums; traveled the Nile River by cruise ship, viewed the Valley of Kings by hot air balloon, caravanned to Abu Simbel through a sand storm, & took a horse & buggy ride in Aswan.  Together, we ate plenty of grilled chicken & fish, drank lots of bottled water, walked too many steps to calculate, laughed about everything, learned about more than we laughed at, & grew larger & wider as each day passed.

I grew larger & wider as each day passed, & now I don’t know how to “be” here anymore.  Actually, I can’t “be” here anymore.

How does one—a Black one, particularly—travel to Egypt, BE in spiritually, antiquitious spaces filled with monumental structures whose architecture is Ipad Pics 103so perfectly & magnificently built that they are beyond comprehension— go back to business as usual? How does one crawl through divine pyramids & tombs, touch the hieroglyphic carvings that are the world’s first sacred scriptures, see her own image reflected in the images of Egyptian Kings & Queens, go back to business as usual?  I am so full that I believe at any moment I will explode into star dust.  (‘Cause of course, I really am a siSTAR.)  I believe at any moment I will explode, because there’s this spirituality in me that wants to bust loose, & my exploring Egypt has roughly nudged that spirit.

You see, I believe one’s spirituality is expressed through one’s creative genius.  I mean, hands down, the ancient Egyptians expressed/manifested their divinity through their architecture, jewelry, ceremonies, & text—which is why all of it is so perfect & incomprehensible.  I imagine if they did not live through their spiritual selves—which, alas, is what most of us fail to do—civilization as we know it would not exist.  Right?  With that idea in mind, I don’t believe I am existing.  In other words, I am—I am here.  But I am not existing (read: creating) so that when I transcend this Earth, I, too, like my Egyptian ancestors, would have contributed to civilization.  I am not living my full potential, which really means I am not expressing the goddess in me.

As a result, I feel like at any moment I will explode into star dust, because I have given into the fear that oppresses my spiritual self.  Such oppression looks like restlessness, pessimism, depression, & loneliness. & it sounds like that “back to reality” phrase we tell ourselves after we’ve vacationed & gone “back to business as usual.”  Since I’ve been back from Egypt—where, by the way—I befriended a group of people who prove that “we are more alike than we are unalike,” I have wanted to turn myself into mySelf.  But I’ve been stuck.  In fear.  Afraid to lose—(fill this blank w/any meaningless possession).

*     *     *

I celebrated my 36th birthday about two weeks after my return from Egypt, & I felt restless, pessimistic, depressed, & lonely.  I wanted to do only what I’ve been doing since I re-entered “reality,” which was watch Netflix all. day. long.  However, my colleague-friend literally drug me out of my bed & required I do something for my birthday.  Whatever I wanted to do, she was going to make it happen.  I settled on seeing Straight Outta Compton.

Without turning this into a film review, I will say this: F. Gary Gray’s Straight Outta Compton may be, for the gangsta rap generation, what Allan Arkush’s 1998 The Temptations TV movie is for generation Motown.  It’s out of sight.  & what made it so is the Black genius that manifested itself through gangsta rap.  Sure,  gangsta rap culture is complete with profanity, misogyny, & hyper-masculinity; however, it undoubtedly is an example of what can be created when one liberates spirituality & falls into a consciousness that does not inflict harm upon his/her oppressor—even when that oppressor is the self—but creates an environment (art, dance, music) that contributes to civilization.

Now, I’m clear: Many may find my ideas re: gangsta rap absurd, especially as I claim that N.W.A. exercised a practice in spiritual freedom & reconciliation.  However, while their more popular hooks like “fuck tha police” inspirits rebellion, it’s a necessary act of insubordination that allows the oppressed to eliminate his/her rage.  Right?  “Fuck tha police” is “Power to the people.”  & so, these niggas with attitudes responded to the inhumane treatment imposed by law enforcement by totally expressing themSelves; they turned themselves into themSelves (capital S, higher Selves) & more or less embodied Ma’at, the ancient Egyptian concept of truth, law, & justice.

Am I reaching?  Shoulder shrug.  So what.

After having watched Straight Outta Compton—coupled with my re-memories re: my Egyptian tour—I am waddling, perhaps even suffering, in wanting.  Wanting faith like Dr. Dre, commitment like Ice Cube, & courage like Eazy-E.  I am left wanting wisdom like Nefertiti, fortitude like Nuit, & agility like each Egyptian who sculpted, carved, & built a civilization.  I want to be a member of  N.W.A.  But not necessarily a nigga with attitude, but a Nubian with audacity.  I’m pretty sure my life depends on it.

#NWA x<3

who decides this shit?: a classroom discussion re: profane language

I am a cursing teacher.  Hell, I’m a cursing colleague, friend, and sister, too. I curse, often.  Not because my vocabulary is weak, or I am angry and/or sad.  I curse because profane words are linguistic expressions that make up my human language.  It’s as simple as that.

Words are neither bad nor good–unless you are a Christian who believes: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” (John 1:1).  Then, the Word is good, right?  ‘Cause God is good all the time?  If that is true, then curse words are  bad, ’cause, historically, cursing was disrespectful to God and all things holy.  I can respect that idea, but the question–which one of my students raised during our discussion on perception–still remains. Who decides what words are profane?

With that question in mind–which I cannot answer except for crediting the overzealous (White, male) Christian–I charged my students with creating a list of words that they believe were just as profane and vulgar as traditional curse words.  What words, I asked, made them wince and cringe when they heard it?  What words do they, themselves, refuse to utter?

Their submissions are below:

thot; dookie, doo doo, (which seems to be a popular “curse” word amongst Black people, despite the 2 Live Crew’s 1992, “Doo Doo Brown”); puke, vomit; luv; mucus; ca ca, turd, poopie; cunt; douchebag; kill; blood; war; dummy; bastard; jackass; pee pee; toot; crap, suck; jack-off; cum; moist; faggot; loser; blumpkin; blue waffle; guzzler; maggots; pus; ooze; yeast; and pussycat.

(I must admit, I am surprised that in this class of predominantly Black students, not one submitted the term “nigger.”)

Random Thought: “Breakfast will be served.”

Why do workshop coordinators, particularly Black ones, think a variety of pastries is a sufficient breakfast for folks 35 years old & older?

I am attending an academic training/workshop today that began at 8:30am; it is scheduled to last until 3:30pm.  According to the invitation, “Breakfast will be served.”  But I knew better: “Breakfast” included pastries.

Why? 

Why are you (workshop coordinator) serving only pastries for breakfast when lunch will not be served until 12:15pm? Four hours would have passed by the time we (workshop participants) are fed again. & unless we brought our own snacks, we are tempted to eat more pastries to curtail our hunger. 

Why are you serving only breakfast pastries to a population of Black folk who suffer from diabetes, high blood pressure, & obesity? Wouldn’t offering nutritious choices be more health conscious, & therefore, thoughtful?

Why isn’t fruit, boiled eggs, lean meats, & whole wheat breads not also served? 

Why not simply note, “Pastries will be served,” if pastries are the only food being offered for breakfast? That way, we–& I did–will eat before we get to a required all-day workshop, & then we can enjoy a pastry with the coffee you serve.

I’m not trippin tho. I’m just sayin. Food rhetoric is real. The food that is served to an audience is just as persuasive & critical to the workshop’s content. Breakfast is the introduction, & audience members–or maybe just I–analyze a workshop’s breakfast as carefully as a Prezi, a handout, or a lecture is analyzed. 

The pastry-only breakfast has got to stop.  Sadly, today’s workshop is not the first pastry-only breakfast I’ve been invited to.  I’ve been to a White House event that began at 7am, & only Dunkin Donuts was served for breakfast–sans its breakfast sandwiches.  What?  & once, during a required training that included folks over 60 years old, the representative brought us pizza for lunch. No plates. No napkins. No drinks. No salad. Just pizza–Dominoes pizza. What? 

As a 35-year-old professor who often is required to attend all day workshops, I’d appreciate a hot, protein-filled, well-balanced breakfast (& lunch), since you’re offering one. (I’d appreciate flavored creamer for my coffee, too.)

a concise response to Morrison’s God Help the Child

My response to Morrison’s most recent novel, God Help the Child, will be as brief as the 178 pages that comprise it; I am aiming for 178 words. & so it is:

Undoubtedly, brevity is (one of) Morrison’s genius.  From exploring the Middle Passage to the supernatural, racism, feminism, & Christianity to nature, memory, & touch, Morrison’s fiction is as thorough as Homer’s epics & as beautifully succinct as Bashō’s haikus.  However, while her pithiness works for The Bluest Eye, Sula, Jazz, Love, A Mercy, & Home, it doesn’t work as well for God Help the Child.  In other words, It needs more.  It needs more character description & more complex suspicion.

Don’t get me wrong.  God Help the Child is definitely a page turner.  But, a couple characters are irrelevant, while others are underdeveloped.  Additionally, Bride, the main character, is absolutely transparent.  Her name, appearance, & trials are emphatically obvious.  Yet, Morrison’s genius prohibits one from stopping short of finishing her text.  Readers have to know what happens to Bride.

Would I recommend it to others? Absolutely.

from “Women Sweet on Women” Atlanta to Riots in Baltimore, Maryland: Love Is All There Is

I’ve been struggling with how to begin this blog post. 

I want to gush about the magic I experienced last weekend at Atlanta’s ZAMI NOBLA & OLOC’s “Women Sweet on Women II.”  But, I also want to describe the war scene I’ve witnessed driving thru downtown Baltimore today. My mind is racing, & I am high & low.

HIGH: Just three days ago, I was surrounded by Black & White lesbian women 60 years old & up who were gathered together to honor the oldest living lesbian couple in Atlanta: 91 & 93 year old Christine & Althea.  What a blessing–& I’m not just talking about Christine & Althea–but I am referring to myself.  What a blessing to be situated in a room of seasoned lesbian women, who were celebrating their elders, & making room for me to revere them all. 

There I was, my 35 year-old-self, hugging on, listening to, & laughing with Black & White lesbian folk who thrived thru Jim Crow, who embody feminist & womanist theories, who led/are leading civil rights movements, who look like women on the loose, & who loosely use the term “dyke.” There I was, staring at their locked hair, eyeing their silver jewelry, & smiling at their smiles–daydreaming & imagining their histories, admiring their resilience.  

They are the kissing friends in Zora’s Their Eyes Were Watching God. They are Sula & Nell, Celie & Shug Avery.  They are Gloria Naylor’s women of Brewster Place. Correta & Rosa, Angela & Bessie. In each & every one of them, all there is is love–& I got to be inside of it!

LOW: Today I am in Baltimore, & I am witnessing–from the safety of my hotel room–rioting Black folks whose rage prohibit them from being the love that they are. I rode thru Baltimore today, & for the first time in my life, I saw policemen dressed in riot gear, holding billy clubs and plastic shields, standing side-by-side in a line meant to act as a wall. & I am wondering: Why can’t this generation embody the courage that engendered our ancestors’ nonviolent protests? Why aren’t more of us sweet on each other, sweet on ourselves? So sweet that we, like 36 year old Martin, could face billy clubbed policemen w/a love ethic so baffling that it creates a peace that surpasses all understanding? Why can’t we turn our rage into outrageous demonstrations that do not destroy our own neighborhoods, but cripples the American economy?  

I am watching Baltimore burn–including a newly constructed facility specifically for the elders–& I think: Shit! Our people were gassed, hosed, dog bitten, & clubbed during peaceful demonstrations, & they–in a most defiant manner–resisted violence, still! Their audacity, courage, & will to “turn the other cheek” absolutely humbles me. Our ancestors & current elders were/are so divine. So beautiful. So sweet. 

While I understand, as Fannie Lou Hamer best said it, folks are “sick an tired of being sick an tired,” & while I also understand that rioting & looting are expressions of tethered fury, I know that love is all there is.  The most effective civil rights movements were grounded in agape love & non-violent protests.

In other words, non-violent boycotts are an expression of love & protest. Strategic organizing–from churches, schools, & civil rights leaders–is an expression of love & protest.  Supporting black businesses is an expression of love & protest.  Planting gardens in black neighborhoods is an expression of love & protest. Honoring our elders is an expression of love & protest. & loving ourselves? That is it! That’s the ultimate act of rebellion, of protest, of overthrowing the system. 

Love is all there is.  BMore love.

rEVOLution Haikus: A Class Assignment

If I could, I would teach a poetry class.  Although I have a certificate in creative writing, I cannot teach poetry because academy culture prefers I teach within my discipline: rhetoric & composition.  It’s like checking a box named “African American” when you are also Native American & Hispanic.  I’m light-weight trapped.  Anyway, if I could, I would teach a poetry class.  & today, I did.

While grading resumes for my Improving Writing students, I discovered a poet in the midst.  A particular student currently has poems published in various spaces, & I wanted to share her with the rest of her classmates.  So, I did.  I required her to write a haiku to share w/her classmates.  Reluctantly, she did.  & after her brief presentation (for the haiku is a brief three-lined poem with 17 syllables), I required each student to write a haiku on the topic REVOLUTION.

Why REVOLUTION?

Well, at FAMU, students are engaged in SGA elections (& my FAMU alumn know how theatrical & fantastical this occasion is.) Anyway, two of my male students (who are/were members of the FAMU Court) were dressed in black suits w/a REVOLUTION campaign shirt.  The campaign is light-weight amazing, specifically because students are standing on the genius of civil rights activists.  Their entire campaign is the epitome of throwback.  I dig it–so much so that REVOLUTION became the topic of our haiku writing exercise.

Below, find the two haikus–well, I actually wrote one & provided two different last lines–that I wrote w/my students.  Each of their haikus should be available in my comments below.

rEVOLution

Can you see the love

hidden in revolution

like abstract notions?

*     *     *

Can you see the love

hidden in revolution

like it hides in us?

Beyond an Abecedarian Knowledge of Martin Luther King (w/regards to dp)

No one could have prepared me for the lackluster attitude regarding Civil Rights and Black History that I have faced amongst students attending an HBCU.  Some (& way too many) of my students believe King is an overrated, trite icon whose non-violent Civil Rights Movement IMagephilosophy created a stagnant Movement.  Students have claimed (loudly & proudly) that they have neither read nor heard the “I Have a Dream” speech in its entirety, that they did not know that King won the Nobel Peace Prize, helped to secure the Voting Rights Act, and led the Montgomery Bus Boycott.  Oh, but they did know, Dr. Bryant, that King led the Million Man March (or was it Malcolm X?).

I hated them for their ignorance, but I hated them more for not wanting to know.  “I’m so tired of hearing about Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King.  How do they relate to me?” one of my students asked.  Another one, while giving a presentation on the images regarding the Vietnam War, the American Civil Rights Movement, and African Apartheid (which one student admitted he thought meant “apartment”), said–at the start of her presentation to the entire class–“I’m so tired of talking about civil rights.”  & then another “student,” who wanted to talk to me about Martin Luther King for anKing image argumentative essay she was writing, claimed Malcolm X’s “by any means necessary” approach to civil rights were more realistic than King’s non-violent approach.  But she hadn’t read anything about King or any of King’s work.  So, I gave her a book.  & most recently, I required each of my four writing classes to attend Ava Duvernay’s #SELMA movie–& without fail, in each class, at least 2-3 students moaned & groaned about it.  Even one student asked for an alternative assignment.

Why don’t Black students (& yes, I am overgeneralizing) want to know Martin Luther King? & why am I so adamant that they do?

But first, some background:

While I was teaching high school in 2004, I came across that one high school student who claimed to have never heard of Martin Luther King, Jr. before.  I was absolutely flabbergasted.  I felt embarrassed for this student, sad, & disappointed in the public school system, in mass media, and in her.  In that moment, while listening to her classmates laugh and poke fun at her, I knew I needed to do more with King in my English classrooms.  After all, most of those jokers who teased her didn’t know King beyond the King Holiday.  & so, for the 13 years that I’ve been teaching English, Martin Luther King, Jr. has been part of my curriculum.  He is as mandatory as Shakespeare & as necessary as the eight parts of speech.

Therefore, in between FCAT drills, I drilled students on King’s contributions to America.  Required bell ringers included journal entries on various King quotes.  & practice AP writing tasks required students to compare the rhetorical devices in King’s “I Have a Dream” speech with Aaron McGruder’s “Return of the King Speech.”  While George Bush was concerned with leaving no child behind via uniformed assessments, I was concerned with ensuring that no student left my high school English class without having a tighter grip on King than they had before.  That was my small contribution to social activism, if you will–my nod to American patriotism and Black genius.

However, when I left the high school classroom and began a teaching career in post secondary education, I learned–surprisingly–that many of my university students didn’t give a shit about social activism, didn’t believe that Black people were genius, and didn’t view Martin Luther King an American patriot.  Some of my white university students appreciated insights I offered them on King, while others viewed me a Black nationalist and an ethnocentric teacher. I hadn’t realized that requiring my White students to analyze the rhetorical language in King’s “I Have a Dream” or “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” would make me a “racist” teacher.

While I was aware that more often than not, White students will define their Black teacher racist should she teach anything from her Black perspective, I had not considered my teaching King a threat to anyone’s identity.  I didn’t realize that I was challenging my White students’ preconceived knowledge about King.  They understood him to be the Negro preacher who marched for human rights, particularly those of Black people.  Yet, here I was, barely 30 years old, situating King in an academic space that required students to acknowledge his intellectual capacity–to understand his writing prowess and know him as a genius.  Shoulder shrug.  Nevertheless, despite student discomfort and occasional complaints to my supervisor, I continued to teach King, & the more I taught him, the more personal I began to feel about students’ ignorance and resistance to my King curriculum.  But the resistance from my White students didn’t bother me as much as the push back I receive from the Black students I currently teach.

Every time I show King’s “I Have a Dream” speech in class, I well up with tears.  When I play Nina Simone’s “Why? The King of Love Is Dead,” a knot enters my throat.  & when I explicate King’s “The Power of Nonviolence,” “An Experiment in Love,” and “Where Do We Go from Here?”–speeches that define King’s agape love concept and non-violent approach–I feel, as I imagine the preacher does when he explicates the “Sermon on the Mount,” the Holy Ghost rising in me.  So, one can imagine how angry I am when a Black student sleeps through the “Dream,” is texting through Simone’s queries, & has failed to read any of the assigned speeches.  Why don’t Black students, especially these ones who are currently taking classes at a historically Black college & university, witnessing Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, & Eric Garner cases, & participating in #blacklivesmatter, #Icantbreathe, #dontshoot campaigns resisting academic discussions and tasks regarding Martin Luther King, & why do I care?  & I mean, I be bout to lose my mind care.

This morning, my mentor friend freed my mind.  She helped me to understand what I knew but had not known.

For about 13 years I thought I was frustrated with students’ lack of abecedarian knowledge regarding Martin Luther King, Jr.  With all of this free access to information via the Internet, how in the world can any (Black) student not be familiar with Martin Luther King, Jr.–at least with his “Dream” speech?  How does anyone in this 21st century America whose citizens actively engage in racism, sexism, ageism, classism, and the like, not be familiar with the Civil Rights Movement?  I thought that that negligent behavior annoyed me.  However, my mentor friend explained to me that those tidbits of information are all abecedarian; it’s a rudimentary understanding of things, which really, are not that important.

What is most important about King are not the marches, the speeches, and the awards, but it’s the spirit–the creative genius–that moved through him that you want your students to know so that they, too, can carry the King inside of them, she said.  & she is absolutely right.  My teaching King is primarily an effort at reminding students of their humanity & of their responsibility to ensuring peace & love.  She is right.  Many people will not know King, or Gandhi, or Leo Tolstoy, but if we each can be acquainted with their spirits, the Movement will keep moving; for, Spirit never dies.

& so, I will continue to use King as a primary source for instruction regarding rhetoric & composition practice, ’cause I believe King is a rhetorical genius.  However, I am okay with my students–Black or White–not being able to recall any of his contributions to America and the Civil Rights Movement.  No, King didn’t lead the Million Man March, but the spirit with which the Million Man March was organized is definitely a reflection of Martin Luther King.

 

 

 

Women Sweet on Women: Remembering Maryam’s Touch

Saturday evening, I attended a roundtable discussion in an auditorium complete with African-American lesbian women circa 35 years old & up. The event, so perfectly titled “A Conversation with Women Sweet on Women,” was moderated by poet Nikky Finney, supported by panelists Trey Anthony, Maisha Najuma Aza, Kyndra Frazier, & Doris Davenport, & orchestrated by Black woman lesbian activist Mary Anne Adams. During the talk, Finney recalled Alice Walker’s womanist essay, “In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens,” wherein Walker (who I absolutely adore) honors her mother’s creative spirit. According to Finney—as Walker explicates in her narrative—it was our mothers’ & our grandmothers’ creative spirit, which was expressed in how she nurtured herself & her family, that cherished our Selves. & so Finney, who was leading a discussion on the importance of touch, asked us to call out the name of the one woman whose touch—whose sweet touch—inspirited our personhood, our sweetness. Just call out their names, Finney said, & invite them into this space.

I thought of my mother, Choling Bryant-Walker & my grandmothers, Rose McKenney-Jones & Mary Bryant. However, I didn’t call out their names. Instead, I called the name of a non-relative whose sweet touch invited me into an unconditional love I had experienced only amongst kinfolk. Her sweetness was such a beautiful surprise, that I initially didn’t understand it. I was 17 years old, a senior in high school, when Maryam, a 42-year old woman I met in church, loved me vulnerable. While I knew that my family loved me, Maryam’s love was supported by touch. Her behavior expressed a tenderness I did not know—at least not as a young adult. As soon as I called out Maryam’s name, she became the center of my attention as I engaged in discourse with “Women Sweet on Women.” & in that space, I understood—as if betrothed in meditation practice—the divinity in touch.

*              *              *

When I was with Maryam, I felt like a child; it was such a delicious feeling.  Maryam held my hand, gave me long, enveloping hugs, & one weekend, while I was at her home for a movie night, she held me until I fell asleep. I felt so rare in Maryam’s space, so special—much like I imagine my 5-year old niece feels when I hold her, hug her, & kiss her all over her face. But I was 17, & Maryam was giving me permission to be a vulnerable, needy young adult. If I wanted to sit in her lap, she would have allowed me that pleasure—& would have probably gratified me further by singing softly in my ear. Maryam’s tenderness, while I knew it as I was experiencing it, I don’t think I understood until I invited her into “Conversation with Women Sweet on Women.”

I always believed Maryam encouraged my affinity towards women. However, I didn’t understand how necessary her touches were to my humanity. I didn’t understand how womanist & spiritual & stimulating her touches were, & how they—all by themselves—invited me back into an infantile space where there is only love. & that is the whole point of life, right? To express love.

*              *              *

As I compose this blog & think about Maryam, as well as Nikky Finney, Mary Anne Adams, et al., I am reminded of Diana Ross’s 1970 “Reach Out & Touch Somebody’s Hand.” “Reach out & touch somebody’s hand,” she sings. “Make this world a better place, if you can.” While Ross’s lyrics are quite apropos to these particular times—these best of times & worst of times—the phrase, “if you can” is disheartening. For, it is a reminder of the fear that we have welcomed into our personhood. It is an unnatural fear that maintains our distrust, distance, & disillusioned idea that we are separate from one another, & that sweet touches & tenderness should be reserved to babies & romantic partners or earmarked for those in distress.

The world needs more “Conversations with Women Sweet on Women.” & it sho nuff can use more Maryams.

FAMU’s DowJones High School Summer Camp 2014

This summer I worked again with Florida A&M University’s DowJones Summer Camp for high school students.  This grant-funded initiative aims to encourage 11th and 12th graders to pursue a bachelor’s degree in journalism/communications.  The grant requires students to use multimedia to deliver the news.  Therefore, in addition to teaching students the fundamentals of news writing and reporting, students learn how to use social media to deliver the news.  DowJones requires students to display their journalism skills–which they developed in an intense week-long workshop–via an online newspaper.  It can be viewed at the link below:

FAMU’s DowJones High School Summer Camp Online Newspaper