Ojos de un niño y voces de padres, siete carriles de la autopista Buford

Little Amal es una representación de nuestra comunidad, de cada uno de nosotros cuando llegamos a este país, con muchos sueños e ilusiones, representa la travesía de cada una de las familias, es la cara de cada niño que se a tenido que enfrentar a muchos peligros solo para llegar aquí, en buscando un Refugio para continuar libre de la maldad. Cada padre y madre que tuvo que separarse de sus hijos para buscar un futuro mejor.Cada persona que falleció buscando el sueño Americano, buscando una nueva oportunidad de un nuevo comienzo donde se sintiera libre!

Es la imagen de las necesidades de cada inmigrante que llego hace muchos años atrás con el único propósito de una vida mejor.

Representa la esperanza de que no seamos olvidados,usados, maltratados e ignorados.
Nos enseña que nos mantengamos unidos, sin importar de donde somos, nuestra cultura o nuestra lengua!

Escrita por Aceli Zenil, Directora Ejecutiva, Amigos De La Comunidad Georgia

Eyes of a Child and Voices of Parents, Seven Lanes of Buford Highway

Little Amal is a representation of our community, of each one of us when we came to this country with many dreams and illusions. She represents the journey of each one of the families, the face of each child who had to face many dangers just to get here, in search of a refuge to continue to be free from evil.

Every father and mother who had to separate from their children to search for a better future, every person who died searching for the American dream, looking for a new opportunity and for a new beginning where they could feel free! Little Amal is the image of the needs of every immigrant who arrived many years ago with the sole purpose of a better life. She represents the hope that we will not be forgotten, used, mistreated and ignored.

She teaches us to stand together, no matter where we are from, our culture or our language.

Written by Aceli Zenil, Executive Director, Amigos De La Comunidad Georgia

My Personal Yellow Supports Black

The year was '75-ish, Queens NYC. My grandmother, who resembled in features, the Empress Dowager Cixi ( 慈禧太后 ), was in the middle of hacking pork bones when she noticed a clicking coming from the kitchen door. She cautiously releases the carcass but keeps the meat cleaver in hand, weighing her arm as she makes vigilant steps towards the cacophonous sound of dreaded anticipation. As she approaches the backdoor, the fearless daughter of an activist, draws back the curtains and sees a man trying to enter. I remember my sister holding us tightly, as my grandmother warns us to run towards the back of our home. She calmly watches the man who was looking down, working his way into our modest kitchen. After realizing his intentions, she lightly taps the window with the bloody cleaver, the man looks up, their eyes meet. Some say my grandmother cracked a smile, and he did as well. Others say the man ran off very quickly before any forms of engagement were made. Whatever the case, that was my first memory of a grownup saying, “ be careful, they are out to hurt us.” He was a black man.

When we moved into a basement of a shrewd Chinese landlord, I remember watching shows like Good Times, What’s Happening, and Fat Albert. As a young child, these depictions were shaping how I was learning to see black people, that they were possibly going through similar struggles. When my family watched Roots, that was the moment we learned about slavery. “See, black people were treated horribly, just like us.” Yes, but….

My experiences of how I was to see black was continuously being defined through the 80s. The era of Prince and the Revolution, Michael Jackson, the Huxtables, Different Strokes, 227, A Different World, and Oprah, entertainment vehicles fed into my belief that the color of skin may be, didn’t matter. But when we shut off the TVs a very different reality remained.

“Wow, Lily you are so black,” I remember this a lot growing up. I learned that what my Asian heritage revered as beautiful, was measured by the color of our skin (along with other biases like weight, height, sexuality, career, and the ability to act like a girl or be a man). The reverse was being said to others around me, “oh, you are so white, so beautiful.” Why did they leave that word out for me?

My first experience of seeing systemic racism was during our time in Mableton. I think as parents, the connections we make are bonded by common goals that supersede biases and prejudices, or one would hope. We made a concerted choice to get involved in the local elementary school. I jumped headfirst into the PTA, stumbling my way to organizing the talent show and leading its Arts Reflection Program. I later joined a group of passionate parents to getting a local charter school off the ground. I co-chaired as PTO President with a board that was 90% built of black community professionals and parents, who wanted our kids to have a great learning environment. In the end, those who held power dismantled our efforts. “Education is the civil rights movement of our time”, a parent’s words that have stuck with me ever since.

So here we are, 2020. The bad news? It’s 2020. The good news? It’s about damn time! For my Asian sisters and brothers, what started back in 2016 has been updated to educate us even more. Please read and share this Letter for Black Lives.

Hope, Happiness & Resiliency Through Storytelling Series: Introduction

Week two of social distancing; how many more to go? As a mom with a house of two high school teens, a returning college freshman, and a husband with a conference call heavy schedule, the first week wasn’t fun for any of us. But like many families, we are learning to adjust to the unknowns and perhaps getting a better taste of what life can truly be about. My husband (the positive one of the bunch) calls this a rebirth or a 21st-century Renaissance where people can take time to pause for introspective analysis and exploration of what it is that brings a person joy. He further explains that we have an opportunity to slow things down at a pace where individuals can focus to develop individual coping strategies, because the art of happiness ultimately, is our best tool for resiliency.

The idea around finding joy is popular among many during this global fight against COVID-19, even Yale University is offering a free course on the subject (which I signed up for). So why does finding joy during a time of adversity, matter? Because getting through it, on a track of motivation and curiosity, can help us tap into unimaginable skills and talents during a time of limited, high-pressure driven expectations. In other words, doing it for the discovery, not the metrics.

As we think about ways to exercise how to work through this temporary demand in lifestyles and routines, storytelling, particularly hearing about human histories, can play a powerful tool as inspiring messages to keep moving forward — remember, this too, shall pass.

The Oral History Project, a collection of interviews of people who’ve lived in and along the Buford Highway corridor from any time starting in the 1950s and into the present, has been the cornerstone program of how we seek to meet our mission. Thought, what better vehicle to contribute towards a greater goal than sharing what we do and better yet, how individuals can do it from home, too. In this series, we will teach ways to utilize and activate our project, into the lives of our community, followers, and fans. This perhaps might be the first step towards discovering your way to hope, happiness and resiliency. Over the next month, we’ll dive deeper into each of the steps and share methodologies and research that can help efforts. If you are a student or teacher who’d like to initiate this Do-It-Yourself project from home, please reach out to me for ways I can help. Stay tuned for more and until then hugs & health from all of us at We Love BuHi.