2021-A Year of Games, Gratitude and Grounding

 You are the one that you are looking for. ~ Audre Lorde

January was framed by Bob's I Shot the Sheriff. In fact, it was a remix whose production had started in November 2019. As a part of the takeover, the coup makers set an agenda to discredit and gnaw away at the integrity, professionalism, and decades of sacrifice to an organization we called family, home, a feminist space. Let's just say, Bob's lyrics played around in my head as an influencer and confirmed that my feminist analysis of this power struggle in a sea of whiteness was on point. At some point, I needed to get the deputy as well. February was difficult. The contradictions, resistance, and the learned socialization to keep my body, mind, and soul intact while smiling created toxic layers around me. I needed a break and a platform to speak. Funny thing, there was a growing success in manufacturing artificial divisions and silos -a dismantling of a powerful feminist collective-to ensure that we re-enact the Hunger Games. The games had begun, and roles were emerging. Burna Boy kept me going at the gym and home. March was a month of joy. I got the call for an interview. Yale World Fellows Program. It was surreal and I tried to align it with my previous wins-a a round trip ticket to the World Cup in Brazil, a Digital Satellite TV system + a generator, and that chocolate-covered cake at the school bazaar when I was 9. At that point in my life, a prestigious Ivy League fellowship was bigger than the chocolate cake, and I spent the next few weeks on a binge of the Gilmore Girls, an introduction to Yale as recommended by Koc Nyema Williams. April took me to my roots, and I was able to have discussions about Inappropriate Medley in Liberia. We centered on storytelling. Young women representing new generations shared their position, poetry, and platforms of resistance on navigating the Liberian society. It was mind-blowing and cathartic. I realized that the book was the first step in a long conversation on the healing value of storytelling. By May, the Hunger Games had intensified. Parallel universes were created to shock the daylight out of people’s souls. I had my visa and made peace with the fact that I was choosing Yale. The pause would save my sanity and expand my current understanding of the world. At this point, I was wading through murky waters each day, dealing with the higher-ups and custodians of whiteness. It was painful and disrespectful. I was in the doldrums and questioned my every move. Imagine this breakdown and the demand to be prepared for a Yale fellowship. I write this to highlight how institutional racism, power plays, and toxicity can affect our mental health in spaces that are meant to be safe and feminist. I write this because many women let it go despite the impact of this culture on their bodies and minds. Letting go and speaking about this taboo in many settings is difficult. I write to demystify this taboo. May-all framed in Redemption Song. My anthem of calm and resistance. By June, I spread out my earthly belongings on an apartment floor on Othaya Road and invited friends of goodwill (pun intended) to come and make purchases. As the time narrowed down, the most important parts of my life were my sons, cooking jollof rice at Njoki's, and straightening out the kinks of my life. The most important priority was getting my Kitengela glasses to Liberia, where I daydreamed of using them one day. James graduated from Riara University, and again registered that unique determination to achieve. We ate jollof rice and drank champagne at Njoki's house to celebrate him. July was the rush month of goodbyes and hellos. I needed to know where I would live in New Haven. I was not sure why that was so important to me, with my history of living in a three-bedroom zinc shack. In hindsight, I think I had subconsciously associated a living space with safety and comfort, and I needed loads of that after the Hunger Games reenactment. Everything came to a grinding halt on 30 July. I became infected with the coronavirus and could not make my flight to the US. Additionally, I had resigned from my job and given up my apartment. Believe me, you do not want to live with young men who are so cautious about bills that they ask you to cut off the television if you do not give it your undivided attention. On a serious note, it was one of the most challenging 14 days of my life since we had limited information on covid guidelines. I tested negative on the morning of August 14th and was on the first flight that night to New York. August exploded excitingly. I pinched myself to confirm that I was at Yale, living in the historic Chapel Street District. I had access to everything I needed. There were some shocks, but I was glad to be away from the battlefield-fighting for my peace and sanity. I eased into August with gratitude, recovering from covid, ready to join an awe-inspiring cohort of individuals representing 15 other countries, and with the assurance that a safe space of care and love was mine. August to December-the best five months of the year. I learned so much about myself and how my socialization as a feminist guided my interactions. Sometimes, it was about self-recognition and self-awareness. Many times, it was about patience and the capacity to love and work for love. It was about unpacking excess baggage that I had carried consistently and realizing that in many cases it was about sitting outside on a cold day in Sheffield, MA, reading Dr. Jessica Harris’ High on the Hog. That simple life. I gave and took and loved. I entered unknown spaces with humility, and loved my Neoliberalism, Queer Feminism and Social Responsibility seminar. I postponed learning to use the washing machine and dishwasher. The world was not going to end if I did not use them. I cared for myself in such intentional way that I was profoundly proud. My sons made me happy every day. The distance was challenging but we made it! My family and friends were present. I unlearned rigid rules, and gradually accepted kindness and support. I made playlists that I enjoyed and made food that started great debates. And, as I learned new perspectives, some controversial, some fascinating, I did what my friend, Laura Alonso said some time back, I got reintroduced to myself. And on this last day of December, I got the gift I have been looking forward to for the last two years. I met my niece, Avery. My heart is full and my knee hurts from sitting on the floor to make food, check her patients and try to get to the moon, all in 15 minutes. The year 2021 was one that you either wrote a lengthy piece on or just said bye. I chose the long piece because 2021 needed that sort of goodbye and 2022 will be a better year. 2021's losses (friends and bell hooks) confirmed that time is not a luxury. We must use it. Wisely. Friendships nurture us. Do not instrumentalize it. The feminist journey will benefit from our authenticity and love. Love actively as you seek the truth and justice! Thanks to everyone who is present in my life. I remain grateful. Thanks to Yale University (Yale World Fellows Program) and Emma Sky and her team. You helped me keep my sanity. To the universe-your kindness and lessons remain constant! Happy New Year, everyone!

Review of Inappropriate Medley: Intersections Between Patriarchy, Pleasure and Redemption by an Anonymous Reader

 

Introduction: I was introduced to Bai T. Moore’s Murder in the Cassava Patch in Junior High school. Mr. Moore’s ability to tell a (Liberian) story with not-so-fictional characters was enthralling. In high school, we read Chinua Achebe’s No Longer at Ease, Arrow of God, and A Man of the People; and Wole Soyinka’s The Interpreters and Season of Anomy. In college, we deliberated on (amongst others) Stephen Crane’s Open Boat, an omnibus of man’s inhumanity to man in a seemingly disinterested universe; Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations, a study of the role of language in knowing; and Bernard Lonergan’s Insight, a study of how we know what we know. Korto Reeves Inappropriate Medley is a brilliant read; it provided for me an insight into the social psychology of Liberians, with specific reference to the   Liberian civil war, all the time bringing to the forefront (Liberian) feminist thoughts.      

 Excursus

In one of my infrequent Facebook meanderings, I learned of a Liberian author who had just published a book. On further investigation, I respected her scholarship. Korto Reeves's works are not so much in the tradition of Betty Friedan’s Feminine Mystique or Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex but rather in her own right as a thinker and observer of human narratives and deliberations. My decision was inevitable: Ms. Reeves's book was going to be a part of my summer reading! As usual, my summer readings are done in no order. One night in early summer, I got up around 3:30 am to use the restroom (some old folks like me know what I am talking about). Breaking my summer reading rules, I opted for ‘just’ reading the inscriptions on the back. Then it was the acknowledgment. No sooner I was looking at the introduction; and before one could say ‘skip to the Lou’, I was reading the last section of the book. Oh my: I had read the entire book unintentionally! Wow, and what a good read it was. I cried. I laughed. I got angry. I got puzzled. I got amazed. I learned a lot. I admired. I reminisced. I did not go back to sleep as it was time to get ready for work. And I wasn’t even tired! 

 Inappropriate Medley: Intersections between Patriarchy, Pleasure, and Redemption   

Liberia was the haven of Africa, ye the third world; at least according to some of us Liberians: despite our difficulties and challenges, we knew we were different – and in a lot of respects, we saw ourselves as those to whom real bad things generally do not happen to. We knew that we were better and above certain things. We knew that we were not like some developing nations. A quick review of our pre-1980 international profile would demonstrate this easily: Liberia was intentionally involved, however minuscule, in the World Wars; was present at the birth of the United Nations and was instrumental in seeking the independence of several African Nations. 1980 gave us a rudimentary awakening that this line of thinking was inaccurate, and the 14 years’ war provided the empirical data. In the Introduction, Korto Reeves provides a periscope of this scotoma: Liberians committed unthinkable atrocities en masse to some of their fellow Liberians - atrocities that only a few decades prior was far removed, if not virtually absent from our spaces. She resounded an unmistakable optimism: we will rise: the agenda must be taken away from the ones who manned the checkpoints – All checkpoints, be they physical, psychological, or sociological - now and in the past. And she vigorously echoed: The war secrets cannot continue to be an inheritance – we can extricate the bad genes. This book tells the story of our resilience and the strength behind our smiles. Our Sweet Land of Liberty!!!    

 Section one explores the reality of being in a civil war in one’s homeland. 

Freud postulated that to deal with anxieties, the human subconscious tends to develop defense mechanisms. These mechanisms work by subconsciously altering the perception of an individual’s reality. Two examples are denial – incapacity to concede anxiety-provoking information and undoing – neutralizing unacceptable actions or thoughts with personably acceptable actions or thoughts. Then there are the evasive two: rationalization – reasoning with socially suitable concepts; and displacement – meeting out arrows toward less threatening individuals and or targets.  A peripheral reading of section one would quickly raise an overarching query: how could we do such terrible things to each other – and still maintain our psychological coherence? Ms. Reeves, from a point of knowing things on the ground, introduces into our social anthropology a seemingly apoptotic narrative. Pipeline Road was very scary to read: can one truly see into the future? Are there historical markers for all to perceive? Is it true that history repeats itself? And then there were 13 counties. Ms. Reeves and contributor, Marvin Davis do not offer an explicit clarification; but instead points us to the self-evident results: spaces, broken and pulled apart, tend to … fall apart easily.     

“Many more people died at the rebel checkpoints”. We were not attacked by another country or people. It was Liberians against Liberians. Or was it? Korto Reeves teases out some of the causal ingredients. The unconcealed right answers were couched in belonging to the right tribe (which also implied speaking the right language), and or school and or job. Did Korto and Marvin skirt the casual edges or was some version of Freud’s defense mechanisms at play – both by Ms. Reeves (e.g., sublimation) and or those who manned the checkpoints (e.g., rationalization)? Can in-group and out-group scholarship shed some light on the why? Perhaps I am looking for logic, or maybe a cigar is just a cigar. Oh, how I wish Ms. Reeves would take my hand and lead me from my slumber! But then that would be lazy. 

Thomas Szasz once opined that psychological or mental disorders were just other means of seeing, understanding and being in the world in the here and now; they (psychological disorders) were other dimensions of human existences. Korto Reeves’ Woman on Carey Street is Liberia’s King Lear. What a life! The civil war in Liberia was about our family relationships breaking down and falling apart - while yet attempting to hold it together. Trust and mistrust, adherence to duties and relinquishing of responsibilities, were all wrapped up in one basket; and permeating throughout this basket were issues of love and violence, care and indifference, and virtue and vice, amongst others. She is a testimony to human strength and brokenness. She, like King Lear, reclaimed her space and peace by existing in her own Szaszian dimensions, despite the observations of others. Korto Reeves's runway narration should be our own cry ‘never again’. The march to Gbarnga’s 100th checkpoint was laced with several distinctive sights and experiences. The fashion of this runway succinctly captures Liberians’ inhumanity to Liberians. It was not sufficient to kill a person – and at times pregnant women – but individuals had to undergo a ritual of actively engaging the stench of mutilated bodies.

Korto’s angst, Chay Nyensua, analogizes Christ’s Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani. Jesus, the Man, after all, He had done for His people, found Himself at the mercies of Buber’s others, whilst His own looked on helplessly and helpfully. Captured in both experiences are two complaints – what did we do to deserve this and where are you our Omnipotent Father - and a resignation – God Almighty and the God of our ancestors, we surrender for we trust in your sublime teleology. The latter, the resignation, maybe due in a large part to two factors: we have been raised to do so or our options are none – a kind of Pascalian wager. This leads to a convergence of some of Freud’s defense mechanisms: denial, displacement, reaction formation, and undoing constructs whose prime directive is the reduction of anxiety and the survival of the psyche, ye the individual. Ms. Reeves takes us by the hand and leads us along with this sugar cane covered road; and points us to a brighter tomorrow.

How does splitting the womb of a pregnant woman to see the sex of the child provide an avenue for playing Blackjack at the casino? Talk about a different kind of (psychical) logic! What do the two have in common? Chance of survival? Luck of one’s station in life? Then there are the demographics: what is your tribe? Where did your pa work? Seriously? Is it possible that the perpetrators of these inhumane acts were humans seeking rationalization for their heinous acts as a survival defense mechanism? That may sound like a weak argument. We would however dare to proffer that more than meets the eyes was going on, however melancholic. Korto is acutely aware of this dynamic and echoes an existential query: Wetin we did o, my people: an inquest where we both know and do not know the answer; where we both understand and do not understand at the same time – talk about rendering impotent the law of contradiction! Ah, the allure of temporal mechanics where it is possible for effect to follow a cause.    

Like Vigil and Dante at the fifth level of the Inferno (where the nature of wrongs, personal and national, are subjected to intensive self-scrutiny), Korto leads us to the abyss of the Liberian civil war. ‘Death where is thy sting’, the apostle Paul once existentially queried. There is a finality about death that tends to leave several unanswered inquiries. It can be argued that to die in faraway lands minimizes the pain of loved ones at home. A contrary argument is that there may be unfinished emotional and filial businesses to yet attend to. The Secrets of September advances such a script. There is an affluence of information embedded in nonverbal language. These externals speak to our comprehension and feelings. She becomes still. For Ms. Reeves, this stillness is a coming together of thoughts, feelings, and behavior. There is the desire to scream coupled with the desire to just disappear. There is the yearning for it all to end embedded in the hope that it is all a big dream. But then “she stops …. And resigned to the reality”. There is the desire that all would just leave but there is also the need to have people around. And then the apathy arrives: there isn’t any pain that I haven’t known. But is it apathy or resignation in the face of learned helplessness? Ah yes, we do die every day to save ourselves. 

 A brilliance of Ms. Reeves is to tender solutions of light and hope amid apparent darkness. War Time Stories provides a convergence of (human) sufferings and solutions: in this labyrinth of human anguish sandwiched between individual and communal responsibilities, some should intervene and bring relief – be they the ancestors, the God of the Christians, or our friends; but such relief and assistance were not for all. At least Pontius could submit that his hand's washing was due to Claudia Procula’s oneirologic cogitations. A good maxim at times is to be both interested and disinterested at the same time. Ms. Reeves does this routine in We, the Colonized.  There is a thinly etched aphorism in intergroup scholarship that suggests, giving time and space, (the) victims have a strong propensity for becoming (the) victimizers. History is laced with anecdotal exemplars. Did the great, great, great-grandchildren of the oppressed become the oppressors? Is there a possible pragmatic exit here? Korto supplements with a rejoinder as she invokes that great Liberian paradigm shift and butterfly effect: 13 sons of the settlers were executed by orders of the indigenous leaders. Yes, following rainy season is dry season and the promise of a better tomorrow for all Liberians.  

Sections two and three deliberate on the intersections of physical attractiveness and its changing seasons with the accompanying inferences.     

Korto Reeves paints an intricate mosaic of Liberian social life. Liberians always found time to plejae. The regular spots were opened, and people dressed up. Make-up, perfumes, and the likes.  In her rendition of the gathering at the Carlton Disco, Ms. Reeves offers an insight into the intricacies of attending to human sensuous needs. Do you know who it is that is turning you on? Embedded in this quandary is an existential dialectic: is your desire to attend to your amatory needs cognizant of the humanity of the individual or individuals whom you are lurking after and or who are lurking after you?   

Intersections tend to provide space and opportunity for recalibrations. Korto is fully cognizant of this dialectic as she narrates an observation: to be our authentic selves, we must be real; an offspring of our co-creator, our Ma, that feminist nurturing space from which we come, the one who made us. But she hastily inquires: did the making of each of us necessarily include the others? This is a challenge to the dominant narrative of people’s sexuality. Did our psychological birth accomplish an adequate symbiosis and individuation from our mothers? Margaret Mahler would ardently proffer an obligatory dichotomy. We stand on the shoulders of our omnipotent and omniscient mothers. Intertwined within this articulation of who a woman is, are her propagative potency and willingness to embrace or take in the child/children of the breadwinner and or protector. 

And once again, we see the virtuoso of Ms. Reeves: Eggs, sun, and commodes bring this dilemma to the forefront: she had no clue that there were two eggs – she knew they were not hers. How is a woman cogitatively reconciling (fidelity and) infidelity with issues of miscarriage? Using the Vagina Monologues as a beta test, Korto tenders an examination into the question of both the power and societal control over women’s bodies.  Liberian women are forced to protect the secrets of the culture and the impact on their bodies and minds, creating taboo spaces that are not public and visible. Ms. Reeves employs a theistic foothold and ponders ‘how is the omniscient overseer reviewing these events throughout the book. 

Holy Ghost Fiya not only calls into question the male patriarchal dominance but also recognizes Ruth in the fields of Boaz: women are here and have individual and collective needs and strengths. The Beautiful Ones envelopes the intersection of Horney’s response to Freud’s penis envy with her (Horney’s) own womb envy: my foundation is my body… that has no need for studio fixes. One of the wisdoms of Dante’s Divine Comedy is the case of the lukewarm soul: the individual wants to eat from both sides. This dilemma results in the contrapasso - you get what you deserve – the punishment that fits the crime. The case of Alighieri’s lukewarm individual is one of liberty; more specifically, (one) of selecting a path and staying on that path. Korto immediately sees an enigma: doesn’t the very nature of a civil war webbed together with the will, especially for a female, to survive in a patriarchal system, posits a fluidity in decision making - a circumstance of not so random convergences. O what a Mirage to live within! And yes, I withdraw my heart but need you! Not attempting to delve into this complex psychosocial biological construct, Ms. Reeves explores an ontological reality – your love is not mine. Should the physically agile and socio-politically connected partner, albeit most likely the male, intentionally attend to the sexual satiation needs of the other partner, most likely a female? If he doesn’t; and when a wave presents a favorable surf for the female, if she yields to said trajectory, is that payback or being true to herself? Sartre would suggest the latter: being authentic to oneself. And yes, my spirit wakes up and it wakes up for me! But what is a woman to do if she has a “providing” partner who is not meeting her amatory needs? Should she engage her authentic self? Can she do both? Should she do both?

Yes, her Tobacco and Home.  Korto is a keen observer of the power and influence of intersections. Intersections are inherently human. They provide a physical space for finding oneself amidst a convergence of socio-religious and anthropological structures. They are an arena for the battle of values and self-realizations. Ms. Reeves vigorously engages this dialectic. A significant part of her goal is to explicate patriarchy, feminism, family, and an authentic self, all under the same dome? Ah yes, Jung was correct: mothers always win, and we follow (and recognize and gain) their strengths – and wisdom: and yes, I danced my soul into the strength of our cause – talk about dancing into a sea of cowrie shells! 

Section four explores the multifaceted role of Liberian males and the variable spikes within the Liberian his -story.     

Gbana man dem compressing – shout out to Lib men. A genius of Korto Reeves and contributor, James Williams, they paint a seemingly amoral mosaic explicating the complexity of Liberian men during the civil war - not lost in this mosaic is the convergence of religiocentric and socioeconomic covenants. One is apt to ask the somewhat moral question: how Liberian men can be so ostentatious and yet get away with it, as is evidenced by several females who ‘drank their cool aid’. I smiled to myself and silently whispered: they know us well – shoeshining, local starch making their dokaflehshirts to stand we say thanks to the Bassa papay across the road on Center Street. And then they rhetorically ponder: who made you like this? I also mused: Were they only talking about a special period in Liberia’s history; or about a covert exemplar that had always been prevalent in Liberian men’s social anthropology, and was now taking on a more overt posture in Liberia’s social relationship space? As Williams and Reeves matriculate between the sociopolitical spaces of Liberian men (during this period), they imperceptibly interposed a confederate: females had a passive, albeit a survival contrivance within this patriarchic system; they had a role in this bidirectional waltz. In this seemingly amoral reflection, they are aware that all is not well. Williams and Reeves periphrastically asked the obvious big elephant in the room question: “Da who will redeem Liberia”? Interestingly, coming to grasp with the reality on the ground, though the focus is on men, they are cognizant of the role played by women in this uneven arrangement. Martin Heidegger would be proud of this poem: Like most poems in the book, Williams and Reeves proffer a solution specific to everyone: redeem yourself. Be your authentic self in the here and now. But what follows has the potential to deny the assertion of one’s authentic self: join the struggle, something spoiled. Are they asserting that to truly find oneself, one must look to the others; or is the fulcrum of finding oneself intrinsically tied to the ontology of the others? This authenticity is also shown in the use of Liberian English and language to depict the complex lives of Liberians-politicians, media, women, child soldiers and others. Yes indeed: Gbana man dem compressing! 

During the civil war and its immediate aftermath, there seems to have been a heightened interest in bodybuilding and physical exercise by some men, especially the young (I was recently reminded by a friend from Plumkor that youth is from 18 to 54; I just replied OK Oh). Sparta would be jealous. And not unlike the women of Athens, the limbic system of ladies in Liberia was cautiously optimistic and selectively heightened. Occasionally the insula would unabashedly push the amygdala aside. Ahhhh … the one whose voice pours nectar, honey, strength, and sexy on my soul. The one who walk into the room, and I do a check. Ah yes, a woman can dream…. Male model with a body that sustains pleasure, passion, and the mind. But this was not global for all Liberian women or men during these trying times: some reverberated, not me. Evans Adofo’s I am Different provides an analysis so this as his contribution. I am not the one: I am different …. (and) I answer to my own emotions. Talk about an aide-mémoire not to generalize even when the availability heuristic seemed to flawlessly intersect with the representative heuristic. Evans passionately enunciates the differentness espoused by those Liberian women and men who sought to not go with the apparent zeitgeist. He unapologetically pontificates: I am different, I stand on my own… yet I am strong.     

In Dante’s Divine Comedy, Virgil posits that the souls entering the first circle of the inferno are hopeless and living in a state of constant desire. Amid Liberia’s inferno, Ms. Reeves argues on the contrary: things may be difficult for now, but there is always hope. She not only invites ‘the other” but posits a Copernican Turn: there is a space for you besides me …. Come to me…. begging for freedom to forget and to love again.  In the opera L'elisir d'amore, Donizetti explores the complexity and contradictions of being in love. Ms. Reeves explores, through her poetry, being in love with her social anthropology during a time of civil war and chaos in the land which she loves. I want to change everything; I don’t want to change anything. I want to tell you everything; I want to be silent. I missed you endlessly. I am very sure Percy, Diana, and Lionel can sit on Korto’s mat!  One of the most beautiful aspects of human existence is arriving at a point where one’s X-axis (e.g., relevant emotions) intersects with their Y-axis (e.g., appropriate behavior). Ms. Reeves explores a situation where this is (not) the case. This psycho-geometric origin takes on a colossal dimension as one considers the authenticity of self-preservation and socioeconomics being lodged in a patriarchal system during a time of civil war. Making love without passion is like an insertion…. Making love is like a run-on sentence…. making love with no passion is like a dangling modifier, misplaced and unnecessary. It leaves my passion hanging. 

The brilliance of Korto is reflected in her recognition that even with such an arrangement of parallel and non-intersecting parts, women still maintained their capacity – and rightly so - to enjoy sensuosity. They did not give up the need to fittingly enjoy the pleasures and joys of making love to someone that they were in love with; even if that ‘someone’ was not of their (i.e., the female’s) current full specifications. This has the potential to end in (a) confound. Ms. Reeve’s analysis: nope, it needs not – there is no confound for her here: it could curve and touch a g-spot … as it runs, your mind goes to perhaps a market list that includes juicy items not featured in the current activities.

To experience love, one must be willing to be subdued by her; or if you dare to enter her space, she will emerge and subdue you. Korto captures this experience within a Markov chain. Chay…. I grow to make you want me. The Chi-Lites understood Ms. Reeves as they reminisced: I see her face everywhere I go – I hear her voice as the cold winds blow. Korto meets Heloise: love has a way of (re) constructing a traversing conduit that people and the cosmos can bidirectionally do human business. He brings me balance, calm and plenty trouble. His arms carry me to the edge of everything. In the end: he is luxury and my comfort. Ms. Reeves, depicts a scene of the opulence of oxytocin, ups the ante through a pragmatic apprehension - you make music for my heart. Is this wanton pleasure – talk about screams, moans, and logical language. Korto efficiently employs the intellectus agens, as she narrates the convolutions of being a female with tangible needs (e.g., safety, social, personal, etc.), encapsulated in a particular system – a male-dominated system that had plunged the nation into civil war. There is an inclination to articulate this as only a function of sensuality: I watched you on the first day…like an erotic love affair.

Inappropriate Medley advances a reconciliation bathe in hope and love: and this too shall pass. There are certain constants (e.g., physical safety, social needs, etc.) that are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Ms. Reeves channels the Golden Siggie: Sigmund Freud had the propensity to clothe human conditions in sexual allegories. (Psychodynamic Psychology is also referred to as Depth Psychology.) Korto Reeves Inappropriate Medley requires (in) depth readings and triangulations amongst others for a good appreciation. It is fitting that Ms. Reeves ends with an entreaty from the doyen of Liberian culture: When the harvest is done, we will make a feast to you. How fitting for the Inappropriate Medley to end there – for now. Thanks, Korto. You are walking into the league of the greats. You take human conditions and explicate them in existential and pragmatic expressions whilst all the time telling factual life events through your poetry, fully cognizant of the roles and positions of women in a patriarchic world.