Being Honest

Moellership Service in Action

We never end up doing the things that we expect to.

From July 16th – 20th I will be a part of a team running a summer art camp entitled Footsoldiers: Change Makers Then & Now. This camp focuses on the Footsoldiers of the Civil Rights Movement; those individuals who sacrificed their reputation, energy, finances, and lives for the Movement, but aren’t widely known. When the students get to the camp, they’ll choose a “Case File” on an individual who was involved in the Civil Rights Movement in Tallahassee. This file will have a couple of artifacts from the individual, a short bio, and some guided research questions. As they gather information, they’ll start to think about what kind of art they want to make to respond to this information (paintings, videos, sculptures, collages, mosaics, etc.). And then, they make that art.

Sounds cool, right? Yes, that’s what…

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Thankful Tuesday: Alignment

You are exactly where you're supposed to be: a message I tell myself weekly. No matter the circumstances I remind myself of that belief. In third grade, my father saw fit to honor my request to finish the school year at my current school and then transfer to my neighborhood (zone) school. My mom was … Continue reading Thankful Tuesday: Alignment

Daddy: Motivation for Creating a Book

Dysfunctional relationships are tough in general but father-daughter dysfunctional relationships have the ability to create a hole right in the center of your heart.

Kathy takes the time to create a healthy space for daughters to use their voices and tell their story. I can personally say writing a component of my story opened my eyes to an unforeseen reality: I was holding trauma from my childhood in my body. It felt great letting it go.

For every daughter who feels alone and less than due to a failed father-daughter relationship, you are not alone. More importantly, there is an alternative lifestyle available through healing and empowerment. It is my hope that this book will give others the permission they need to grow beyond the wall of dysfunctions.

K E Garland

Summer of 1993 is when I became fully aware of my father’s abandonment. I remember the exact year because that’s when I started dating Dwight. That summer, he, my then best friend, Bobby, and I drove to Chicago for the weekend. I’d told my father that I would be home and that I was bringing these two important people with me. I wanted him to meet them.

That Saturday, I called and called, but he was nowhere to be found. I curled up in a ball in my great aunt’s back room and cried. I was twenty years old. Not only was I disappointed, but I was also embarrassed. I’d met Bobby’s parents a few months prior. Her father, though quiet, was in her life and supportive financially and emotionally. Likewise, I’d met Dwight’s parents, his father also seemed like a “normal” dad, making corny jokes and talking about his…

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Monday Notes: What is Love?

K E Garland

From the time I turned eighteen until I was forty-one years old, my father visited me twice. He rarely called. However, he used to always say, I love you. And when we were at his funeral, more than one family member made sure to reiterate the sentiment by pulling me to the side and whispering, you know your dad loved you. Two decades of inaction proved otherwise. If someone loves you, then, in my mind, they do things to show it. Although the dictionary shows that love can be a noun, more than likely when you love someone it’s the verb part, a series of actions over time, that lead you to a firm conclusion.

An ironic set of events have made me pause to think about love as a concept again.

My father’s wife, MJ was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d undergone a double mastectomy in April, but…

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*Mothering Violence

Tears are the only form of expression my body can voice.

K E Garland

My friend’s middle son was shot in the head in a McDonald’s parking lot here in Jacksonville, Florida six weeks ago.

His mother and I became friends years ago because she was my hairstylist. When we met, she had two sons. He was the youngest at the time.

I remember picking him up and taking him with the girls and me to wherever we were hanging out that summer’s day, his lanky body shifting in the backseat, his dull eyes peering out of the window. I wonder if he saw his future. Because his mother worked twelve-hour shifts, standing on her feet, making other people beautiful, I thought I’d help by keeping him with me.

I remember how quiet he was. Sometimes he’d speak up and say, “Ms. Kathy, can I have some more” whatever it was we ate. But most times, he was silent.

Years do more than age…

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