Coach Jackson

Coach Jackson

planned the gathering

and he asked me to speak

my piece

in a park on a January day.

…and Najiyyah came with a friend

and we had a ceremony

and loosed balloons 

into the receiving sky.

and we were all serious


rehearsing a man

and a cause

important to us all.

sometimes I am too easy

in not guarding valuable associations

but we are of the black

and brilliant

and thus we are not safe.

working at the time

with the unteachable,

working for

the unreachable.

as they continued to perpetuate


through harassment 

and censure.

but I am sure that

wherever you are

Coach Jackson,

that you are still carrying

that tattered Bible

you used to carry

daily into the school.

and i know that this day

you are observing



has landed


and with




accorded you

in full compliment

to The Dream.
Linda Tauhid



Isabella–A Living Tribute

Note: Dear reader- I realize that this is a “living tribute” and thus will grow and change. I have added a second section in honor of this exceptional women and all women in Women’s History Month.

i never understood

how much

she taught me…

how she saw me

and recognized me.

in this world

where it is too hard

to even get

a second look.

she groomed me

and honored my talents.

sometime we would sing

side by side

holding either end

of a hymnal.

her voice of a special


with faith beyond

my understanding.

“Angels watching over me,

my Lord.”

by her support

she empowered me

to speak in truth


in a multitude

of forums.

she was

a mother,

a teacher,

a minister’s wife

and beyond.

she was a leader

a mentor

who walked

with love

and purpose.

can i in some way

honor her,

say her name to the world?





Isabella Ravenell.

she taught us

about Africa: Ghana

i heard it as ‘Garner’
but was always happy

to recount

my insignificant knowledge

with pride;

and she dressed one of the girls

in cultural dress

for one of our programs;

it was many years

later that

I visited that place (Ghana)

lost in its magic

resurrected in its

familiarity and love

that we learned around

and while creating

spatter painted


and trips to Norumbega Park

and Mrs. Jack (Isabella’s) Gardner’s (Palace) Museum

that she led

with Mrs. Johnson


Girl Scout troop


Linda Tauhid


Section II


“The Boy is Doing it!”–Tribute to South African Trumpeter Hugh Masekela

Reposted from 2013. The loss of this great musician and human rights activist has touched my heart. Rest with the ancestors Bra Hugh Masekela.

I have been listening to and following jazz, funk, soul artist Hugh Masekela since my early college years. I used to go see him annually at a club just outside of Boston. One of my student-colleague’s parents used to take us to the club because we were not of club age at that time. I remember the ambience created by Mr. Masekela’s soul enhancing music while we were ‘Grazing Through the Grass’ of the sixties and seventies. I’ve never been without this music.

The music followed me and us through the anti-apartheid activities that ultimately help lead to the end of that heinous system of separation and disenfranchisement in Mr. Masekela’s native land, South Africa. Actually, Bra Masekela, as he is affectionately called by his countrymen and admirers, played a key role internationally in actively resisting the apartheid system.

I had the opportunity to visit South Africa in 1996. I traveled to both Cape Town and Johannesburg where among other things I was hosted for an evening by a family in Johannesburg’s Soweto, Township. One thing I found during my short stay in South Africa is that the people there appreciate the role of the African American in the world struggle for justice and inclusion. I was honored there as a ‘comrade’ and sister on every front being called by the moniker Sis Lin during my stay. The night that I stayed with my Soweto family was one of the coldest nights that I had ever spent. We wrapped up in blankets in the heatless 1 degree Celsius night and waited for morning. In the morning the Mama heated some water for me to bathe with and I left for the airport thanking my hosts with a small tithe to their local church.

One time when I was living and working in Nairobi, Kenya in the late nineties, a group of my professional colleagues and I were walking in downtown Nairobi after enjoying a dinner out. We heard someone saying “cousins!” We were momentarily informed by a gentleman that we were being greeted by the great Mr. Hugh Masekela. Mr. Masekela was in town for a gig he was playing in Nairobi. Being a group of African American music enthusiasts, we were all familiar with Mr. Masekela’s music and we stopped to tease and chat a bit. Anything can happen in Africa.

A couple of years back I saw Hugh Masekela’s performance at Houston’s International Festival. A group of friends and I danced uninhibitedly to the music that has even gained in texture and maturity throughout Mr. Masekela’s many years in the business. His entourage created an African-like scenario on a world music platform that educated as well as entertained. Mr. Masekela, terms himself a griot. I definitely concur with this title. His music and lyrical stories weave his experience and insights through the lens of his birthplace and home.

I remember feeling somewhat sad when Mr. Masekela’s performance was over. I felt like a family friend was leaving without an embrace. This is the magic of Bra Hugh Masekela’s presence and his music. I am still listening and following him as he continues his work at age 73 and counting. “The Boy Is Doing It!”
©2013 Linda Tauhid for Linda Tauhid’s Journal

Linda Tauhid is a Houston-based writer, poet and griot.


i remember that day

in April

when we heard

of his death

and all i could do     

was walk outside

in frustrated anger   

and mourning.

surrounded by the brick-high

buildings of the housing project

we called home.

what had i hoped for?

what dream had been lost?

what affront was this to bear?

i did not know of icons,

only of hope…

and despair

that rocked the streets of Boston

and tore into the thread 

of contrived sanity

and security

well placed.

and in intervening times

i have lived purposefully,

spoken boldly

and often been sactioned.

but temporarily out-skirting

the final sanction

of death;

that interrupts

and nullifies

the actions

but never destroys

the purpose


the cause. 
Linda Tauhid


“Goodnight!”–for my Nana Dora


it was the only ‘expletive’

i ever heard her utter.

in furious impatience

at her granddaughter

or some other worthy 


she, a woman of The Book

from the Carolinas.

while in my worst moments

i speak to rival sailors

drawing heinous comparisons

shocking all listeners.

who cannot imagine

how a such a ‘diminutive’

ostensibly ‘holy’ woman

can turn

like the tides. 

i apologize

to my sons who spent some times

the subjects of such tirades…

and one of these nominates me the best/worst curser of all times.

but i am indeed well reserved,

until i read the news

or try to drive on this city’s roads

where people do not signal

or follow any rational means of order–

even frustrating a Boston driver;

or when someone does not treat me

in the manner that i deserve:

Linda Tauhid


Snow in Houston

i have seen my share of snow

on New England sidewalks

and in Chicago winters

and I used to always wish

for unheard of snow in San Francisco; 

looking out from a pub on Divisadero

in a spirited December.

but snow in Houston

is very rare;

it brings awe

and excitement;

it is temporary,


melting quickly away

before it can trouble


or get dirty from daily wear.

it accommodates 

a simple snow ball

when wiped from a car.

almost like snow

in London–

a brief visit

that reminds us

of the magic and beauty

of the time 

and other mysteries


our daily scope.

Linda Tauhid


he took me

to his family

and taught me a few words

of his language: greetings

and their responses.

he made sure to minimize

my role, but his parents

being aged and wise

still knew.

i sat outside and talked

with his dad

and when i tried to walk away

for propriety, his wife beckoned me back.

a small farm and compound

in a rural town

outside of Nairobi.

they took me to their relations

and showed me picture albums

of their marriage;

we prayed and ate

and talked

while a radio played

in the background with no distraction.

I know now,

it was not about him

it was about the divine opportunity

to be transported as such

and to view and be viewed

by eyes that had seen much

with warmth and love.

and the gift of building

familial relations from unknown 


and their places.

i returned to Nairobi

bearing a live rooster–

a gift from the mother

of his bride.
Linda Tauhid