The Uhuru Arts Foundation

The Uhuru Arts Foundation "Uhuru" means FREEDOM in Swahili—& that’s what we’ve always championed through art. For 20 years, you’ve known us as Living Art NFP. We practice what we teach.

Now, our name reflects our deeper commitment to liberating creativity & building community through the arts. We believe in the power of art:
to transfom lives
to change whole cultures
to bring about a new world

Hummingbirds are said to be messengers in mythology...
We are messengers. We empower lives by telling more empowering stories. We give passion to life by living it as a work of art, every

day. We inspire those around us by living as fully switched-on human beings. At the heart of every culture, there is a story...

And this story doesn't change very often. But, when it does, it's because brave people, unafraid of being called weird or inappropriate or out of sync, have stepped forward onto the world stage and dared to create something new. Maybe it was a new work of art or a new ballet or symphony, maybe it was a new poetic flow or musical vibe or a new theatrical work, but most of all, it was a new way of being. New people create the new stories. At The Living Art, we believe our first mission is to be the art that we'd want to create; to live it into being. We believe that our world changes as we change. We believe that when we live the change, we Live our Art. We create ourselves every day. And, to do this with purpose is to Live your art. We know that we cannot fully live our art and change the stories we tell in our culture without sharing what we discover with others. So we teach. We have a school that teaches 'Living as Art' as a way of life -- The Uhuru Institute. TUI is a part of the learning evolution happening right here and now. We teach children and young adults how to live as the creators of their magnum opus: themselves. So, at The Living Art, our work is simple... Envision the best possible and then:
Inspire. Educate. Perform. Transform.

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01/19/2026

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She passed the union test. Then they sabotaged her camera. Then they blacklisted her. Then she sued every major network in America—and won.
Jessie Maple wasn't supposed to be a filmmaker.
She was supposed to be a bacteriologist. A lab technician. Safe. Invisible. Quiet.
Born February 14, 1937, in McComb, Mississippi, Maple was the second of twelve children. Her father farmed the land. Her mother taught school and worked as a dietician. When Maple was thirteen, her father died, and her mother made a decision that would change everything: she sent Jessie and many of her siblings north, to Philadelphia, where opportunities might exist that Mississippi would never offer a Black girl.
Maple graduated from the all-Black Benjamin Franklin High School in 1955. She studied medical technology. She got a job running a bacteriology and serology laboratory in Philadelphia, then New York. She was good at it—so good that she helped identify a new strain of bacteria.
But the hospital wouldn't make her permanent. She didn't have a doctorate.
On her lunch breaks, she joined other workers trying to organize. She realized something: the people with power weren't the ones following the rules. They were the ones writing them.
In the 1960s and 1970s, Maple left the lab and started writing for the New York Courier. No training. Just conviction. "I thought, well, I'm going to be a writer," she later said.
But writing wasn't enough. She wanted to tell stories with images.
In 1972, Maple enrolled in Ossie Davis's Third World Cinema Corporation—a program designed to get African Americans into behind-the-scenes film jobs so they could join the union. She was the first female trainee. She graduated in 1973.
The program was shut down after one year. As Maple noted: "It was so successful that after one year they shut it down."
She also trained at WNET's National Education Television Training School. She apprenticed as an editor on "Shaft's Big Score!" and "The Super Cops." She joined the Film Editor's Union.
But she wanted more. She wanted to be behind the camera.
There was a problem: the New York camera operators union had only three women. No Black women. Ever.
Maple studied for six months. She trained with her husband, filmmaker Leroy Patton. She rented equipment and practiced five days a week, mastering every camera she could get her hands on.
In 1973, she took the union qualification test.
She failed.
But her husband had been watching. He noticed something: someone had tampered with the test camera. Sabotage.
When he pointed it out, Maple was allowed to retake the test.
She passed.
Jessie Maple became the first African American woman admitted to the New York camera operators union.
Then the union told the studios not to hire her.
Blacklisted.
She could have given up. She could have gone back to the lab, back to safety, back to being invisible.
Instead, she did something they didn't expect: she sued them all. At once.
ABC. CBS. NBC. Every major network.
"I knew when you get ready to do something and you're going to fight for it, you have to know what you're doing," Maple said. "I knew it. I know how to do it and I knew all the cameras and so that's why I took on the union."
In 1977, she won her lawsuit against WCBS. It earned her a trial period at the station, which blossomed into a freelance career at WCBS, ABC, and NBC.
She worked her way up from being considered incompetent to becoming the number one camera operator in local news.
She wrote about the entire ordeal in her 1977 book, "How to Become a Union Camerawoman," a manual for anyone who would follow in her footsteps.
But Maple wasn't just working. She was thinking.
As a news camerawoman, she realized something powerful: she could "edit the story in the camera." She could prevent editors from taking a positive story and making it negative, especially when Black people were involved.
"I would shoot the story in a way they couldn't cut the Black person out of it," she explained. "They had to see both sides of what happened and what they had to say."
In 1974, Maple and Patton co-founded LJ Film Productions. They wanted to tell the stories that mainstream cinema ignored.
In 1981, they released "Will."
It was a gritty drama about a basketball coach in Harlem, a former All-American player struggling with he**in addiction, who takes in a twelve-year-old boy to prevent him from developing the same habit. The film starred Loretta Devine in her film debut.
"Will" was cited as the first independent feature-length film directed by an African American woman in the post-civil rights era.
But there was a problem: no one would screen it.
So in 1982, Maple and Patton opened a theater in the basement of their Harlem brownstone on 120th Street. They called it "20 West, Home of Black Cinema."
It became a long-running venue for independent Black filmmakers. A place where stories like theirs could be told without permission from gatekeepers who didn't understand them.
In 1989, Maple released "Twice as Nice," a film about twin sisters—both college basketball standouts—preparing for a professional draft. The film starred Pamela and Paula McGee, real-life twins who had won back-to-back NCAA basketball championships at USC.
The film was released nine years before the WNBA was created.
Maple kept making films. Documentaries. Features. Stories rooted in community, not just challenges, but solutions.
And she kept mentoring. Filmmaker Yvonne Welbon, who made the documentary "Sisters in Cinema," was one of many who cited Maple as an inspiration. "Her advocacy, mentorship, and care has touched generations of Black filmmakers," wrote Black Film Archive curator Maya Cade after Maple's death.
Jessie Maple died May 30, 2023, in Atlanta, Georgia. She was 86 years old.
In 2025, "Will" was restored in 4K by Janus Films, in collaboration with Indiana University's Black Film Center & Archive, the Smithsonian, and the Center for African American Media Arts. The restoration was endorsed by Spike Lee and Julie Dash.
The film was re-released theatrically on June 20, 2025—forty-four years after Maple made it in a Harlem brownstone with a vision no one else believed in.
Bloomington, Indiana, declared February 1 as "Mrs. Jessie Maple Patton Day."
Her papers and films are preserved at Indiana University's Black Film Center & Archive.
Jessie Maple wasn't supposed to be a filmmaker. But she became one anyway—and then she made sure others could follow.
She didn't just break barriers. She documented how she did it, sued the people who tried to stop her, won, and then built her own theater so no one would ever have to ask permission again.
That's not just breaking barriers. That's obliterating them—and leaving a manual so others can do the same.

11/10/2025

In 1993, she wrote about climate collapse, fascism, and a slogan "Make America Great Again" destroying the 2020s—then died in 2006, never knowing she'd predicted everything.
Her name was Octavia E. Butler. And if you haven't read her work, you need to understand: she didn't write science fiction to escape reality. She wrote it to warn us what reality was becoming.

The Beginning: Everything Against Her
Octavia grew up in Pasadena, California, in the 1950s and '60s—a tall, painfully shy Black girl in a world that had no space for people like her.
Her father died when she was an infant. Her mother, Octavia Margaret, worked as a maid, cleaning white people's houses to keep them fed and housed. She'd bring home the discarded magazines and science fiction paperbacks her employers threw away, and young Octavia would read them.
But reading was hard. Octavia had dyslexia—in an era when learning disabilities were barely understood and rarely accommodated. Words tangled on the page. School was a struggle.
She was also nearly 6 feet tall, shy, Black, and poor in 1950s America. She was interested in science fiction—a genre overwhelmingly dominated by white men who often couldn't imagine futures where people like her existed at all.
Everything about her circumstances screamed: You don't belong here.
She carried notebooks everywhere anyway.
At age 10, watching terrible sci-fi on TV, she thought: "I can write better than that."
So she started writing. And never stopped.

The Struggle: Writing Through Everything
The path to becoming a published writer nearly broke her.
She attended community college because that's what she could afford. She worked minimum-wage jobs—warehouse work, dishwashing, telemarketing—and wrote before shifts, after shifts, on buses, on breaks, at 4 a.m. before work.
In 1970, she attended the prestigious Clarion Science Fiction Writers Workshop—one of the few Black students, one of the few women in a room full of white male writers who sometimes dismissed her work, couldn't understand her perspectives, or told her outright that science fiction wasn't for Black women.
She kept writing.
For nearly a decade, she collected rejection letters. She lived on poverty wages. She doubted herself constantly. But she kept writing.

The Breakthrough: Kindred
In 1979, she published Kindred.
It wasn't typical science fiction. No spaceships. No aliens. Just Dana—a modern Black woman living in 1970s California—who is suddenly, violently pulled back through time to a Maryland plantation in the early 1800s.
She's forced to save the life of Rufus Weylin—a white slave owner who will grow up to r**e one of her ancestors. To ensure her own existence, Dana must protect the man who will brutalize her family line.
Kindred was a scalpel cutting into American history. It forced readers to confront slavery not as distant past but as living trauma that reaches across time and shapes everything we are.
The book stunned readers. It became—and remains—one of the most taught novels in American universities.
But Butler was just getting started.

The Vision: Seeing What We Refused To See
Butler's genius wasn't just imagining fantastical futures. It was understanding the present so deeply that she could see where we were headed.
Her Patternist series explored societies built on telepathy, breeding, and control—asking uncomfortable questions about power, eugenics, and what we're willing to do to survive.
Her Xenogenesis trilogy (later called Lilith's Brood) envisioned Earth after nuclear war. Alien Oankali rescue humanity—but the price is genetic merging. They'll save us, but we'll no longer be purely human.
Butler asked: What does it mean to be human? Is survival worth transformation? Who gets to decide?
Then came the Parable novels.
In the early 1990s, Butler wrote Parable of the Sower (1993) and Parable of the Talents (1998), set in the 2020s and 2030s.
She described:
→ Climate crisis causing mass migration and resource wars
→ Economic collapse creating corporate slavery
→ Political fascism with the slogan "Make America Great Again"
→ Gated communities for the rich while the poor suffer outside
→ Water scarcity and social disintegration
→ A young Black woman creating a new philosophy to survive
She wrote this in 1993.
Read those books today. They feel like journalism, not fiction. Like prophecy, not imagination.
Butler didn't predict the future through mysticism. She predicted it by paying attention to what everyone else was ignoring: growing inequality, climate patterns, political rhetoric, social fractures.
She saw the seeds of the 2020s being planted in the 1990s. And she warned us.

The Recognition: The Genius Grant
In 1995, the MacArthur Foundation awarded Octavia Butler a MacArthur Fellowship—the prestigious "Genius Grant."
She was the first science fiction writer ever to receive this honor.
The award came with $295,000 over five years—life-changing money for someone who'd spent decades working minimum-wage jobs while writing.
And what did Octavia Butler do with her genius grant?
She bought a house.
For herself and her mother.
After a lifetime of cleaning other people's homes, scrubbing their floors, washing their dishes so her daughter could dream—Octavia's mother could finally live in a home her daughter owned.
That's the kind of person Butler was.
Genius grant. First sci-fi writer ever honored. International recognition.
And she bought her mother a house.

The Legacy: She Showed Us How To Survive
Butler continued writing until her death in 2006 at just 58 years old—far too young, with so much left to say. She left behind an unfinished third Parable book we'll never get to read.
But what she did give us is extraordinary:
✓ Novels that predicted our exact moment in history
✓ Stories that centered Black women as complex, powerful protagonists
✓ Worlds that asked hard questions about power, survival, and humanity
✓ A body of work that pioneered Afrofuturism
✓ Proof that the most important voices come from people society tries to silence
Today, Octavia Butler is recognized as one of the greatest American writers of the 20th century—not just in science fiction, but period.
Universities teach her work alongside Toni Morrison and James Baldwin. Writers cite her as foundational. Activists reference her ideas about change, adaptation, and survival.
Parable of the Sower reads like prophecy because Butler understood something essential: the seeds of the future are always planted in the present.
She saw what we were too comfortable to notice.

The Message
Octavia Butler was dyslexic in a profession built on words.
She was poor in an industry that requires financial privilege to break in.
She was a Black woman in a genre dominated by white men.
She was told repeatedly—by teachers, by editors, by fellow writers—that science fiction wasn't for people like her.
She became one of the greatest science fiction writers who ever lived.
She didn't write to help us escape reality. She wrote to make us face it—and to show us we can survive it, transform it, and build something new from the ruins.
Her mother cleaned houses so Octavia could dream.
Octavia wrote futures so we could prepare.
And with her genius grant, she bought her mother a home.
That's legacy.
That's prophecy.
That's Octavia Butler.

If you haven't read her work, start with Parable of the Sower**.**
It will feel like she wrote it yesterday.
Because in many ways, she did.

10/28/2025

Hooked To Books 📚

10/25/2025

Audre Lorde taught us that silence is not safety. Freedom lives in our voices, our stories, and our truth. We speak because we must.

10/13/2025

When I first picked up The Science of Rapid Skill Acquisition, I was hoping for a manual that would help me become better, faster—at anything. But what I got was far more profound than shortcuts or gimmicks. Peter Hollins doesn't just teach you how to learn quickly; he reshapes how you think about mastery, effort, and deliberate growth. These lessons reminded me that talent isn’t the deciding factor—strategy and mindset are. Here's what stood out to me:

---

1. Learning is a Process, Not an Event
We often approach learning like it’s a one-time download—cram it in, then move on. But real skill acquisition is iterative. Hollins stresses that consistency and reflection, not binge sessions, drive results.

2. You Must Deconstruct Before You Construct
Before diving in, break the skill into its component parts. Want to learn guitar? Start with chords, strumming patterns, finger placement. This methodical dissection helps you target weaknesses and accelerate mastery.

3. Quantity Trumps Quality—at First
In the beginning, the goal is repetition and exposure, not perfection. Hollins calls this the "ugly phase"—the part where doing something badly is necessary before you can do it well.

4. Practice Must Be Deliberate and Specific
Mindless repetition won’t get you far. Every session should have a goal: improve your serve, memorize a passage, or tighten your technique. Purposeful reps make progress stick.

5. Remove Barriers and Friction Points
One of my biggest takeaways was how much the environment affects learning. If you make the process easy to start—tools laid out, time carved in—you’ll be far more likely to follow through.

6. Use the “Direct Path” of Learning
Don’t get lost in theory. Learn just enough to get going, and immediately apply what you learn. Reading about swimming will never teach you how to swim—jump in the pool.

7. Feedback Loops Are Essential
We can’t improve what we don’t measure. Hollins emphasizes building feedback—whether from a coach, software, or self-assessment—so you know what to refine next.

8. Compression Over Consumption
Instead of trying to absorb a mountain of knowledge, compress it. Create cheat sheets, diagrams, and summaries. The brain thrives on simplification and patterns.

9. The First 20 Hours Matter Most
A fascinating insight: the steepest learning curve happens early on. With focused effort, you can go from beginner to proficient in just 20 hours. It's about energy, not endless time.

10. Identity Shapes Outcome
Adopt the identity of someone who practices and improves. If you believe you’re “just not a natural,” you’ll self-sabotage. But if you identify as a learner, every mistake becomes a step forward.

---

Peter Hollins doesn't promise overnight transformation—but he does give you the tools to learn smarter, not harder. The biggest shift for me was realizing that most people fail at skill-building not because they’re incapable—but because they’re undisciplined in their process. And that’s something we can all change.

Get Book Here: https://amzn.to/46Ij92a

10/05/2025

Absolutely!

10/05/2025

🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩

10/05/2025
10/05/2025

❤️❤️
(Pinterest)

10/05/2025

True!

05/24/2025

A play in 24,987 acts 🎭 🌱 🌹

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