A birthday gift to Lore Elisabeth 🎁

For her birthday gift today, Lore asks us to donate books to her friend Tess’s daughters. Read Lore’s portrait of Tess and her daughters below. (The girls’ names have been changed for their privacy). 

We’re looking for: Children's illustrated Bible for ages 9+, Black girl hairstyles, kids baking, vegetarian recipes for kids, girls fashion; ages 4-10.  Ship books directly from sellers to:

Tessicar Jumpp #92202-083
FDC Philadelphia
PO Box 562
Philadelphia, PA 19105

You can also donate via Zelle to: howardelittle (at) yahoo (dot) com.

Lore writes:

Let me introduce you to one of the sweetest women and her two little girls, whom I’ve been so lucky to meet behind the walls of Philly's federal prison. To help illustrate her for you, I have re-imagined a photo of singer and icon Marian Anderson, taken on Easter in 1939. These two women, born in different decades, in different countries, united by their voices and their faith. 

Anderson sang at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The venue replaced her original choice of Constitution Hall, where she was banned from singing (because she was Black) by the Daughters of the American Revolution.  Anderson stood tall at the steps, poised, with her hands clasped together in front. She commanded the attention of a racially integrated audience, still quite a new thing at the time.

I imagined how things could look today in illustration: my friend Tessicar Jumpp, "Tess," sings at the mic, her hands behind her back. Even while handcuffed she channels Anderson's regality. Anderson set a stage for so many Black women to stand upon. In illustration, her mics show the country codes for Jamaica and America since Tess's voice carries through both of them. Tess is a Jamaican citizen imprisoned in America as part of an international treaty between the two governments: America confines convicted Jamaican citizens, in return Jamaica gets access to American trade.

Anderson now replaces Lincoln at the top of the steps. At this time, memorials to the Confederacy, symbols of oppression, are being taken down or litigated in court. Opponents of their removal argue that it rewrites history. I counter that the majority of white folk have always had the resources to tell their history in so many ways. Meanwhile, marginalized folk have not had the same privilege. Like a Black artist living through the Jim Crow era, a Jamaican & Black woman lacks the rights that US citizens have in prison, like those protected under the First Step Act. Anderson’s legacy succeeds Lincoln’s. Who are we casting in stone?  And who are we casting behind stone walls?

Just as Anderson made sure that her song was still heard, Tess still speaks up for herself and others despite the illustrated punishment. Keeping quiet in prison is rewarded with access to things like phone calls, email, and family visits--all “privileges” according to federal prison policy. We know them to be necessary connections to our families. Most of the imprisoned parents I have met choose silence as a strategy, and understandably so! But Tess is not torn between staying quiet and speaking up. She paves the road ahead for her daughters, like Kavi, who is not torn between realizing her dreams of becoming both a doctor and a model--get you a child who can do both!

In a world that makes Tess a convict, I know a woman who practices compassion and forgiveness, and a woman who would win any Great Prison Bake Off! She is a woman that her daughters can look up to. Their momma models compassion and self-compassion alike, even as our jailers try to discourage basic community efforts. She models the kindness to herself that we all must practice with those we are quick to critique. We are all flawed humans. Forgiveness is a daily practice.  

In between the daily struggles, I see the beams that hold Tess up: her daughters. She always has a proud or silly moment to share: Kavi (nine years old) has been a fashion maven since she was in diapers, cutting up momma's clothes to make her own. (Sorry Tess, you will need to buy a new wardrobe when you go home). But Kavi is mature beyond her years and can still motivate herself to do extra schoolwork. Kalli (four years old) cracks her up on the phone with her Peppa Pig-inspired British accent. She’s always so eager for her teacher and her peers to watch her dance and sing to a traditional Jamaican folk song. I think she’s destined for stardom.

In every story that Tess tells, Kavi and Kalli already sound just as fearless as their momma. Her daughters are their own biggest fans (mom and grandmom aside) in spite of that deafening cycle of self-criticism. Tess has taught them that you don't need to criticize others to feel better about yourself.

Many of us are taught that Black women, uniquely, carry their pain quietly. We are taught that no weight is too heavy to bear for the strong Black woman. Tess works to reject that expectation. She carries, and not always quietly, the weight of her family departed, those who have passed during her imprisonment--so many that you need two hands to count them. She carries her girls, growing up so far away. She carries the weight of two governments' decision to trade her for economic opportunity.

Tess often shares with us the lessons that she learns and which she’s reminded of in her daily prayers. She shakes out the heavy when she feels it building. Her eyes pour, her voice sings. She lets you know that she is somebody worth respecting. Her daughters have total command over her heart with their squeaky laughs and big girl dreams. Tess is as relentless in her voice as Kalli is in stealing the spotlight, or as Kavi is in convincing you that this plastic bucket held on her wrist is really a designer clutch. She is relentless in working towards a kinder, fairer world--one she can say she fought for.