And now I'm podcasting, because promoting my first novel, Voice of the Unheard, managing a family, a nonprofit organization, a business , and several projects at the same time just aren't enough to keep me going.

Inspired by my post, shared below, for Lessons On Paper, fellow writer Ashley Soden and I discuss the phenomenon of being perceived as atypically black and what makes a black experience in America.
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Give it a listen. Idea Dynamo Podcast

"You Talk White": Stereotypes in Life and Fiction
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“Mom, [redacted] was like, ‘Wait, your mom’s black?’” I never know how I get into these kinds of conversations with my daughter. Usually we just blurt things out to each other.

“Last time I checked, yes.” I’m preparing for an inner Riker facepalm because I’m pretty sure I know where this is going.

“They were all shocked because they think you sound white.” Yup, that's where I thought it was going. Facepalm engaged.

“Yeah? What does that sound like?” I break out my Mr. Spock face. My right eyebrow makes a heroic effort to reach my hairline.

Twenty minutes of debate later, “Do I need to go visit your friends?”

“Please don’t.” Teenager mortification complete.

Two decades into the 21st century and people in America still say things like “You talk white” to each other. Even young people from diverse backgrounds are tripped into making assumptions about someone speaking well or “proper.” There’s a certain level of confusion over the presumed differences between what behavior and vocabulary should be and what is. At its heart, “You talk white” and all its iterations (did I just use one of the “white” words?) is a racially tainted classist observation about a person’s interests that says, you don’t fit the stereotype and it’s making us uncomfortable.

Ask someone what they mean when they say, “You talk white,” and you might get some spin about word choices or chosen topics of conversation. Because people who don’t look white don’t use those words or talk about those things? Naw, son. I wasn’t down for that as a child. I’m even less down for it as an adult.

This is where I rewrite the limited view of being black in America to include the life experiences of actual black people. I’m black. If I say it, write it, think it, do it, it’s a black thing. That’s how that works.

In the mid-1990s, on a college tour in high school, one of my peers told me, “You talk white.” I probably said something, or several somethings, that I once read in a book. I read a lot of books. The information sticks in my head and flows from my lips. But somehow, in this dude’s estimation, my way of talking was at odds with the color of my skin and the neighborhoods I grew up in. I didn’t know any other way to speak, still don’t. The vulnerable insecure young woman I was then kept to herself for the rest of that trip.

I was born in a majority black country, Barbados, where almost everyone was some shade of brown. Even the white citizens were brown, most of them having some African ancestry. I shouldn’t have been surprised that one time my very brown father pointed out a wizened little white lady on a bus and called her cousin. We talked like we were from the island, visitors talked like they were not from the island. Those of us who traveled far from home talked like we were from two places at once.

I grew up in neighborhoods in Brooklyn and Queens. Some of those neighborhoods had reputations. I went to high school in the Bronx, it still has a reputation. What my peers on that college tour heard, and chose to react to, wasn’t white. It was a black girl who didn’t conform to the stereotypes they knew about themselves.

My father is a preacher and a teacher. Complex words, big ideas, and a thirst for knowledge come with that territory. Growing up I retrieved books for him as he worked on sermons, classroom assignments, and his own college homework. When I got bored reading the age appropriate books in the house--all of them including the encyclopedias--I started flipping through dad’s biblical commentaries and college textbooks.

When I was old enough, I turned myself loose on the libraries and museums of New York City without adult supervision. I imagined myself in every book and exhibit. I took apart some of the household electronics, only the broken ones, to see what they looked like on the inside. I chose to go to a high school that required a two-hour commute, one way, to focus on science.

Anyone find the white experiences in there that could produce something called talking white? Me neither.

As a science-fiction and fantasy writer, I have a powerful gift that can confront or confirm stereotypes. The “You Talk White” way of thinking permeates the writing and publishing worlds as well. Black writers in the genre are tasked with “redefining” a genre they were never expected to enter. A genre where black characters were hardly ever represented as part of the fabric of the stories.

I wonder how many promising black minds have been shut down by, “You talk white?” How many black writers have never considered writing science fiction or fantasy, or worse have been shut out from getting works in those genres published because black writers are supposed to write about “black things?” Instead of black sci-fi writers finding their place in the genre, they are still on the outskirts of the “norm.” An article terming sci-fi by black writers “afrofuturism” makes me question whether these writers are finding their place in the genre. Or are they being branded with their own kind of sci-fi, one with black characters mixed with elements of “black culture.”

I’ve always loved the science fiction and fantasy genres. They never required me to be anything other than myself to enjoy them. Each world created by a writer is full of possibilities. I can be whoever and whatever I want to be in every story. But as a writer, I decided to self-publish my work. I wasn’t confident in the publishing world’s ability see past color when it came to the genre I write.

It’s a tad amusing, as in I roll my eyes because I can only take so much of this, watching the publishing world wake up to the fact that other than white people have an interest in writing science fiction and fantasy. An article in the Christian Science Monitor titled, “After Decades of Dwarfs and Elves, Writers of Color Redefine Fantasy,” praises the rise of diverse writers in the genre. I can’t shake the feeling though that this excitement about diversity goes only as far as a one-dimensional understanding of diversity, as black sci fi writers that are successful bend the stereotypes only a few notches.

I’m still giving Black Panther the side -eye for creating a technologically advanced society that determines succession of leadership by mortal combat. That part of the culture didn’t evolve as Wakanda outpaced the rest of the world by every other metric? Really?

Meanwhile, I continue to curate a vocabulary that doesn’t fit my skin color, according to some. I’ll continue to be curious about everything and craft stories based on the fullness of my life experiences. I’ve read that a good writer writes what they know. I know what it’s like to be told, “You talk white” and not be able to identify the “white” in my speech. Makes me want to flip a table.

Has anyone ever told you that you behaved in a way that differed from what they expected for a [insert characteristic or identity here] person? Do you address that in your writing? What do you do when you realize you’ve written a character who’s all stereotypes? Asking for a friend.

Check out my latest contribution at Lessons On Paper, "You Talk White": Stereotypes in Life and Fiction. I have a big vocabulary and I am not afraid to use it.
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It's not real until you have the Amazon links to prove it. My first science fiction novel, Voice Of The Unheard is live on Amazon! It took some doing to see this through to the end. The last month has been an exercise in making myself appreciate what I've accomplished, instead of sprinting ahead to the next thing.

There is a proverbial squirrel running around in my head. He or she, it never stops long enough for me to check, has been with me all my life. This critter is tricksy, especially around women and girls. My children helped with identifying the squirrel. ADHD.

ADHD, here after known as Squirrel, is my idea dynamo and my arch nemesis. I stopped counting the book projects I’ve start when I hit ten. Beautiful ideas spring to life in my head, and while I write one down Squirrel produces three more to twerk for my attention. Really Squirrel, twerking?

I have three jobs that I’ve created for myself. Squirrel keeps me busy. We are fabulous at starting things. Not so much with the finishing.

It’s okay to ask for support with the finishing. Squirrel and I have an understanding now. Bring on the big ideas, hunt for the support to make them happen.

Squirrel is my BFF when doing background research. Two hours researching gravity, microgravity, aerodynamics, gravitational force calculations, general relativity, estimates of exoplanet gravitational fields, quantum mechanics. Oh, dark matter! No, put that down, the thorium reactors are over here. I need a thorium reactor in my backyard! These energy bills are killing me.

So, research. I discover so many incredible things with Squirrel as my sidekick. I let Squirrel run wild on the page as I write. The results are ever so entertaining.

Wait, there’s more. Squirrel gives terrible advice concerning sleep. Squirrel did give me the confidence to know that this piece would stay well away from the max word count limit.
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​We all have challenges, things we perceive as limitations or that have been presented to us as our limitations. Do you accept them as limitations?

Disclaimer: I'm a nerd not a doctor. Discuss anything you read here with a healthcare professional you trust.

We’re hitting that time of year when the sun goes on vacation at the higher latitudes in the northern hemisphere. Many of us take exception to the shorter days and lack of sunlight. I know I do. Around this time of year, I start feeling like I’m wading through thin molasses. By February the molasses is good and thick.

Sleep helps. Seven to eight hours every night is gold. No, don’t believe that “I’m a night person I don’t need that much sleep” mess. Yes, you do need that much sleep. You will be amazed at what happens to your body and mind once you start getting adequate sleep. Psst, you burn calories in your sleep.

Beware the blanket burrito. While getting a solid minimum of seven to eight hours of sleep every night is good for you watch out for oversleeping. When I crack an eyelid open and it’s pitch black out, but the clock says it’s time to be awake, I want to roll back into my blanket burrito. It’s a trap! Don’t do it! There’s a whole day’s worth of adventure waiting for you, don’t succumb to the lure of the blanket burrito. I have an alarm clock that simulates the sun rising to help wake me up. Others use apps that require solving puzzles or math problems before the alarm will stop sounding.
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Go. Out. Side. Stay out there for at least 30 minutes. Your brain will thank you. There are parts of our visual cortex that help regulate our internal functions based on the amount of sunlight that hits our retinas. If you live on the snowy tundra like I do, a full spectrum light may be your best friend as the days get shorter and darker. Be careful not to over expose yourself. I got a little carried away with the first light box I owned.

​The ancient Dell desktop unit sat on the table before a group of wide-eyed children, my students, one Sunday morning during church. I’d promised the young ones the week before that I would bring them some computer components to take apart. Don’t ask me how it happened, I don’t quite remember. I’m sure I was blinded by their bright-eyed eagerness. We were discussing Jeremiah 1 and Jeremiah’s non-excuse of being too young for the job God gave him. Age is not an excuse to not do something.

The children and I found ourselves talking about taking things apart. They liked taking things apart, I’ve been known to take things apart, I had a collection of computer components that I wanted to make go away. The idea slipped out of my mouth before it was fully formed.
My students were ready to tear the computer apart with their bare hands. After giving it a good cleaning. But before the demolition we talked about Psalm 139:13-16.

​Perfect fit for taking apart a computer, right? Well, you see kids, this piece of technology is humanity’s creation. Each one of you is God’s creation. Intricately designed, unique, one of a kind, never duplicated. As intricate and powerful as human technology becomes it still cannot match the power, beauty, and creativity of humanity itself.

My brilliant young students peppered me with deep questions. What about when people are born with different kinds of disabilities? What about when people get sick and don’t get better? What about when people are teasing and bullying? The stuff they experience each day.

The answers to their questions were not, are not easy. Understanding the depth of God’s love helped smooth some of the rough edges. Children can contend with moral and theological issues when given honest answers steeped in patience and grace.
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And then we tore into that computer.

Raise your hand if you've ever done the parent calculus of I'm sick but how much time can I spend on being sick. This is how it goes done at my house when mom comes down with something.


They mean well. I'm 100% sure of that. But without mom running the show, well, things go sideways. Sometimes this happens because mom is intent on debugging a problematic spreadsheet. Often it happens because mom is delving deep into a new sector and needs to concentrate on learning the lingo. Nonprofit legalese anyone? I can give you a primer now.

Sometimes things run amok because hardworking "eat something, coffee is not a vegetable" mom succumbs to the realities of immunology. Poor sleep, poor diet (look coffee is a fruit extract that has to count for something!), stress (duh), allergy season, plus children and adults who don't do as well with the hand-washing and cough/sneeze covering as they could. Mom didn't really stand a chance.

So here I am, trying not to cough up a lung and what not (five pregnancies, five births, no c-sections that's all I'm saying), wondering how much time I can afford to spend on recovering before the rest of the family reaches the point of critical chaos and everyone loses their damn minds. An ill advised foray to the kitchen for ice water suggests mom's sick time is up, my ailing body doesn't get a say in the matter. No clean cups left, no clean pots either but mysteriously no food to eat. How did the pots get dirty? A mystery for the ages. Or the hungry teenagers. And the little ones are going through growth spurts.

I place the Cloak of Invisibility over the Hydra, my affectionate pet name for the laundry, in its various stages of not done. If I don't see it maybe it will go away one its own this time. That strategy's never worked before. Maybe I need a better invisibility cloak? Anyone have one to spare? How about a fairy godmother to enchant the neighborhood wildlife to clean the house for me? No? All right. Where's my broom (stick)?

I've been busy. All right lets be honest, I'm always busy. I get bored and make poor decisions if my mind isn't occupied with something complex. This time I've been occupying myself with the details of building a nonprofit organization from scratch while also developing a number of collaborative projects with community partners working towards a common goal. Short version: I'm doing all the things.

A friend nominated me for an award and I won. I was Facebook famous, in a good way, for 5 minutes. My introvert self went into hiding being used to laboring in obscurity. The work continues. Check out the links below.

Sanchia A Callender Foundation, Inc
Resilient CNY
Learner's Cafe
Autism and Mental Health
Project Hope for the Children, Inc

Some people will have a hard time understanding why I have a positive attitude about autism, my autistic children, and my family's life journey with autism in the mix. I chose not to ride the doom and gloom roller coaster when it came to my children's live. The following oped first appeared in the Christian Post. In it I discuss the perspective my faith gives me on my family's circumstances.

What My Faith Says About My Children's Autism
I committed my life to Christ one Sunday morning sometime around the year I turned eight. The Sunday school teacher explained about choosing a personal relationship with God through Jesus Christ. I turned to my little sister and told her, “I want that. You’re coming with me.” We marched up to the teacher, declared our intentions, and never looked back.

Years later with imminent parenthood looming I thought about that moment. I knew I wanted my children to choose a relationship with God for themselves. How did I make that happen? I’d have to present the gospel in the best light possible. I would do and say all the right things all the time to show my children how awesome God is.

Don’t laugh. A lot of young parents have this delusion that they can get it right all the time. Some of us get the message early on that such perfection is humanly impossible. Others struggle on striving to reach that unattainable goal making themselves and their children miserable.

Most Christians who’ve been around for more than a minute understand that our plans and God plans are two different things. I couldn’t have imagined raising two autistic children and three neurotypical children if I tried. Through moments when I cry out to God, “Dude that is awesome!” to moments where I grumble, “Really, this is what we’re doing today?” There’s no making this stuff up. Yes, I call God dude. We’ve been friends a long time and we’ve been through some stuff.

Thanks to a gracious God and inventive children, I understand more the fullness of Psalm 139:13-16. As I learn more about who God made my children to be I appreciate the time and care he took in creating them. I marvel at the way their minds work and how they see the world. I rest in the knowledge that for all the things about them I may never understand God knows each quirk, gift, and flaw more intimately than I ever will. I am humbled by the knowledge that as much as I love my children God loves them more, and more perfectly, than I ever could.

On those nights I fall asleep on the floor outside a child’s bedroom, because drama, or those days I grumble that my husband and I really should have bought stock in a cleaning supply company, because more drama, I know that God’s truths about my children will never change.
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​For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.
​Psalm 139:13-16 ESV