Dredlocks Tree

La Pregunta Cafe

2009-12-17T11:12:00.001-08:00

W.A.R. (Work As Renaissance) was the theme last week at Harlem's La Pregunta Cafe. Wordkicker, Jamica was the m/c. I had first seen her kick at my homebase, Sister's Bookstore where she practically turned the place inside out with her piece on African children with no limbs as a result of the blood bath over the underground gold trade from which blingers benefit. I had asked then and asked her again, When'we gonna see that poetry collection of yours? And once again the same modesty; that pleasant smile. I know, I know.

To my surpise, Chance--one of the judges at last year's BMCC open mic-- was also there kicking his own words and making the dust from his timbs taste like sweet n sour candy. Easy on the throat until the aftertaste sneaks up on you like the reflection in your mirror when you realize you've been had. And while the feature for the night was a guitar-stringer named Blackbird (just pretend it's John Legend without Kanye as collateral), others who stepped to the mic were Kira ("I want you in the place where one million men haven't marched!"), Shane (Post 9/11 and the treatment of sand niggaz), Purple Haze (Mother Sista, Sista Girl) and of course, Ngoma himself ("Make you bullet proof, make you bullet proof until all of Africa is free!").

Most open mics are set in a way where each messenger takes their turn at the mic. What I found most interesting about this one is that participants were also spitting right from their table, most of them reading off from their gadgets. There was a nice flow about that kind of improvisation. Because even if you didn't know their names, the focus was on the message; the human condition we all share, no matter the skin shade or gender, or sexual appeal. So by the time I made the decision to come from the back of the room and take the mic for myself, the audience had already concluded that I was a foreigner just by the way I introduced my first piece. Something young ones just don't do. They might tell you how they were feeling that day and this is what came of it. But they're not into preface and forwards like us ol' timers (45+ is old, to them. Just ask my daughter. She thinks 30 is retirement!) So I broke the ice with my standard, Had To Do It. It's a favorite that always gets a good laugh. Then after getting their attention, I swung into Shango mode; put racismo on the table and began boxing with avoidance and denial. Because skin color politics, which is what race-ism is all about, is the second thing we don't like talking about--We, meaning the grown-ups. The first being sexuality. But right across the street from the cafe is City College where I first learned to spit, so the avoidance was more like scrutiny. And if there was any denial in the room, it was my ego bouncing off the brick walls and bamboo mats hanging from the ceilings, shying from the possibility that my sht just wasn't on point enough, killer enough; not intense enough. Because younger audiences like it hot and in your face. The more profane, the better. None of this professorial, try to figure it out for yourself sht! You wanna talk about racismo? Then bring it like Nas droppin' knowledge on a newbie. Cos referring to Dessaline and sugar canes, as politically sound as that may be, comes off to much like a history class, especially during final exams week! Even Ngoma, the eldest in the house, who was pulling out musical instruments out of his pocket tried to warn me as I got on the stage-- You sure you got this? I can play three-four gods. You got any gods of your own? Still, they let me spit. All the while giving me that look. Those of us who are messengers and yet are no longer angry know what I'm talking about. It's a kind of look a young pit bull gives you. Like, Nigga I could bite a chunk off you if I wanted to, but I'ma be nice!

Comes down to respect. For having the stomach to even add something to the pot and for being part of a student body that demanded Africana studies play a significant role in the overall curriculum. But that was then. This is now where Black Power is less about reaching back to the Motherland and going nat'ral, and more about who can keep their dark shades on the longest without bumping into people! Guess you can say, I forgot what it's like to be in fighting mode, whether it means carrying picket signs or writing about a love deluxe. When you're 45+ you tend to become more settled in the everyday necessities of adult life. Your priorities change. You're not as loud and your sense of maleness or femaleness is no longer attached to trends. Where sensationalism was the right formula for getting heard, now it's a more toned down approach; tempered, like a screaming child who finally got his pacifier.

In other words, this Black man is not angry anymore. Might be more tragic; romantic, even, if I were. A cliche that always sells. But then there's also a danger in losing that anger, that edge. Your spit is not as effective or affective; doesn't hit people's eyes and faces, and then drip perfectly grossly. Like it's expected to. Like some of us prefer it when Alanis Morisset was still mad at the mothafkr!

I learned something, though. Even if you're considered a beloved minister of words, it's important to also hang with the younger ones. They keep you up to date and on your toes. They let you know what's cool and what's no longer happening, no matter how profound you think your sht it. And even as you're putting your words back in your satchel and a bullet in the form of a sexy, wide-eyed sista tells you, "By the way, I liked your piece on racismo."--Her chocolate skin telling me she's been there herself--you can't take anything for granted. You just know to make your next book of poems worthy of praise from the young ones as well, so that your sense of newfound peace isn't mistaken for dormant...

Para Ti

On the other hand
There's you
And your tendency
To position yourself
According to which side
The coconut falls
And yet I fought for you
Let your babies
Suck at my nipples
While I fed you my music
To help shape
Your identity of convenience
Where you honor my ancestry
But laugh at my skin color

Yet I still fight for you
Cut down sugar cane for you
When the one who stole your name
Builds walls to keep you
From crossing over
To the heavenly place
Where you learn to despise
My relevance
Denying me
Of even a respecful glance

It's that tendency
To rape your consciousness
But marry the one who offers you crumbs
That you glorify
So devotedly
While I watch you exploit my burdens

Wars over turf
Turf over wars
When it isn't your language I resent
But the way you relish it
Rely on it
Throw daggers at me with it

It's that same tendency
Of selective memory
While I remember
Everyhing.

This Christmas

2009-12-13T20:23:00.000-08:00

This Christmas, let's try making it less about stuff and more about learning ways to improve our relations with our loved ones, neighbors, co-workers and imperfect strangers. If we need a model to follow, let's try learning from the Rasta by adopting the art of simple living so we're not held hostage by the illusion of success and power. If the Rasta way is too much of an offense to your conditioning, then try dipping your feet in Buddhism or the notion that once you let go of worldly desires you then become free of pain. And in case that, too, is a bit of a stretch then how about taking inventory of your vocab and like the Lakota eliminating such words like maybe and maybe not, so that folks know what you mean and where you stand? Whatever flies your kite, teaching our children that Christmas is about buying things and not making things; keeping up appearances and not honoring our ancestors, only perpetuates a self-serving mindset.

Yea, I know. How do you show true solidarity to Brother Jesus while sill putting a smile on someone's face? And what's so bad about buying someone a dress tie or a neck chain? Well, it's not so much the tie but how a man can wrap it around his neck so tightly that he's no longer recognizable or the Congo blood it takes for that gold band to get to Wal Mart.

Last Christmas I bought poetry books and indian incense sticks for my friends and they, in turn, gave me things that are close to my heart, if not my bed pillow-- journal books, black markers, sea shells that they themselves picked off from the beach, and an African cloth for my vending table.
This Christmas I'm supporting Black photographers, since only Paris and Berlin seem to be showing them love. I'm asking Paven Carter to make me a 2010 photo calendar, buying two of Ocean Morisset's latest prints; even helping R.P. Risbrook and Iris Huey promote their film projects (check'em out on facebook). I'm also pushing Deborah Willis' new visual, Posing Beauty, namely Lauren Kelley, with a kiss back to Regine Romain. And so that I don't take the artist for granted, I'm gonna learn not to judge (myself, included); send a few peeps a handwritten note (remember handwriting?!), thanking them for their continued kind presence in my life...

...My way of avoiding all the hustle n bustle, long lines and aggy sales clerks, and just feeling the holiday spirit.

Peace and gratitude, people!

Last Christmas

2009-12-13T20:20:00.000-08:00
Around this time last year, I was fussin with NYPD and their usual treatment of Black males. Here's a blast from the past...

I don't like to using the term 'my White friend' when Jason is much more than a color or political tag. But in this case I'm merely trying to make a point--

We go way back to when our kids were old enough to walk on their own, so when Jason's son (who's now a college freshman away from home) decided to stay by me because of a plane layover before continuing up to Maine by bus I was thrilled, because it gave me a chance to play the good uncle.

The next morning I took my buddy's son to Port Authorities and helped him purchase his bus ticket. As I stood by him, I noticed a White police officer giving me a menacing look. I paid him no mind because as a Black man in America that's just one of those everyday hassles we have to put up with, like not being able to get a cab or Scarlet O'Haras clutching their purses when they see you coming. So we just went on about our bizness, talking about his holiday course assignments, how he enjoys the dorm life, sports, J-Lo (he's in love with Jennifer Lopez), and the fun he plans on having once he reaches home, all the while looking for his gate. Just when we found it, that same police officer yelled a loud "Yo!!!" causing everyone and his mother to look our way! He made it so obvious that it was me he was talking to that I turned to him and calmly asked, "What's the problem?" to which he answered, "Well, you look like a hustler!"...(a person who employs fraudulent or unscrupulous methods to obtain money; a swindler-- Random House unabridged dictionary 2006)..."As a matter fact," he added, "you look like one of our regulars." I could tell the mixed crowd was prepared for a Rodney King scene just by the worried look on their faces, so after a few seconds of staring at po-po as he stared back at me--a dance full of unpleasant memories from either side--I simply turned around and went back to talking to my play nephew, noticing his own worried look, no doubt intimidated by the intrusion. I expected another Yo! and got ready for the get-down but then suddenly the officer disappeared, just as the Boston/Maine bus pulled up.

As embarassing as it was to have to be called out like that from a blue, I knew it was important that I kept my head high in front of an audience who already were used to seeing Black men murdered by NYPD over less uneventful situations, especially those bystanders of darker complexions who've succombed to powerlessness or business as usual. Plus, Jason's wife expected her son to come home safely and I felt I owed it to her, both as a parent myself and longtime friend, to not allow my ego to cause her to hear about blood and handcuffs, whether I deserved it or not. So rather than send her son off with hate and immobility, I chose instead to encourage him to take what he just witnessed as education outside of the classroom, the kind of lesson plans most teachers avoid out of an uneasiness to discuss the obvious. He felt bad, of course, having turned into an adult in a matter of minutes. Had his skin color been darker, I would've given him the same lecture James Baldwin gave his nephew in The Fire Next Time. But his pale skin makes him a beneficiary of a privileged race, so the lesson for him was not coping skills and how to not internalize racism, but the acknowledgement that the term post-racial means that racism and racial profiling is only dead in principal; that had Al Sharpton ran for President we would've been celebrating Hillary Clinton's inauguration instead, maybe even Mcain's.

Consequently, his parents had decided that their son needed to witness the unfair treatment of a Black man for the sake of his character as both an American and a citizen of the world, especially since wearing timbs, baggy jeans, a bomber jacket and ski hat is apparently a hustler's uniform, according to a biased cop who neglected to pay attention to body language. Had he been less ignorant, less-focused on finding reason to bully me with his badge, he would've noticed that the interaction between me and the youth was intimate and not tense. But he must've found it strange to see a White college kid being so familiar with a Black man, even in New York City.

Come to think of it, what if I were the one perceived as being swindled? What if this younger White male who also had on winter gear was trying to hustle me? Did that possibility ever occur to this policeman? Or did his disgust for something so unusually normal kidnap his brain cells the moment he saw us?

The sidebar is that I made a point of reporting the incident to the Port Authority heads, even though it took three hours for them to finally give me a form that I completed in three minutes! They tried all kinds of ploys to discourage me from making the report, from saying I could've been arrested for trespassing since I was standing right at the bus gate with no passenger ticket to making me use the top of a trash can as a counter since they wouldn't allow me to use theirs. Still, I stayed determined and centered since I knew that their only weapon would be my reacting. Because once you react, my friends, they get to switch the table on you, as in Get the Black Guy 101! Must be part ot their training or something. Like when European immigrants had to pass through Ellis Island for inoculation and indoctrination (...And stay away from this one!). Even Governor Patterson's portrait placed high on one of the walls wasn't enough to encourage me to keep in mind that the badge of honor is meant to protect me, since often times blue supercedes Black much like the king piece in chess-- Looks presidential, but very limited moves.

And then there was this terrorist hall of fame poster of Arab faces and names placed outside the unit's doors, and I wondered why Timothy McVeigh wasn't on it. The White guy who bombed Oaklahoma City six years prior to 9/11, along with the culprits who ignored the 1,900 pleas for help after Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. It showed us just how significant Black people are in this country, compared to the quick response folks all the way in Asia received after Tsunami. I mean, if you gotta wave an American flag to prove to your own government that you're worth rescuing too, it pretty much says it all.

The other sidebar is the recent murder of yet another innocent bruh, Oscar Grant from Oakland, CA. The good news is that his murderer, ex-transit officer Johannes Mehserle was arrested and convicted after an outstanding show of civil disobedience from not only us but Whites as well, with the help of a passenger's cell phone video. I considered Sean Bell's case over on this side and how very few Whites showed support. Was it because there was no video to confirm the killing, so they chose instead to simply lower their heads out of fear of 5.0? A little guilt maybe? Yet in Oscar's case one bullet was enough to inspire crowds of White folks to protest, while fifty bullets for Sean apparently wasn't enough get the right number of White people involved. Count that. Fifty shots! See it. Fifty bullet wounds!!! No Stop, Police! and the standard shot in the leg to cause the alleged offender to cut short his running. 50 bullet wounds!!! Now, that's not Stop or we'll shoot. That's Die nigger! Die!!!!

I coulnd't help thinking about Sean when that over-zealous cop rolled up on me the way he did. It's part of the American Black male experience. The same post traumatic slave syndrome Dr. Joy DeGruy talks about. You know, worrying about not having the right ID on you for fear of being beaten and locked up. Worrying about dogs chasing you for having the wrong skin color. Worrying about being lynched because you're in the wrong hood. Those annoying little disturbances that White folks never have to deal with. Imagine that. To get up in the morning and not even think about your skin color, and how it will affect your day...

But I remembered my father's teachings and showed the fool who I am, as opposed to what he was expecting me to act like.

So I put a dent in it. I rejected the temptation to generalize all police officers and also remembered my White allies. Those who've proven their friendships to me during our years of learning one another and having each other's backs. For as much as I wanted to tell po-po, in return, that he looked like an asshole, one of OUR regulars, as a matter of fact, I knew de-socialization was more powerful than blood and handcuffs. I knew there was a possibility that this New York City crowd may not have been as dedicated to justice as folks in Cali were. I knew I'd have my say later when the officer's files included my complaint, along with recommendations to both him and his trainers. I knew all I had to do was chill, bite the bullet, as it may, then check on-line for the civilian complaint revue board to make sure my complaint was taken seriously. I also sent a copy of it to Governor Paterson to give him a chance to have a chat with the blues about hustler profiling.

I put a dent in it, reminding myself what I had initially planned on doing right after making sure my friends' son was on the right bus home, which was to take pictures of the first snow. It doesn't prevent a next time to happen to me, and it doesn't mean there won't be another Sean or Oscar. But it does mean the ability to remember who you are, even when less dignified people think less of you. To rise up and keep going, and to let karma be the bitch she's supposed to be!

Riverside Park

Washington Heights intersection

Downtown Manhattan

Battery Park

Battery Park 2

Battery Park 3

Tribeca park

Guava birdhouse

Squirrel posing by tree

Plant in snow

Dancing tree lights

Dancing night lights

Dancing night lights2

Glass building

Wolf

White flowers

Violent sky

Battery Park too

Snowman on my roof

Poetry Is...

2009-12-11T08:13:00.001-08:00
Poetry is spirit
trying
to
get
at
something...

Like staying up
way late
in the night
playing tag with sleeplessness...

Poetry is passion rushing in and out of itself...

Like the hurried music of Baraka and Shange
Alive and soaring through space and back...

Poetry is pain not having a resting place
You can't hold it
Put it down
Or leave it
Because it's indefinite
And yet, you create it...

Poetry is anger raging through your veins
You can't hold it
Put it down
Or leave it
Because it's much bigger than you
And yet, you control it...

Poetry is pleading for resurrection
For love to come in...

And this time maybe
To stay...

Poetry is spirit...

...trying to get at something.*

Recent readings at Sister's Uptown Bookstore on Amsterdam Ave and 156th Street where Harlem meets D.R. This time Yaco (It's not Obama time, but our time!), Walter Goolsby (I hate you! I hate you! I love you!!!), Reynard Harris' harmonica and American slaves storytelling, Corey Spencer (You kill me, you make me!), Gregory Joseph Foster, Jr.'s Black Love Notes, along with our host and griot, Brother Steven, and then me trying to get at something...

Sister's Bookstore will be celebrating their 10th anniversary on Saturday, January 30th from 1-9p and owner (and Mother), Jannifer Wilson is inviting all performers and those who support them to come join in on this important event; important, not only for the cultural aspect of it but also and especially because of the number of Black owned bookstores becoming virtually extinct in the Community. Sister's is one of the very few spots still around that offers a space for african-centered poets, writers and storytellers to give their voice. So keep January 30th in mind. Support the arts. Support Us!

*From my first book of poems, The Dredlocks Tree

Is This You? (Excerpt from my first book)

2009-12-08T12:54:00.000-08:00
I don’t take constructive criticism well

I like to control people and situations

I’m a great talker, but not a good listener

I like to have the last word

I get defensive when someone tries to call me on my mess

I spend more attention on my looks and the things I own than on what kind of person I am

I make friends with only those who tolerate my negative ways, and avoid those who challenge me

Excerpt from Before You Fly Off - Vol. 1 (A conversation for and about young Black females from a male perspective)

Recent Workshops

2009-12-08T08:18:00.001-08:00
One of my passions is doing life skills workshops for students who are either bordering academic probation or seeking solutions to adult problems. I recently got the opportunity to do both at the City University of New York where a multicultural audience and sisterhood group showed me love!...

The larger workshop
was titled, Are You In the Right Major?...

...for those students who are having a difficult time not only deciding on a major, but finding the motivation it takes to actually navigate university waters...

...It's not that they can't succeed. Because it takes mad skillz to perfecting commuter urban discipline. Thing is, how do you connect natural know-how with standards already set before instructors and advisors even meet their students?...

...In these here times--especially for Black male students who are still the least to attend a university--getting a college degree is a necessity. And most students, no matter what incentive brought them to admissions, including their mother's badgering, do want to graduate...

...It's just that they need messengers they can relate to and vice versa. Agitators who have the letters but care more about the process of showing someone how to turn from at-risk to champion!

Now, the idea of a more intimate workshop actually came from Anna Rondon, President of the BMCC Sisterhood Society....

...We'd been talking about male/female relationships, after she started reading my latest book. Anna thought it would be a positive move towards understanding males from a sensible grown man's perspective....

...By the time the cam was moving from hand to hand, personal stories were being shared openly; stories of perseverance and truth, trepidation and love when it's at its best!...

...I usually have to use both bat and feather when talking to young ladies about the particularities of the male species. If I'm not shaking them out of victim mindset, I'm teaching them not to mistake female empowerment for the disempowering of males....

...But it was neither. Just honest conversation about the self, in relation to another self. Knowing the difference between being needy and knowing what you need. Learning that having a controlling nature means being out of control. And understanding that males are, indeed, emotional beings.

Just that we're socialized not to be. Encouraged might be a better word, every time you hear playa', dog, my nigga and man up....
...They got it. You got it. And I got it...

...Some males enjoy being called someone's nigga!

Yoruba Consultation

2009-12-08T08:17:00.000-08:00
Osunyoyin Alake is an African American anthro-photo-journalist, fine arts photographer, initiated priestess of the Yoruba river goddess Osun in Osogbo Nigeria, sidereal astrologer, and poet. She began her journey into the mystical at age seven with the study of Astrology. At age twelve she began doing charts for her family and friends.

On her fourteenth birthday she began divining with the Tarot and had a large adult clientele within the year, due to her usual ability and accuracy of her divination. Yoyin began her study of the I Ching under the guidance of Sifu Hwang Sun Chi soon after her 18th birthday. She continued her study and training with him until his passing seven years later. From age eighteen until the present she was mentored in Akan and Yoruba by Nana Kwabena Brown Chief Priest of the Temple of Nyame in spiritual culture and principles. In 1989, she was initiated into the priesthood for Osun by the Elders of the Osun shrine in Osogbo, Nigeria, the main shrine for Osun. She is a working priestess and is available for consultation and all kinds of spiritual work.

Osunyoyin Alake is taking a limited number of divination clients this Saturday. She is available for both Tarot and Cowrie shell (merindilogun, traditional Yoruba divination). Her fee is $55.00. Please call (305) 924-3681 for an appointment. And don't let the zip code deter you. She's right here in Brooklyn, NY!!!

"Act as if it were impossible to fail."--An Akan proverb

K Invites

2009-12-08T08:14:00.001-08:00

John Jay College of Criminal Justice Journal

Chicken Bones Journal

Quill Spirit On-Line Magazine

Other invites include the Carolina African-American Writers Collective and the Harlem Frank Silvera Workshop

Disturbia: Excerpt from Last Book

2009-11-30T15:33:00.001-08:00
A conversation between a father and his daughter about Rihanna, Chris Brown and Domestic Violence...

...So what's up with Chris Brown?
None of your male rappers and Hip Hop artists are willing to stand together against violence on females, so why should he? What's up with Rihanna?
Disturbia!!!

Seriously, dad, what'you think about how everything went down? 'Cause I know you called her a chickenhead for goin' back! But people can be quick to judge until they're in the same position.
Hold on, now. I admit I was disappointed in them both. And you're right. It's easy to point the finger when you haven't been in that same situation.
But?
Well, I just think she had an opportunity to use all that drama not only to her advantage but to make a powerful statement about domestic violence.
What'you mean?
That photo of her beat up that was posted for the entire world to see...
The one the cops leaked out?
Yea. I think she would've gotten her power back if she had used that same photo as her next cd cover and called it 'Bite This', since lil' bruh likes to bite females; with songs about dv and rebirth. She would've gotten world respect, gotten mad grammy's, made Oprah proud, and showed young Black girls, especially, what having a strong sense of self looks and sounds like.
That's dope!
Instead she chose...
Disturbia!!!

Next project: A help guide for and about young african american males with topics from hyper-masculinity, buffoonery and improving the education of Black males to business know-how, sexual and cultural identity, and finding a more wholistic definition of Black manhood. Input from other educators, youth counselors, parents, and the young bruhs themselves are welcomed!!!

2009-11-30T15:06:00.000-08:00

You can’t blame the children
for taking the word nigger into their own hands
If you think about it
we took colored
And flipped it to
People of color

You can’t tell a child to stay
out of jail
Not when his life depends
on how well
he cops.

From my book of poems, The Dredlocks Tree

Summer in November - Images V

2009-11-27T22:56:00.001-08:00

It's getting colder,
now that december's
teasing january...

...but I remember
that november
reminding me
of spring...
one hundred and
one reasons
to stay,
for every falling
colored leaf...
and me and you
still...

25 Things Blacks Still Don't Wanna Hear...

2009-11-27T22:55:00.001-08:00
1. We suffer from internalized racism, religious indoctrination, depression, and denial;

2. We think critical thinking is reading ghetto drama books;

3. We got mad skillz with gadgets but can't relate with one another in a manner that's intimate and real;

4. We don't hold our local leaders accountable, and they only come around during re-election time;

5. We still prefer light-skinned sistas over dark-skinned ones, especially in our music videos;

6. We think wearing locks is a fashion sense when it's supposed to be a poltical statement;

7. We need to walk with a pit bull in order to feel important;

8. We're afraid of telling our young boys (and a few grown ass men) that wearing your pants low enough to show your behind is not only tired but sad;

9. We don't attend parent/teacher conferences;

10. We forget that Obama is still a politician, and therefore can't and won't address our issues as directly and immediately as we'd like him to;

11. We'd rather look good than feel good;

12. We don't see hyper-masculinity as a cry for help;

13. We think the empowerment of sistas means disempowering brothas;

14. We don't support our own photographers and other artists, but get upset when they get love from outsiders;

15. We don't question the contradictions of the Church;

16. We make fun of africentric Blacks to avoid PSP (post-slavery psychosis);

17. We think Reggae and Dancehall music are one in the same;

18. We think street culture is Black culture;

19. We'll buy an $80,000 truck rather than spend $10 on a self-help book;

20. We think ethnic and fly is a contradiction;

21. We stand on street corners because we have nothing productive to offer our neighbors and selves;

22. We celebrate the myth of Langston Hughes, but not the man himself;

23. We'll support a singer who likes urinating on girls to the point where we'll even buy the video, but we think same sex marriage is digusting;

24. There's a war going on between Blacks and niggaz;

25. We can't handle the truth.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2009-11-27T22:40:00.000-08:00

Happy
we stole
ur land,
murdered
ur people,
committed
mass genocide
and annihilated
ur culture
day.-- Osunyoyin Alake

Yoyin, as her close friends call her, also gives spiritual readings. Anyone interested can reach her at goddessoflight@gmail.com

Cartoon found by photodocman, Rod Patrick Risbrook (Thanks, man. I'm sure this ain't in our kids' social studies textbooks. But, son, where's the smiling turkey, yo??!!)

Guided, Protected and Thankful

2009-11-27T09:52:00.000-08:00

barbara cochran
agnes dera
marco moise
tony boya
steve levin
dr. jean bourand
marie and etienne
bill harmon
mae king
harold
neal
prince
bertrand
maude
sibanye
berdella r. saunders
la madame
coby
shaman
martial

When Dumb Wasn't Cool

2009-11-25T14:55:00.001-08:00

And remember when dumb wasn't cool? It was the days when Pan-African pride was not only a sign of the times, but just plain good mental health.

You'd walk the 125th Street strip in Harlem and see all the red, black and green; and if that weren't enough to quench your natural thirst you had the mart where there were rented booths that looked more like typical enclaves you would find at any West African market. There was a consciousness back then that pushed for Black solidarity left over from the 70s, innocent of our preoccupation with bling and fluff that was soon to come. We'd say words like peace, my brotha and blessings, my sista, and meant it. It was an exciting period because Malcolm's bright smile and Assata's legendary words--If I hate all Black people, it still won't stop the revolution!--were still cruising the air, while a young music promoter named Sean Combs was just beginning to make a name for himself on The City College campus. Crack, AIDS and gangsta mindset hadn't made their impact on our hoods yet, so Black and Brown children were still smiling. It was a time when Hip Hop was the alternative to Reaganomics--all about self--and not an accomplice, while Run, Jesse, Run! was the latest craze.

But something happened along the way. Black folks began losing their cufis and nat'rals for look-at-me watches and diva wigs. Wearing locks became more of a fashion statement than a politcal one. Greed was now in vogue, followed by Rappers who had plenty to show but nothing to say. Misogyny, too, was making its mark, so much that my six-year-old daughter was banned from watching BET videos. It was a delicate time to be a socially-conscious father, especially when consciousness appeared to be dying. By the time she hit her teen years, the general formula for music videos was flash, cash and half-naked bunnies. Words like cufi, kente, shells, frankincense, and Arrested Development were now taboo. The new cool was flash, ice, weaves, and arrested development! You'd hear young Black males say they were keepin' it real, while Chris Rock's translation was keepin' it real dumb! It placed him on the map for being the Stanley Crouch of comedy. But folks in da hood only got the joke but not the message. They didn't realize he was sounding off the alarm to put the word out that we need to think more critically about ourselves, that our image as a people was in question. In other words, Black America was at a new crossroads. Not just economically and culturally, but fundamentally a war had begun between Blacks and niggaz. Much like the war between gays and queers, but with the added burden of post-slavery psychosis. Because brothas were now dogs; sistas, ho's and a shiny belt buckle was becoming more important than getting a decent gpa. Then Lauryn Hill tried to smack us back into reality by dropping her mic and announcing, I'm done! But ignorance was far too bliss by that time, so we responded by labelling her crazy when all she was trying to do was school us from another angle. Still, dumb got more publicity so she disappeared into reclusion and let Wyclef carry the Fugee banner by himself.

On Saturday mornings I watch the war reach as far as Nigeria when The Africa Channel and BET Africa compete for attention. One pushes culture and ethnic pride while the other pushes the bunnies. It's a contradiction that can confuse your brain cells, if not your sense of Black solidarity. Like seeing a tribe member wear an Obama T-shirt while carrying on like a clown. Makes you wonder where some of us are getting their sustenance. But then it's these same types of contradictions that are being pushed-- dog, pimp, bitch, crib. All of which degrade us as a people yet we defend the right to self-destruct. So while Chuck D back in the days was droppin' knowledge to open up our eyes and minds, now the public enemy was in the mirror, whether we were ready to admit it or not. Some will tell you that calling each other in demeaning ways is merely a form of endearment. But if you take a minute to reflect on that; if you have any African left in you, you can see the psychosis for yourself. Problem is many of us are either too stubborn or too lazy to change our vocab. It's gotten to the point where it's much easier to say nigga than brotha. And walking with a pit bull is still the best crutch to walk with when you don't know who you are, or maybe even afraid to find out.

I was working in a prison when all this was brewing. At the time, getting locked up was still an embarrassment. It wasn't yet a rite of passage for many young Black males, and the police and court officials who exploited the ills. Some blame the prison system for originating sick trends, including young kats wearing their pants low because of the no belt policy behind bars. But in all my years of helping incarcerated brothas reinvent themselves I've never once seen one with his pants so low that it required him to walk like a toddler. Yet today you see young kats--and sadly enough, older ones too-- doin' the toddler so as not to trip and fall, and people don't even flinch over it. They'll give me a fearful, maybe even a disgusted stare whenever I wear my cufi but they won't question self-debasement. It's as if they expect Black males to look dilapidated. And I'm not just talking White folks, I'm talking us. We've become so disentisized by our own demise that it doesn't even phase us when we see our sons looking so grub. As a matter of fact, grub is in, with retailers offering all sorts of shiny new stuff to add to our detriment.

But niggaz don't see it that way. They call it Not givin' a fuk! or keepin' it gangsta to give homage to those Rappers who can't even spell dilapidated, while the rest of the world decides our fate.

So guess what? The City of Dallas, TX has proposed a new ordinance against young men wearing their pants closer to their knees than their waist. Yep, you heard me. They want to make it a crime to look stupid, since we can't figure that sht out on our own! And Louisiana, Georgia and Connecticut are right behind (excuse the pun!). This bizness of waiting for others to do our critical thinking for us has been going on even before we thought jheri curls were cool. And this waiting for a messiah to encourage us to do the obvious has been going on since the first American slave auction. We've become experts in victim mentality but not in coming together, if only for the sake of unity. We don't like unity if it means letting go of dumb trends and picking up instead a book on serious self-reflecting or, God forbid, Black history. Not anymore. We don't listen to what Brotha Crouch keeps trying to tell us. Instead we make fun of his looks as a way of avoiding the work. But how do you avoid something that reveals itself on the faces of our youth and the questionable manner in which they carry themselves? How do you tell a kid that the most gangsta thing he can do is be himself, with so much pressure to stay dumb? What if his self is based on ignorance passed on from one misinformed generation to another, and that he needs trends to help him forget his pains? And what if I don't give a fuk simply means he doesn't expect to see 30?

The answers are hidden within the very thing we've lost respect for-- our old African ways. The same traditions that were ripped from our souls to control our minds. Like how we used to put Shango before paper, the loving way in which fathers would raise their sons, or how my grandmother would squat down to peel potatos. Simple, everyday things that have either become foreign to us or replaced by fast love and fast food.

When we lost that, we lost our sons. Because it's not cash that will bring them back but the notion that, though it's nice to have paper, it's in knowing your glory lives in you and not outside of you that's the real money.

African Albinos and the Bliss of Ignorance

2009-11-25T14:53:00.000-08:00

As if skin politics between pan-americans weren't enough of a challenge to both those who struggle with the burden of having to cope and those who still deal with the guilt, we now have to witness yet another type of ism where skin pigmentation, or the lack of it, is the latest battle of the shades pitting African albinos against Africans who may lack compassion but still have their melanin. This actually started a few years back when parents were abandoning their albino babies, caught up in the hype that lack of pigmentation is a curse. But it quickly got even more twisted when witch doctors wanted the children's legs, arms, noses and ears, believing that albinos have mystical powers. And then it gets stupid, with the wealthy buying these body parts as charms. As a result of this bliss of ignorance, thousands of albinos are still in hiding today, including a few hundreds protected by Red Cross. According to Tanzinian stats, albino limbs are being sold by witch docs for $200 and a corpse could go as far as $75,000. It isn't so much the cadaverous vibe of it, but suddenly Tanzania is facing one of its worse periods in history. A slow-stewing genocide that hardly gets reported. Culprits are being arrested and jailed, however; some of them hung. And most likely from pressure from the international community, if not the Internet. But the individuals who are providing the dollars for more albino parts and bodies; the industry that's pushing the bliss still needs to be halted or Red Cross will have to shelter even more innocent children.

We have albinos in Harlem and Bed-Stuy, but we don't call them albinos. We call them Mark, Joanne, Dwayne, and Samantha; and the skin shade issue is irrelevant. That's the difference I see between here and over there. We follow a code of ethics which dictates that though oceans divide us, struggle reminds us, while the dumbfool who kills innocent elephants for their ivory tusks is the same dumbfool who complains about racism.

I don't know if African songster, Salif Keita ever comes to these parents' and hatchet-carrying minds. Or if tourists understand the importance of researching where such charms come from. I'm almost certain--hopeful, at least--that they wouldn't want to bring back a pair of tiny hands that were still learning how to handle a soccer ball. And what is the singer saying about all this? Has anyone even asked him for his thoughts on it? Maybe his voice is what got him over 12? Is he staying silent so as not to cause uninvited attention to himself? And just like here at home where if you wear the wrong color in the wrong hood, you can either get jumped or killed. Is it that same unwritten law over in Tanzania or Burundi where the bliss has spread to? Does he avoid giving concerts in those countries because it's the magic of his voice he wants to share and not his damn body parts? Or do these witch docs find it more valuable to target only child albinos?

I dig Salif's magic! His duet with Cesaria Evora (Yamora/I love you) is still my favorite. When I listen to Salif I don't see albino or missing elephant tusks. I don't even see the contradictions of Black pride. Just beautiful African music the way a good sleeper dreams in colors.

Typical Times...

2009-11-19T22:30:00.000-08:00

The empowerment of females
doesn't have to mean
disempowering males

Feeling good
about our bodies and our selves
is a necessary
Not a gender bender

So why'you so afraid of me?...

From my next book, Throw

Church Shows Young SGL's How To Love

2009-11-17T07:38:00.000-08:00

We hardly ever hear about Church or Mosque ministers who defy social gravities and show love to marginalized populations. In this case, gay youth or what some africentrics call same gender loving since there's nothing festival about beating up or even worse, murdering those we're afraid of. But a Chicago Church is doing just that-- Ignoring religious barbwires and collaborating with a fraternity to sponsor a dinner, in support of young SGL male couples. The point is not only to show Black folks that religion doesn't have to mean fear and hate, but that young couples--young 'gay' male couples--also need a safe setting to learn how to date and not just how to sex. It's all psychological, really. Because when you see male couples in love and treating one another with care...consideration, you then learn to think beyond what your family, your crew and the general society have taught you about what SGL love is and is not; should be or shouldn't be. So for the younger kat out there who might think that his lovestyle is limited to fluff and puff, this effort from a socially-conscious fraternity and a welcoming church is right on time, even if it's happening to someone else.

The LGBT Center here in NYC does have similar functions, but my Black SGL male students tend to feel out of place there, either because the agenda is eurocentic or they just don't relate to the fem thing. This is what makes this Chicago news news. Because it's a call out for those who want to keep their nubian while still expressing their lovestyle. It's also an opportunity for the frats to teach the young brothas that, though there's nothing wrong with being effeminate, especially since it's the fems who kick down doors to create policies that protect all of us, 'gay' doesn't have to mean picking up habits that make you become a caricature or stereotype. Look at it as a big brother fixing his younger brother's tie, showing him to fend for himself, how to ask a girl out...how to avoid touble dudes. It's the same concept. Same expectation, if you consider saving all our young males an expectation.

The theme of this dinner is tagged My Boyfriend and Me. It's to take place at the Fellowship Hall of Hyde Park Union Church on Friday, November 20th. The sponsoring fraternity is Youth Pride Service's Omega Sigma Theta and their contact phone number for details is (703)382-0511.

Hopefully, other fraternities and sororities, along with other churches who actually follow Jesus' philosophy will take this as a call for similar action in their own cities and communities, to the point where a high school principal considers it part of the curriculum.

Put it this way. When our youth SEE love, they know it's possible to love; and when the Church opens her arms, not to convert but simply to show support, these same young men SEE God and therefore know it's ok to pray!

New Haitian American Writers Group

2009-11-15T10:03:00.001-08:00
Just started a Haitian American Writers Group to see if maybe fugees in the New York City area might be interested in helping each other edit our works, get published and meet periodically to build together to help define what Haitian American literature is and isn't before someone else does it for us. Those who are interested can contact me directly at lifejak@aol.com or on Facebook where I'm also putting the word out. Gender, age, education, political views, religious or sexual standing not an issue. Just have something to say about being of Haitian descent and a passion for pan-african solidarity. Of course, knowing your griyo wouldn't hurt!

What Your History Teacher Ain't Telling

2009-11-13T13:46:00.000-08:00
Inventions by Blacks

Cell phone chip Henry T. Sampson 7/6/1971
Air conditioner Fredrick M. Jones 7/12/1949
Bicycle frame L.R. Johnson 10/10/1899
Clothes dryer G.T. Sampson 6/6/1862
Curtain rod S.R. Scratton 11/30/1889
Door knob O. Dorsey 12/10/1878
Eggbeater Willie Johnson 2/5/1884
Light bulb Lewis Latimer 3/21/1882
Elevator Alexander Miles 10/11/1867
Fire escape J.W. Winters 5/7/1878
Fire extinguisher T. Marshall 10/26/1872
Fountain pen W.B. Purvis 1/7/1890
Gas mask Garrett Morgan 10/13/1914
Golf tee T. Grant 12/12/1899
Guitar Robert F. Flemming, Jr. 3/3/1886
Horse shoe J. Ricks 3/30/1885
Ice cream scooper A.L. Cralle 2/2/1897
Key Chain J. Loudin 1/9/1894
Lantern Michael C. Harve 8/19/1884
Lawn mower L.A. Burr 5/19/1884
Lock W.A. Martin 7/23/1800’s
Mailbox Paul L. Downing 10/27/1891
Motor Frederick M. Jones 6/27/1939
Peanut butter George W. Carver circa 1896
Pencil sharpener J.L. Love 11/23/1897
Refrigerator J. Standard 6/14/1891
Sprinkler W. Smith 5/4/1897
Stove T.A. Carrington 7/25/1876
Thermostat syst. Frederick M. Jones 2/23/1960
Traffic light M.A. Cherry 5/6/1886
Watch Benjamin Banneker circa 1700’s

When you know you come from brillance, you don't walk around wearing your pants low enough to show your drawers, no matter who says it's cool, because the best in you knows that dumbing down isn't cool and isn't supposed to be US!!!

25 Things Blacks Don't Wanna Hear....Again

2009-11-09T23:20:00.000-08:00
1. We'd rather laugh at the comedy of Chris Rock's film, Good Hair rather than take the time to examine why we still consider 'good hair' as being straight and long;

2. We make fortunes off our buffoonery and vulgarity, and call it music;

3. We'd rather call each other nigga than brotha;

4. We allow our athletes to showcase their mansions and expensive cars without expecting them to give back to the Community and stand for something;

5. We still prefer light-skinned sistas over dark-skinned ones, especially in our music videos;

6. We don't give Solange Knowles--the one with depth--props for doing away with the wig and weave thing to show young Black girls that you don't need accessories to look and feel beautiful;

7. We need to walk with a pit bull in order to feel important;

8. We're afraid of telling our young boys (and a few grown ass men) that wearing your pants low enough to show your behind is not only tired but sad;

9. We don't attend parent/teacher conferences;

10. Our public school system fails our children, especially our males and yet we still expect positive results;

11. We'd rather look good than feel good;

12. We think therapy means using a skin exfoliator;

13. We refuse to let go our wigs and weaves because we love White people more than we love ourselves;

14. We forget that the male version of a relaxer is a texturizer, and that brothas too have issues with their hair texture;

15. We don't question the contradictions of the Church;

16. We make fun of africentric Blacks to avoid our psychosis;

17. We don't know what post-slavery psychosis means, but we act it out every day;

18. We think street culture is Black culture;

19. We'll buy an $80,000 truck rather than spend $10 on a self-help book;

20. We think ethnic and fly is a contradiction;

21. We dis Blacks from other countries, out of pure ignorance and competition;

22. We celebrate the myth of Langston Hughes, but not the man himself;

23. We'll support a singer who likes urinating on girls to the point where we'll even buy the video, but we think same sex marriage is digusting;

24. We suffer from internalized racism, religious indoctrination, depression, and denial;

25. We can't handle the truth.

Bang Bang, I'm Dead!

2009-11-09T23:19:00.001-08:00
I am a Black man. I am not allowed to love. I can sex up, dribble a ball, roll dice, and talk smack. But I do not have the luxury of expressing myself in a way that makes me a whole human being. I am merely fragments of myself, longing for emotional rescue from the hands that prevent me from becoming an individual. I do not yet know my name, though there are several words to describe me— buck, stud, mack, nigga; and dog, thug, boy, nigga. Words that limit my voice and movement, and help shape the contours of my masculinity. I am the new version of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, disheveled and exposed for the sole convenience of the media and anglo-centered research whose face is lost in exaggerated stats. I am brilliant only in my swagger but arrogant when I attempt to defy my confinement. I am not even allowed to love my brother. A burden I manage to turn into an art form, if not everyday habit. I am forced, however, to love strangers who keep me chained to their perceptions of me. For my reverence is not necessarily in how I survive my struggles but in the things I never say; things I am not permitted to say. I am hood. I am not hood. I am somewhere between what I think I am and who I long to be. I am everyone’s terror. I am everyone’s sexual objectification. It all depends on how much I tell my mirror when no one is around to judge or stifle me. I am resilient, yes, but not afforded the right to reinvent myself in a manner that reveals my true nature. I do not have a true nature. I do, of course. But it is practically illegal for me to be a man when bombarded with both the sexual obsessions of racist White folk and the buffoonery that comes with confusing street culture for Black pride. These generational attacks infest my natural ability to walk on air, since I am so much more than the caricatures that bind me and far more nurturing than even my sister credits me with. For she loves the possibility of me, but not me. She made that clear when I was but a child, not yet proficient in the language of silence and withdrawing, when she chastised me for crying. She said what everyone tells me, Man up or be ridiculed; sometimes given away. And so I man up, even if it means suppressing my right to simply be; to abide by her standards and unrealistic expectations which in turn helps determine how distant I am with my son whose own tendency to avoid any form of intimacy is a result of my futile attempt to please her, if not reach her. So we both man up to avoid the rejection and total castration, placing video games and gangster mentality over real fatherly connection. The kind of closeness that is expected from all other fathers, except me— the americanized Black man, conditioned to think with his gun and not his heart. Sons do not sit on their fathers’ lap. They do in Cuba. Sons do not kiss their fathers hello. They do in Europe. Sons are not held by their fathers. They are in Africa. And sons do not answer back I love you to their fathers. Not cool. Not manly. Not brolic. Not nigga at all.

I am a Black man. An enigma of sorts, basking on the stage of an elaborate play and all the while not knowing for sure where to stand and how to stand it. I can recite lines from an incorrigible Rapper and fulfill the prophecies of the deadbeat father, but I am discouraged from seeing my life beyond the hype. New terminologies give way to new dichotomies— a baldie, a fade, a shape up, locks and waves, cornrow, caesar, locks. Words that typically define barbershop conversation yet offer no solutions to community denials. To some, I am still the sleeping giant. To others, I am merely in the way; and I pretend to know the difference. If I come to resolving my disposition; if I am given the right to reveal who I am behind the masks then settle it as I see fit, then I would feel safe enough to say that I, too, love and that I cherish the hands that do not exploit me but, rather, provide me with the kind of hold that fully celebrates me. For I am the focal point of discussion at every state of our union and still, my Family refuses to see me. I am divided. I am divided between fleeing into the arms of outsiders who are willing to help me discover my true self and fulfilling the illusions of the very people who named me.

I am a Black man. I am not allowed to love. Just trucks and saddle, and bang bang, I’m dead!

Priceless!

2009-11-09T23:18:00.001-08:00
The best gift from my Before You Fly Off project was when a group of fly girls huddled together to read my book, saying things like Yep, that's so true!...No, he didn't say that!...Why don't they have books like this in school?...They need to let the boys read this too!!!!...

I let go of some good guvament money when I left my phd program. On a mere hunch that I'd be happier writing their story instead of somebody else's. And when them girls showed me all that love, I knew I was on my divine path! I might revisit the doctoral gig. But in the meantime, I'm enjoying writing for and about hard to reach populations such as these here young ladies who do want an education and stable life, but don't quite fit the formula handed to them. When we offer alternatives to youth that work for them and not against them, they give back to us not only stable and constructive lives but smiles that are simply priceless!!!

Who Did It?

2009-11-09T23:17:00.001-08:00
Folks been asking who did the cover of my latest book. It's photojournalist, Ocean Morisset. A self-taught Haitian American photographer, he's travelled to such places as Cuba, the Southwest, Central America and Haiti to bring back the stories we often don't get to hear about; much less, see. Of course, he also tells the various stories of New York City whether it's a young Black father feeding his newborn on a subway train or Central Park's colorful transition from summer to autumn.

He's also the only artist I know who can make a simple photo of a rusted nail look like a friendly cat!!! Checkout his work by visiting http://omorisset.myexpose.com and look for his first photo collection this Christmas.

p.s.-- I actually took this shot of Morisset while visiting fellow writer and friend, Jason Trask up in Maine. I'm better with words, but every once in a while I show my own cam skillz!!!....Peace and gratitude, everyone.

Texturizer: The Manly Way to Be As Pretty

2009-11-09T23:15:00.001-08:00
Since we've been picking on da sistas who still like to strut their wigs and weaves, no matter what Chris Rock says, I figure I'd remind everyone that the lesson cuts both ways...

And one of my sistafriends, Michele Luc--a/k/a urban workshop guru--reminded me of the Du-rag or as she puts it, the poor man's hair straightener.

Whether it's a dude in prison or an upper-crust bruh, the difference being...

...one's social status dictating if it's acceptable to rock it in public...

...or at home where only those in the know can see you,...

...sporting a du-rag to create waves in your hair is yet another form of self-degradation....

...That's if you even consider wearing a du-rag a negative, since du-rags also keep the braids tight...

...But you think sistas freak out when they have to give up their wigs or do without their weave?...

...See how a brotha acts if he thinks one hair is out of place after he's kept it under wraps with Dax and a rag all night!!!...

...He'll keep brushing that shit back in place! Then keep the brush in his back pocket for later...

...when his natural tries to come up for air!