dear diary

dear diary,

this morning when i woke up, things seemed different.

the sun was still the sun, the clouds were still the clouds, and the wind was still the wind.

my nose was still my nose, my eyes were still my eyes, and this black skin was still this black skin.

the same people who speak to me, spoke to me. the same people who never do, didn't. the same way i couldn't care less either way, remained the same.

falsely convicted felons were still in prison. men and women were still dying in wars. and the economy was no better than the day before.

but today i smiled, because today, it FELT different.

it felt like we were finally at the point where today, becomes TOMORROW.

tomorrow is the point at which the old day ends, and a new day begins. our entire lives, we've just been living a series of the same day over and over. sure, the sun would rise. but it brought with it no new meaning. no new hope, or new ideologies. no new movements, leaders, or voices for change.

but TODAY...

today FEELS like america has pushed its confederate flags into a dark corner and cast its racist brethren to the side.

it FEELS like a white man can be a white man without having to carry the stigma of being an oppressor.
and black and brown men can be black and brown without feeling they will forever be oppressed.

it definitely doesn't FEEL like i'm less black. however, somehow i do FEEL more american.

my city FEELS more livable. like one people, in one community, in one nation.

and truthfully, it FEELS good. dammit, it feels real good. overwhelming even.

i know today, our problems are still our problems. but under the lens of hope, they truly seem smaller. because for the first time in most of our lives, the notion of impossible has been defeated. and the embodiment of that spirit is a just a regular living-breathing-walking man. a black man. president of these united states.

he is no longer a dream, which means our dreams are no longer fiction, which makes our realities feel way more dream-like.

yesterday is yesterday. today is just a day. which means tomorrow, we will finally know what it means to see tomorrow.

whus fa dinnuh? pt. 2

"the dinner hour is the summer of the day, full of sunshine" - herman melville

There's been so much serious stuff going on in the world lately, I thought this might be a nice time for a feel good piece. A couple years back I wrote a post called Whus Fa Dinnuh? It was a piece that attempted to explain how, as a kid, you could correlate what was going on in the family, socially and economically by what you had for dinner. So I ran down a bunch of stand out meals, and what they said about my family. It seems a lot of people could relate. Over time, I kept remembering more meals, or I kept getting emails saying "how could you forget" such and such. So by request, definitely read part 1 first, here's part two.

TUNA FISH

Tuna fish is one of those easy breezy meals my mom would make for one reason: TO KEEP THE HOUSE COOL. In the summer time, when the temp started to creep up past the mid nineties towards one hundred degrees, my mom did everything she could to keep from having to turn on the oven. Either the folks were trying to keep the energy bill down and weren't running the air yet, so it was hot as southern hell. OR, the air conditioning was running over time and nobody wanted to make it have to work any harder than it already had. That meant a lot of quickie meals. Tuna fish was one of them. She'd boil eggs, cut them up, and crack open a few big cans of tuna. She'd start seasoning it with all kinds of stuff, until there was this big bowl of tuna. (She always sprinkled Paprika on top to give it some color.) We usually ate it with white bread, Premium crackers, or Ritz crackers. I liked to eat it with just Ruffle potato chips, but that usually got me yelled at. So Ritz crackers it was.

FRIED PORK CHOPS

This was definitely one of my top two or three meals as a kid. It was a semi-celebratory meal. We usually had it mid-week, or top of the week, always Monday or Wednesday. My sister and I were latch key kids, so when my mom walked in with a few grocery bags after work, I'd perk up because that was a good sign. I'd slide across the kitchen floor in my socks and ask my mom "what you bout to cook." And that's when I'd here those two magical words, pork chops! ( as a kid I called them "poke chops") I'd fist pump and jump up and down, "yes". She always made pork chops with mashed potatoes and gravy, green snow peas, and maybe some cream corn. Cream corn has to be one of the worst things ever created, but with pork chops, even that tasted good. Pork chops meant my old man would be getting home on time, six thirty sharp. My mother would never go through all the trouble of cooking that if he was going to be late. Just as the evening news would go off, he'd be pulling up. And just after the family introductions on Family Feud, I'd be climbing into my chair ready to get my grub on.

KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN

The minute I'd see a bucket or two of chicken come through the door, I already knew, we were about to have some impromptu company. Not only that, but it was probably the kind of company we weren't that close to. If it were family, my mom would be cooking "a real meal", and if they did buy some chicken, it'd be Popeye's. So KFC meant some people, my folks weren't expecting, had phoned ahead, and were about to pop up. And I could always tell how much my parents didn't really like them by whether there were side items to go with the chicken. If it was really annoying company, there'd be one kind of chicken, original recipe. If my folks liked them somewhat, there'd be a mix of original and crispy, and there would be side items like corn, baked beans, and mashed potatoes. Sometimes I'd luck out, and the people coming over didn't have kids, which gave me plenty of chances to raid those chicken buckets for left overs while my folks put on their best faces and pretended to enjoy the people who had messed up their evening.

SLOPPY JOE'S AND FRENCH FRIES

Sloppy Joe's meant kids were in the house. It meant one of my friends or cousins had talked their folks into letting them spend the night, and my folks were just trying to keep us happy and out of their hair. This was one of the few times I can remember when my folks ate something different than we ate for dinner. If we were eating Sloppy Joes, my mom would make some cornbread and throw some crowder peas and okra on for her and my old man. Meanwhile, us kids would try to stuff ourselves and eat as many Sloppy Joes as possible, which was always one and a half, and a whole lot of french fries.

HOMEMADE SOUP AKA POT LUCK STEW

Nah, don't even think chicken noodle soup. This was one of those broke meals. When it was served up, we were usually over due for groceries, do to the lack of time or money. I'd frown the minute that big silver pot was pulled out of the cabinet. I didn't hate this soup, it just wasn't my thing. If we were lucky, there was some ground chuck in the freezer to throw into the soup. If not, cut up hot dogs or polish sausages. The soup always started out simple. Some potatoes, some green beans, some kind of meat. My mom loved tomatoes and tomato paste, so that pretty much made up the stock. But somewhere along the way, maybe because it was a throw together meal, she's just start throwing anything in that soup. Corn, chopped up okra, pasta. And please believe, this kind of meal made for perfect left overs.

ROAST AND POTATOES

This was a Sunday meal, make no mistake about it. I knew what the roast pan looked like. It was this big oval discolored light brown pan, with burn marks and a hole right on the top where the handle used to go. Made for the ultimate steam releaser. Whenever I saw that pan being pulled out, I started dancing. Then I started humming, then I started started to smile. One of my favorite meals was on it's way, roast and potatoes. The blessing and the curse of a roast is, it takes forever to cook. The blessing is, all that while its cooking, it fills the house with the warm happy smells of what was manifesting in the oven. The curse was, it smelled so good, you wanted it NOW! First two hours were heaven. The next two hours you'd feel your stomach eating through your skin. The next two hours, you'd be agitated and angry. And that final hour when the whole meal came together, your hate reached the point of exhaustion and you felt like "whatever, i ain't even hungry no more". Yet the minute the words, "it's ready" hit your ears, you were back to singing and grinning. Thick beef gravy. Soft potatoes and carrots, with green beans and a soft roll. Lawd-ham-mercy. Roast made for great convo, and instant itis.

A PLATE FROM SO & SO's HOUSE

You know that event/get together/party that was for grown ups only? Well, there was always a bunch of food at those, and that became dinner. My mom would call home to ask if we were doing okay, and then she'd say, "I'm bringing you a plate". Now, those words could be heaven or hell depending on where they were. If they were at a stranger's house, my mom wasn't bringing us a plate unless it was some catered food. (Mom didn't trust strangers on the cleanliness tip) And if it were family or friends, it totally depended on whose house they were at. With a plate from someone's house, you know it's going to be good the minute you look at it. BBQ and spaghetti makes for great plates. Cold roast beef and fried chicken, or turkey and dressings make for a doable plate too. But once you start getting into more specific type foods, especially vegetables like greens, they tend to be pretty sorry on the reheat. I'd always end up diving right in, or turning up my nose quickly. Sometimes that got you yelled at. Other times, it got you a free trip to Mickey D's.

FRIED FISH FROM THE FISH HOUSE

I love fried fish as a kid. It was usually a Saturday or Friday evening meal. Things were pretty easy and comfortable when we had this meal. My old man would leave the house, and about twenty minutes later, he'd show up with these brown bags full of aroma. Then he'd start pulling these bundles of news paper out of the bags. He'd pull the bundle out and unwrap it, and in the bundle would be a paper plate with another one on top. He'd lift the paper plate off the top, and underneath there'd be two pieces of white bread, and four of five pieces of smoking hot fish, with sliced pickle and raw onions on the side. Ewwwweeeee, now that's some good eating. My mom and dad would split a plate of catfish, and a plate of buffalo. My sis usually ate the catfish too. But I loved the jack salmon. It was white fish that came one one long big bone. Whenever we ate fish, without fail, my folks would start talking about all the horror stories about folks who got fish bones stuck in there throats. "There was a boy name Arthur Lee Kinley, boy had a catfish bone stuck in his throat for two years. Had to learn sign language cause he couldn't talk, then one day he ate some white bread and it just popped out". Mind you, these were absolutely the biggest tall tales you ever did want to hear, but I was a kid, so they scared the hell out of me. I think my folks knew what they were doing. They didn't trust us with fish, and told those stories to make sure we never got careless with it. Note to reader: Ghetto fish doesn't come de-boned. lol

TV DINNERS

As a latch-key kid of the 80's, I definitely ate my share of frozen dinners aka TV dinners. Mind you, TV dinners were totally a luxury item, and were the one excuse my sister and I EVER had to turn on the oven. My parents were on some "don't be messing with the gas eyes when we aren't home" shit. But we WERE allowed to crank up the oven to pop in a TV dinner. So for those late work days, or those days when my parents would be gone, when money was right, we had an array of frozen pot pies, pizzas, and various Swanson meals. You open the box to the meal, and then you peel back the tin foil on it and slide that bad boy in the oven. About a half hour to 45 minutes later, you had you something. I started off on those small dinners. The meat would be on one side, and the accompanying side dish would be on the other side. The meatballs and mashed potatoes quickly come to mind, as well as the veal and pasta, and the fish and mac n' cheese. Somewhere around ten, I developed an appetite, and I had to move up to the HUNGRY MAN size. The only thing better than one frozen fried chicken breast, are three. lol Bigger dishes, multiple sides, hell yeah. But what really stands out are the shows I remember watching as we ate those meals. Various syndicated shows that included, Gomer Pyle, Good Times, The Munsters, My Three Sons, What's Happening, Leave It To Beaver, etc. While making those meals myself taught me independence, those shows became the backdrop to my childhood. Weird thing about a TV dinner, no matter how much you ate, chances are, your ass was hungry about fifteen minutes later.

moment of silence

1942 - 2008



1957 - 2008

may 19th

The Last Poets (left to right: abiodun oyewole, don babatunde eaton, umar bin hassan)

Today, on what would have been Malcolm X's 83rd birthday, we celebrate his legacy and two groups founded on his birth date. Today marks the 40th anniversary of the legendary Last Poets, and the sixth anniversary of the 3rd Eye Open Poetry Collective. Malcolm has been gone for years now, yet his influence continues to be reborn in voices that inspire us all. Malcolm X lives. One luv.

3rd Eye Open (lower right to left: hardCore, dj slo poke, miss reyonna, righteous knowledge allah, omari king wise, khalid el hakim, tiffanni)

happy mother's day

"A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie." - teneva jordan

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up from a very intense nightmare sweating and screaming. I must of eaten too late, something I rarely do. Anyway, in that moment when I woke up startled, I sounded like a five year old kid screaming out one of the world's most famous words. "Mommaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa." After I got my bearings, I quickly started smiling. I found it odd, here I am a 35 year old man, six foot two, 225 pounds; yet who do I scream for in a subconscious moment of terror? Momma.

Mom, momma, mi-ma, my dear, whatever you call your mother, she stays with you. She is the standard bearer. No one's touch is as welcoming, no one's voice is as comforting. You could eat the food of a well renowned chef and you'd still walk away thinking, "that was good, but not as good as momma's". The attributes by which a man search for a woman are derived directly from mom. The woman young girls want to be is typically the woman their mother is. And even with those who have had strained relationships with their mothers, the connection to the best of who their mother is is undeniable.

My favorite mom story happened one Christmas, I think I was ten years old. One of my Christmas gifts was a pair of navy blue corduroy pants. When I tried them on, they fit perfect in the waist, but were a little long. In my eyes, they looked like bell bottoms. My mom quickly calmed my uneasiness about the length, being the sewing machine whiz that she is, she promised to hem them up when she had time. Well, I guess she was one busy woman, cause when Christmas break ended, my pants still weren't hemmed. MInd you, this was January 1983, when Michael Jackson had people wearing pants borderline high water, so my sense of style was definitely a bit tainted. As I laid my clothes out to go to school, she ducked her head in my room. I had my brand new sweater laid out on the bed with a pair of my favorite old jeans. "You're a mess, don't wear them old jeans with your sweater, wear your new corduroys", she calmly said. I huffed and puffed, "but you ain't hem them yet, they look like bell bottoms". In typical black mother fashion she quickly snapped back, "you wearing them". And that was that. As I got dressed, I could hear the voices of the kids who were going to tease me all day long, and it saddened me. What did my little conniving butt do? I snuck out the side door of the house and put my jeans on the side of the house. As I walked out the door to walk to school, my parents drove by me and waved as they left for work. The minute the car turned the corner, I ran back to the side of the house and put my jeans on. What did I do with my good pants? Instead of taking them back inside, I proceeded to quickly stuff them in a bush. Yeah, a real Theodore Cleaver move, I know.

Anyway, I had a great day at school, I'm walking home, and suddenly I see my mother's car go driving by and she hits the horn. I froze. "Uh oh". Then I took off running, trying to get to the side of the house to put my corduroys back on. Too late, she had already seen me. As I got to the house, she was standing in the driveway fuming. She stared at my jeans and asked where were the pants that I had been told to wear. That's when I pointed to a bush on the side of the house. She looked very confused. Then I proceeded to dig inside a bush and pull out my brand new pants. Ohhhhhh, the ass whuppin that followed. Now I know you're wondering, out of all the beautiful moments I've had with my mother, why would I pick that one? Well, that moment was one of many defining moments when my mom said literally or with her actions, "I'm your momma, not your friend". See, people fall out and lose respect for friends all the time. Friends come and go. None of that is even an option with your momma. Your momma just is, whether you like it or not. Her presence is concrete, not plexiglass. So I'm glad she made the choice to be my momma and not my friend. I respect and love her for that.

Besides knowing when to be stern, she has also known when to show compassion, give guidance, show support, inspire, comfort, and share wisdom, all while showing unwavering love. By the way, I ended up having to wear those long ass pants the very next day. And yes, I was teased profusely. But believe me, the teasing in no way compared to the hurt and disappointment I felt by pissing off my momma.

The distance between child and parent never changes, no matter how old, educated, or rich you become. Mom is and always will be Mom. So on this day when we celebrate moms and motherhood, take a moment to show some love to the mother you have, reflect on the mom you had, or contemplate the kind of mom you or someone you love hopes to be. The future of the world lies in the hands of our children, and the strong, nurturing, deeply influential women that will bring them into this world. Thank you Moms. Happy Mother's Day. One luv.

the first family

"I don't know what the future may hold, but I know who holds the future." - ralph abernathy

With all the talk about the possibility of the first black president, I'm reminded and equally excited about the prospect of the First Family being black. The black community has never had that high profile black family we could point to as the model of success. Sure, we've had an endless list of individual heroes, with dysfunctional or very private family lives. We've even had power couples like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee, who endured over time, serving as heroes for black love. But we never really got to know their family. So when we begin to have the black family discussion, the list of black families we all know and love quickly grows anemic.

The most celebrated black families of all time weren't even real people, they were fictional characters. The black family discussion over the past twenty years always seems to start and end with the Evans family from the tv show "Goodtimes", and the Cosby family from the hit sitcom, "The Cosby Show". In the Evans household, the black family experience was framed by struggle, something we can all relate to, whereas the Cosby's blackness was framed by the realization of success, which we all aspire to achieve. No matter who you are or what your background is, chances are your black family experience, or notion of one, resides somewhere between the Evans/Cosby spectrum. For some reason, our real black families haven't achieved that universal black acceptance. The King family could have had that, but it's hard to celebrate a family we remember more for their loss, than what they represented to black America. The Jackson family probably comes closest. Few families have been as high profile and achieved the amount of success they have. However, no matter how many hits you give us, there's only so many nose jobs, LaToya Jackson tell all books, and Michael Jackson pedophile cases black folk can take before you quickly fall from hero status to freak show. Therefore, in 2008, the void for that high profile black family we all can celebrate still remains.

"...you can’t love yourself unless you know that somebody that looks like you has done something good." - ophelia devore-mitchell

I was extremely lucky as a kid. Not only did I have both parents, I was surrounded by people, aunts, uncles, and friends of the family, whose black family unit resembled mine. Father, mother, kids, all under one roof. I saw complete black families all the time, but I was the exception. The average black kid grows up without his father living in the home, and most of their friends find themselves in a similar predicament. Thanks to the resiliency of black women, many have grown up to thrive and prosper, despite not having their fathers around. However, when I talk to my friends who grew up without one of their parents, they always talk about longing for that part of the equation they missed in childhood. There are certain lessons about family and black love that you only get by seeing up close, as it plays out daily in front of you. Unfortunately, it's not being played out in front of enough of our kids. So as the black family unit continues to erode, so do the lessons of how to maintain one.

One truly can't measure the impact seeing a black First Family day in and day out would have on black America. My first grade teacher used to tell us we could be anything we wanted to be, "even the president of these United States of America". Did we believe her? Nah, not really. I was more inclined to believe I could be a great boxer, cause there was a picture of Ali on the wall. I could be a Supreme Court judge, cause there was a picture of Thurgood Marshall on the wall. I could be O.J. Simpson, Barbara Jordan, Richard Wright, or Dr. Charles Drew, cause I could see the face to match the accomplishment every single day on the wall at school. But no where did I see a Black president. The Obama family in the White House, would provide an entire generation with a living example of what they could be. And not just president. The mere image of this illustrious family on the White House lawn would provide kids with a different set of ideals. Not only can I be something, I can also have something (a family).

Besides seeing the First Family on the cover of Ebony magazine, we'd see them on the cover of ALL the magazines. Always beautiful, always looking strong, healthy, and happy, like all black families should. We'd get to see their electric smiles as they walked with their dog, waving at cameras, just before stepping onto a helicopter for a family get away at Cape Canaveral. MIchelle would take up causes, and we'd see her in commercials, showing empathy for the problems that plague the world. We'd see the kids running from a limo as they entered their schools, or in candid behind the scene photos in some kind of New York Times profile. We'd marvel at how quickly our young kids began to learn their kids names. We'd see our First Family side by side with the first families of other great nations. And in the midst of all that we saw, we'd begin to feel a certain sense of pride. Somewhere in our minds, there'd be a wall with a picture of the Obama family, and it'd mean something to us. It'd mean the black family had ambassadors, the most powerful in the world. And suddenly, their image would be just as influential if not more, than the image of the philandering entertainer on MTV cribs had ever been.

I'm sure the image of a black president would help to kill stereotypes about black men. And a black first lady will most likely improve the visibility of black women in corporate America, as well as in Hollywood. But the real opportunity is to inspire and sell a new generation on the importance of the black family. We can be excellent. We can be rich. And like my first grade teacher used to say, we can be anything we want to be. But no longer do we have to do it alone. Thanks to the Obama's, hopefully we'll be reminded, we can do it, as a family. One luv.

moment of silence

R.I.P. Milton "Milleon" Donelson

(local Detroit open mic poet, friend)

Some people in life were sent to make us stop for a second and take notice. They demand us to see the world differently, to look beyond, and within. They challenge us. They fill rooms with an energy that warms us in places long cold. They remind us, we don't need microphones to amplify our presence. Every day they teach us, real courage speaks eloquently, silently yet loud. Milleon Donelson was one of those people.

In the many years we crossed paths with him on the Detroit poetry scene, he always approached each day with a comedic grin. Whether he was vibrant and healthy, or slow and ailing, he smiled. He dared to dream, and constantly reminded us of the power of words. One moment he'd be waxing poetic about "cuties with big booties" the next he'd be sharing his concerns for the community. But he always spoke to you one way. Shoulders back, head high, chin raised. That's how we'll remember him, as the courageous soul that he was.

Our deepest condolences to the Donelson family.

Milleon, our friend, you will not be forgotten.

- 3rd Eye Open Poetry Collective

am i my brotha's keeper?

“I believe in the brotherhood of all men, but I don't believe in wasting brotherhood on anyone who doesn't want to practice it with me. Brotherhood is a two-way street.” - Malcolm X

One of my closest boys, my brotha, prides himself on keeping it real. Real for him is saying whatever, whenever, in whatever loud ghetto ass way he chooses to say it. His ability to disrupt the room with wild outrageous outbursts empowers him. It's his way of owning the room, and making sure the attention never drifts too far way from him. Amongst select company, or when we're kicking it around the crib, those antics are generally considered funny. We all know how he is, we accept it, we enjoy it.

Then there are other times. Say there's a huge get together at the house. Suddenly the range of people isn't just the fellas anymore. It's family members, elders, small children, religious folk, quiet people, loud people, those who cuss and drink, and those who look down on those who do. In this situation, my friend tends to polarize the room. The loud over the top loose lipped comments tend to not go over so well with the religious minded or the parents of small kids in the room. When they become agitated, I become agitated.

Enter me, the host, the guy who has to keep everyone in the room comfortable. In situations like this, my loyalty is to the collective, not the individual. So my first comment to my brotha is always very friendly. "You tripping son, chill out, you see all these kids around here". I laugh it off and go about my business. You tend to give your brotha the benefit of the doubt the first couple of times. But when people I enjoy, start grabbing their coats heading for the door, cause ONE brotha can't constrain himself, it's not time for them to go home. It's time for my BROTHA to go home. You see, part of being a brotha is about respecting your brotha enough to make sure he's successful, at any and everything he does. So although your personal mantra is to always "keep it real", at his party, you recognize the situation for what it is, and you show constraint. And if you're ever to visit your brotha's job, where he makes his money, instead of showing your ass, you show constraint. Because being a brotha isn't just about supporting me, it's about not sabotaging me. It's not a selfish act, it's selfless, and often requires sacrifice. It often requires the kind of sacrifice Reverend Jeremiah Wright just wasn't willing to make for Barack Obama.

"Yesterday I think he caricatured himself… That made me angry, but also made me sad." - sen. barack obama (speaking on rev. jeremiah wright's press conference)

According to people I know in Chicago, although Rev. Jeremiah Wright prayed for Sen. Barack Obama and his family upon him making the decision to run for president, he was not in Springfield when Barack made the announcement. Why? Supposedly, he was uninvited. Word is, Reverend Wright has felt slighted ever since. I can understand the kind of personal jolt of disappointment that comes with being asked NOT to be a part of something. But then, I also expect a man of Rev. Wright's experience, and knowledge of black history to understand the BIGGER picture. As an elder in the tradition, you can't discount his struggle or his right to speak his mind. He owes Barack Obama nothing. But he does owe the black collective everything, including the chance to seize the moment and in some way validate all those years of struggle. We aren't here to run for president, just to run this time. We're here to win, and there's a way you have to go about that.

As a black man, I understand that wanting Barack to win means he can't lead with the black issue. It means he has to frame race in an inclusive national conversation that doesn't alienate his huge pool of much needed white voters. It means Barack has to mean all things to all people, therefore, he can't JUST mean what we need him to mean to blacks. With that understanding comes the trust, that although Barack has to show duality, he won't lose sight of our issues. And although he can't speak out against America the way we can, he does understand where we're coming from, and is dedicated to doing something about it. Black people know and have accepted this paradox. We also know and understand that Rev. Wright has the right to speak out publicly, the way we do privately. But not at the expense of our brotha. And after all the turmoil the "chickens coming home to roost" comments caused, comments Sen. Obama denounced but seemed to give Rev. Wright the benefit of the doubt for, Wright's decision to go public for three days, can only be described with one word. Sabotage.

It would appear there is a huge ploy set in motion to keep the black community split, to keep our attention off REAL ISSUES, while we take sides as to which of our brothas we'll support. I refuse to choose. Rev. Wright is our brotha. I can even say I tend to agree with about 80% of the things he says. In the context of race, American has failed black people from its inception. And as blacks, we should never lose sight of this. And until America stops failing us, we should continue to speak out, lash out, and make sure America is held accountable. We also must keep our eyes on the prize.

Sen. Barack Obama is our brotha too. And never have we had a man who truly understands our culture, and our issues, so close to becoming the president. It's a once in a lifetime chance and we cannot afford to let this opportunity pass us by. Sen. Obama has infused energy into a new generation because he's not bringing the baggage of the civil rights era, so his message seems fresh, and isn't disregarded as antiquated. He's also not leading with the kind of militant rants that disenfranchise white voters. So he's embraced, even in places like Idaho. It appears Barack is a new species of black leader, one that has the support of a lot of different people, yet still needs the support of us.

Barack's campaign is far more diverse than any party I've ever thrown. And as the host, his loyalty is and should be to the collective, not the individual. It's crunch time, and the longer Rev. Wright hangs around, the more people we'll see grabbing their coats and heading for the door. So sorry Rev. Wright, my brotha, love you like a play cousin on my momma's side. But much like my boy who gets drunk and talks too much sh*t at the party, your ass has got to go too. One luv.

question 4 the day

"a riot is the language of the unheard" - MLK

SO WHY DIDN'T NYC RIOT?

for whom the bell tolls

(the late Sean Bell, pictured with family, was unarmed when shot 50 times by three NYPD cops, yet those three officers were acquitted of the shooting)

"O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do!" - william shakespeare

They've always done it. They did it at Jackson State. They did it to Deandre Brunston. They did it to Amidou Diallo. They did it to people whose names we will never know. And now they have done it to Sean Bell. THEY SHOT HIM. PUT ON ANOTHER BULLSHIT TRIAL. AND ACQUITTED ANOTHER GROUP OF OVER EARNEST POLICE OFFICERS. (Let's not even talk about those who call themselves prosecutors) This story is so familiar and so repetitive, it's damn near ordinary. The names even run together after awhile. Sean Bell? Don't you mean Ron Pettaway III? Oh, you mean Patrick M. Dorismond? It's deja vu to the ultimate extreme. The NYPD and the court system have failed us yet again. Yet, I'll be damned if it doesn't garner the same response from me each time. Hurt, frustration, infuriation.

What did Sean Bell really do that was so wrong? He went out the night before he was to be married. He went club and bar hopping. He got drunk. He started talking sh*t to some other drunk guy. And he left. That's an American birth right. Don't believe me? Go to any bar anywhere in the country tonight and you'll find thousands of Sean Bells. Matter of fact, go to any sporting event, any concert, any place where tons of people gather and you'll find a Sean Bell. Sean Bell, by his actions the night of his death, measured against American norms, was being ordinary. So why does this ordinary American's story end tragically at the hands of police, when so many others like him don't?

The crime element of these United States has been reduced to but one face, the face of the black male. My face. My father's face. My uncles'/cousins'/best friends' face. Put that face in a rural setting, or suburban setting and he MAY fall through the cracks. But put that face in an urban center, and he becomes the focus of police attention. Over zealous cops, some scared, some racist, some both, continue to shoot unarmed black men in this country at an extremely alarming rate. Not just that, but they are getting away with it in the name of James Crow Jr.'s so called preventative crime tactics. It doesn't take being play cousins with a rocket scientist to realize the plight at hand. But it might to understand why we aren't doing anything about it.

Nationally, black men aged 15-29 die at a higher rate than any other age group except men 85 years of age and older. Yet there is no outcry. No preventative measures are being taken by the government to decrease this staggering mortality rate. Sadder still, our own people don't even seem to care. Unfortunately, this is not one of those issues where you can just worry about raising your kids. You better be worrying about who is or isn't raising the next man's kids as well. Raising your young black son well is not good enough. Do that and he might almost grow up to be someone. Almost. It's not good enough to hope he'll learn to navigate his neighborhood well enough to become a man. It's not good enough to hope he'll find a good women to marry. Because even if he does all that, you still have to worry. You still have to worry that the night before he's to be married, the very men paid to protect him, won't be the one's gunning him down.

"we accept the reality of the world with which we're presented" - (from the movie The Truman Show)

I believe in the power of the written word and the spoken word. I also believe in the power of the fist, the rock, the match, and the gun. All their power is derived from us. Our bravery or lack there of, determines what can or can't be considered a weapon. Well collectively we may as well be weaponless, because we aren't fighting back. Hell, we ain't even making any noise. Voices ain't screaming. Pens ain't yelling. Rocks and fist ain't being thrown. And as many guns as we have plaguing our community, not one has been fired to bring attention to the situation at hand. Not only are we not bringing attention to the problems, we seem to have passively determined there is no solution. Maybe you've been too desensitized to care if black men die anymore. Maybe police unlawfully shooting people and getting away with it in court doesn't even ruffle your feathers anymore. Maybe you'd just rather live in your own quiet passive little word. Cool. Just remember, the stats don't lie. According to the stats, it's only a matter of time before a young black man in the prime of his life is killed in your family; at the hands of another black man, or police. And when it happens, and you're ready to scream, and you're ready to get angry, and you're ready for other people to stand up and be angry with you, I'll have but one response. What did you do when they killed Sean Bell and got away with it? One luv.

baracky

freestyle friday (a cold one)

looked around
and saw very few innovators
a few malcolm wannabes, panther imitators
a bunch of "i marched with king" type preacher players
struggle leachers, ole outdated teaching sayers
my generation offered up a hip hop mayor
i saw very little change, just a lot of gators
dead strippers and a shiny red Navigator
a sex scandal via two-way Sky pager
my people staring at the dark night sky scared
developing patella tendonitis saying prayers
"amazing grace" is
how sweet, i dunno
i just hear it being low hummed from black faces
unemployment lines long, employers cut wages
street crews form and prosper, they pack gages
white rock is the cash crop
sell it and you get caught
state cases lead to over packed cages
as for me, i'm a corporate cotton picking nikka
too much sense to run up in a bank and pull a trigger
too much love to sell out with thoughts of getting richer
i'm bonafide, i'd never euthanize my black pride
so what i do is work a 9 to 5
i politic with the real, and drop squad those out their mind
land lines are like land mines, i tell no lies
i'm Loch Ness-like, hiding out from f.b. eyes
keep your soul on ice, the enemy's slick
ask Pac, tell Barack to get a vest quick
the world is cursed, even though i'm blessed i feel hexed
i call my crew, get some brews, and i quench my thirst
i kinda feel numb
so i sip suds and build with my friends at the crib as we blast drums
no pills, no crack
none of that son
just an elevated mind
and a cold one

understanding black suspicion

"The government gives them the drugs, builds bigger prisons, passes a three-strike law and then wants us to sing ‘God Bless America.’ No, no, no, God damn America, that’s in the Bible for killing innocent people. God damn America for treating our citizens as less than human. God damn America for as long as she acts like she is God and she is supreme.” - rev. jeremiah wright

To understand black suspicion you must understand where it comes from. Mine was born out of the kind of parlor talk you hear in old shotgun homes in the deep South. In the summer evenings at my grandparents' homes, after we'd eaten dinner, when the wind would begin to stir up and cool things down, the old folks would become reflective. They'd look out the window over the horizon and begin to hum hymns. These folks were from an era where children spoke only when spoken to, so when they eventually started to talk amongst themselves, you either found your way outside, or you did like me and got still, quickly. As they talked, I'd lean back and slowly begin to inhale their stories; first hand accounts of things too unimaginable to ever forget. They would matter of factly speak of lynchings, decapitations, cross burnings, home burnings, people burnings, cold blooded murders, men falsely accused of rape and murder, chain gangs, cheated sharecroppers, and some even held passed down stories about slavery. These elders didn't just know the stories, they knew the names and faces that went with them. They knew plot, and subplot. Like what became of that family of six after the father was killed for trying to form a local farmer's union. They knew America in a way my young eyes and ears had yet to see. They knew American the untold.

The echoes of those stories lived forever in my ears. As a young Cub Scout, when we'd start every meeting staring at the flag saying the pledge of allegiance, I couldn't help but feel a bit removed. "Why are we worshipping that flag", I thought. More importantly I'd ask myself, "what exactly does this American flag stand for?" In my young mind, the white stars stood for white people. The red was for blood. And the blue? I figured the blue must be synonymous with all the people with the blues. I definitely saw my share of those people. Sure, something about Carl Lewis winning a gold medal and running around a track holding an American flag made me proud as a young person. Not so much because he was from America, but more so because he had succeeded in spite of America.

In my mind, there were two Americas. My block, my home, my friends and family, my community, that was my America. That's the one I loved. It wasn't perfect, but it was honest, and I always knew where I stood. That America gave me more joy than I could ever imagine. It's also where I saw the loss of freedom, the pain of injustice, and the embarrassment of inequality. My American had an easily accessible history, that was constantly given to me orally, by people who knew it all too well.

Then there was the other America, the one that stood for freedom, justice, and equality. The one that went to war too often, eliminated anyone perceived as a threat, held deep dark secrets, and always appeared to try to keep certain people down. The face of that America didn't look like mine, and that America told different stories, or different versions of the ones I had already heard. I didn't trust that America. In fact, I was fearful of it, and in some ways even hated it. Trying to understand the complexity of how to balance these two polarizing notions proved a bit much for my young mind to wrap itself around. All I know is as I grew older, I grew more skeptical, forever searching for the truth that lied beneath; no matter how sinister, conniving, and self serving that truth was.



“For God’s sake, learn to look beneath the surface…. And remember, you don’t have to be a complete fool in order to succeed. Play the game, but don’t believe in it—that much you owe yourself…. Play the game, but play it your own way—part of the time at least. Play the game, but raise the ante….Learn how it operates, learn how you operate….You might even beat the game….” (an excerpt from Ralph Ellison's "The Invisible Man")

Racism definitely played a huge part in my skepticism. It's one thing to hear stories about how "wicked" the country is, it's another thing entirely to live it first hand. I had severe asthma as a child. It'd flare up when it was bright and sunny, or when it was cold and wet. And it always seemed to flare up when we were in rural settings. I still remember falling ill once in Macon, MS., my mom's hometown. We were there visiting one summer and out of the blue, my chest got tight and I started having difficulty breathing. My folks did what they'd always do when I got sick, took me to the closest place for treatment. This particular time, it just happened to be a private hospital, about five minutes away. Upon entering the hospital through the front doors, we were quickly told to "go 'round back". So we did. We followed the sidewalk around the back to find to our surprise, a colored waiting room. It felt like some Twilight Zone sh*t. Suddenly my folks looked sicker than me. We immediately left, and drove to nearby Columbus. I struggled breathing during that entire thirty minute car drive, until I eventually received medical treatment I should have been able to get much earlier. The year was 1980.

I am simply an accumulation of all my experiences. The good, the bad, and the aunt Ester ugly. The black experience is extremely diverse, encompassing all economic and education levels, yet, you can't deny it's rooted in but one history. And that alarming, continuously repetitive history, is directly responsible for my current opinions. I've seen too much to trust my country, so I don't. Nor should I. Yes, I have a good job, I have no convictions on my record, and for all sense and purposes, I'm living the American dream. But just because I'm sitting at the table does not mean I have to "drink the Kool-Aid." I've seen people who drank the Kool-Aid shipped back from overseas in pine boxes. I've seen some exiled from corporate America while others went from fame and glory (Michael Vick) to being shipped off to prison. Why? Because having a warped perception about who and what America is, is dangerous. It's self maiming. It's injurious and malignant. Too many of us are confusing things being different, for things being better. And there's tons of evidence that this is simply not the case. That's why I can't help but to scan the crowds every time I see Barack Obama walking into a sea of people. I know our history. So my black suspicion has me forever fearful of the sound of a lone gun shot, a martyred black leader laying in a pool of blood, chaos abruptly breaking out in the streets, all while some unlikely assassin is quickly passed off as the killer.

No, I don't think some idiot named Lee Harvey Oswald killed president Kennedy. Nor do I think some country bumpkin named James Earl Ray killed Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I don't think the lunar landing proceeded microwave popcorn, Atari, and the internet. I don't think AIDS originated from somebody having sex with a monkey. And I definitely don't think some guy in the middle of the desert with little more than a video camera, named Bin Laden, master minded the 9-11 tragedy. What I do believe is, it's easier for America to vilify those who speak out about their suspicions than it is for America to give meaningful explanations. See Reverend Jeremiah Wright.

When black suspicion appears on television or radio, it comes with the tag, black militant, or black power enthusiast. When it appears in newspapers or books it comes with the tag black liberal, or ex-patriot. And when it appears on record, the artist who created those records are labeled as radical, or simply, sensational. So I put my black suspicion into a blog, where it will surely become lost in an endless sea of bloggers. And when these words finally do happen to wash up on the sandy beach of your mind, before you put your label on me, I just want you to know something. I'm not crazy, I don't hate white people, and I'm not some conspiracy theorist. I'm simply a man, with a healthy mind, and a black experience. The country wants us to believe it's one thing, and I genuinely believe it's something else. Greatest country in the world? Okay, maybe. But at whose expense? Via the demise of whose religion, culture, or existence? I've already seen that kind of "greatness" at the expense of my own people, native Americans, and now illegal aliens. This is why I'm suspicious. Too many falsely convicted felons look like me. Too many unarmed martyrs look like me. Too many poverty stricken neighborhoods, full of people, who look like me. And too many war torn countries full of people who don't look so different than me. Unfortunately, these are the situations America lies to us about. The fact that I can see a truth other than the one American gives us, and you can't, doesn't mean anything's wrong with me. However, it may mean something's very wrong with you. One luv.

once upon a time in detroit

(Jay-Electronica, considered by many to be,"the next great emcee")

Once upon a time in Detroit, where the manhole steam oozes from below the ground like there's something volcanic below, there was music. And during the summer nights of 2002, it seemed to fill the downtown streets as if it were coming from everywhere. From every car, bar, dance club, strip club, and stage, there was music. But one crew of music makers in particular seemed to have their eyes on destiny. Every Thursday night at Marilyn's on Monroe St., you could find a special group of people performing, hanging out together, and dreaming about the future. The cast of characters included two ambitious brothers by the name of Johnny and Jemal, who were like two future music moguls. They were always talking about "where this thing could go". There was a band, Ebrahim, Brandon (the prodigy), Mark (the professor), Bamm, and a long haired rock guitarist, who's name I can't quite remember. There were two singers. One with a neo-soul aesthetic, Ms. Stacy Berret. The other, was a caribbean-born singer/producer, who went by the name of Cello Da Black Pearl. There were poets, my crew, 3rd Eye Open. Righteous, Reyonna, Tiffanni, Omari, and me, hardCore. And there was this really laid back engineer/producer who always made sure the sound was on point, Michael Chavarria. We called him Chav. We had it all. Johnny and Jemal's equipment and foresight. Talented musicians and producers. And a growing love for each other. We had everything, except an emcee.

That fall, 3rd Eye Open started working on an album at the house Johnny built, the "Sound Asylum". It was literally a house in the middle of the hood on Detroit's northwest side. We hung out at the studio a lot, but spent a limited amount of time in the booth. The activity level at the house was crazy. Tons of people were recording there, all hours of the day and night, and many a time, we simply didn't get in. As our album progressed slowly, one day we go to the house for a session, and there's this guy there. He introduced himself as Je'Ri. For months, Johnny had been talking about needing an emcee to complete his vision. His vision was this self contained group of artists that included singers, producers, a band, poets, and an emcee, that could go out and tour together. As he talked about the need of finding an emcee, he would always mention this guy who he called "the god emcee". Unfortunately, he was out of touch with the guy, didn't know where he was, or how to get back up with him. Turns out, Je'Ri, aka Jay Electronica, was the emcee Johnny had been speaking so highly of for months.

Three days after meeting Jay Electronica, we go back to the studio for a session, and to my surprise, dude has on the same clothes he was wearing the night we met him. Turns out he hadn't been to sleep either . What had he been doing for three days and nights? Making music. We found him sitting at the control booth, bottom of his white socks black, hair on his head looking as if it were on a comb/pick/brush strike. You also got the feeling if he were to lift his arms, funk would have crept out from beneath his tee-shirt with enough intensity to make James Brown proud. See, Jay was one those kind of dudes. He was different. He didn't look or act like a cliche rapper. Dude was mad humble, always smiling, always had jokes, extremely polite, and was never afraid to let the conversation drift towards the deeper side of things. Although I had been hearing about his mic prowess for a while, I had no idea he was a talented producer as well. As we joked with him about needing a shower ASAP, one of his tracks blasted through the speakers, and man, the beat was blazing. One problem. He only let us hear the instrumental of the track, no vocals. We begged him to let us hear it, but to no avail. That night, I knew at the very least, our rich family of musicians had just gotten better. If nothing else, Jay had proven to me he was an above average producer. But as we left the studio that night, I also walked away skeptical thinking, "a shy god emcee?"

Out of everybody working on projects at the Sound Asylum, my crew was the first to finish a project. We finished up our album "And Then There Was..." produced primarily by Cello Da Black Pearl, mixed and engineered by Chav. We pressed it up, and had a huge album release party at the Charles H. Wright museum. We put in the footwork to promote it, and pre-sold 700 hundred of our albums. Jay was there that night. Stacy, the singer, opened for us. Cello performed as well. And we did a two set performance accompanied by the band. Jay was the only one who didn't perform, and we definitely wanted him to, but he declined. Turns out, Jay Electronic wasn't a shy emcee, he was a perfectionist. Eventually, he did play me his stuff, and although he wasn't on the current level he's on, I was still blown away by his voice. (I still have a copy of 9 to 10 tracks he had worked on during that period) All his tracks voiced a high level of consciousness. And I'm not talking in some pseudo pro black kind of way. I'm talking about music that reminded you you were human; that you had a heart, that you mattered. It was something....fresh. Jay would leave to go shop his demo. And a few months later, came back to work on some more tracks. One day I was at the studio, still high from how well Detroit was receiving our album, and gloating because we were working on a spoken word mixtape. We were grinding. Jay and I talked and eventually took a trip over to Mosque No. 1 to get a fish sandwich. Unfortunately the kitchen was closed that day. I dropped him back off at the studio, and he begged me to let him borrow my Robin Harris "Be Be Kids" cd. I did. He got out the ride, and bid farewell in his usual manner, "peace brotha". I reciprocated and drove away. That was the last time I saw Jay Electronica. It was fall 2003.

In the years since, the vision Johnny and Jemal had kind of fell apart, at least in regards to the cast we started with. Stacey and the band continued to perform together for a few years, but eventually went their separate ways. I see the band members around town, doing their things separately. Cello Da Black Pearl produced our cd, along with his first solo project, "Imported". He now lives in Atlanta, where he continues to make music. My crew 3rd Eye Open, has been lucky enough to travel the nation performing at colleges and universities, including the Chevy booth at the Essence Music Festival two years in a row. However, we've slowed down a great deal over the last two years. I guess, life happens. We're currently in the studio looking to resurface with the release of a follow up album this year, "And It Don't Stop". And then there's Jay Electronica and Chav. Those two are still together making music. The most unsuspecting of the whole lot seem to be the only ones truly on the verge of breaking through. Jay's rhyme style has matured, and Chav has this uncanny ability to sculpt the music with very progressive mixes and arrangements that add color and depth to each track. Jay released a suite of songs entitled "Act I: Eternal Sunshine" on his myspace page that has gained him instant validation to a whole cast of new listeners. There's also a "Style Wars" EP floating around the net, along with quite a few underground videos for his music on youtube. Not only that, he's officially rolling with the big boys now. Erykha Badu, Just Blaze, Nas and the Okay Player family, just to name a few. I've been quietly rooting for him in the shadows, becoming more and more impressed by the work he's releasing. To hell with being understated, his music is certified dope! Some of the most encouraging stuff I've heard lately. But after reading about a recent performance of his, I knew it was finally time to pen something on my man Jay. A friend of mine went to that show. She called me and said, "although I love everything I have heard from him, I was underwhelmed with his show." A god emcee who can't perform? It seems Jay has some people underestimating him the way I did that day in the studio. I made that mistake once, and know better than to ever doubt Mr. Electronica again.

It appears my "what could have been" story about a certain Detroit music clique has turned more into a "what will be" story about Jay Electronica. As anticipation for more new music from him continues to grow, hopefully, a day is coming soon when we'll have an official album of his to enjoy, critique and (crosses fingers) compare to the greats. That's why I'm proud of Jay. That's why I'm proud of each artist I shared time with in that Detroit studio. We all still represent a small part of a vision for Detroit. Ultimately, if any of us make it, we all do. And right now, I don't see any of us quite as close to leaving our stamp on the game, as Jay Electronica (and Chav). Good luck brotha! One luv.

(Jay if you're reading this, can a brotha get his Robin Harris cd back!!!! lol)

"soft peter"

"The Matrix is everywhere. It is all around us. Even now, in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work... when you go to church... when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth." - morpheus

I was talking to my old man recently about his Army years. He was a member of the 82nd Airborne division at Fort Bragg during the Vietnam war. In fact, he had orders to go to Vietnam. But a drunken driver broad-sided him in a pretty serious collision less than 48 hours before he shipped out; leaving him with a broken collar bone and concussion, ultimately keeping him out of the war. He fulfilled his two year commitment to the Army by jumping out of airplanes and training, you know, life on an Army base. Recently when he was reminiscing on those days, he shared something with me I had never heard before. He was telling me about how they'd start each day with 5 mile runs in Army boots. Then they'd eat. They'd do field drills. Then they'd eat. They'd run some more, do more drills, man their posts, etc. Then they'd eat. A barrack full of testosterone driven men, outside of a few skirmishes, getting along pretty well and sleeping in close proximity of each other every night, with no problems? What's wrong with this picture? My old man said, it was pretty common knowledge that every time they ate, something was being slipped into their food. Most thought it was being put into the potatoes since potatoes were served at every meal. It was a little substance the soldiers referred to as "soft peter". Let's just say, "soft peter" kept their nature down. No sexual frustration meant fewer fights. And most importantly, it meant the barracks that houses all those men at night, felt more like a male dorm, than a prison block.

This got me to thinking. If this is a common practice of the Army, what kind of "soft peter" is the government slipping to the masses? No, I'm not implying they are literally putting something in our food (i'm also not saying they aren't). But maybe instead of trying to keep our nature down, they have a vested interest in keeping our anger repressed. Think about your family and friends. There is a war going on RIGHT NOW. How often do you hear them complain about it, or even talk about it for that matter? Now, on the flip side. How often do you hear them talk about their favorite tv show? The finale of American Idol? Their favorite sports team? Or what they bought on sale at the mall? People, we are being distracted. We're being fed a daily dose of "soft peter" in the form of television entertainment and news half truths. American culture has allowed a handful of people to enjoy a manufactured existence called fame and celebrity. That carrot is dangled in front of us every day, slowly hypnotizing us into living vicariously through people whose lifestyles, for all sense and purposes aren't even real. And the allure is so strong, that most people would much rather tune into Entertainment Tonight, than the evening world news report. Why? Out of sight, out of mind. Which makes me think, maybe it's time we start taking a closer look at what's really going on.



"Either war is obsolete or men are." - R. Buckminster Fuller

War is brutally ugly. It's mere presence is so startling, that even if it forces you to look away, it begs an emotional response, an investment of thought. So far 4,000 U.S. men and women have died in Iraq. And that's doesn't even count those who died in Afghanistan. But that's only part of the story my friend. Soldiers from other nations, who are apart of the Iraqi Coalition have died there too. So have Iraqi soldiers, along with innocent men, women, and children. But every day, our news outlets give our ugly war a makeover. Instead of amputees and body bags, we see images of healthy soldiers or a president sitting behind a desk talking about "progress". We see the story about the healthy soldier reuniting with his family in a nearby airport. But we never see the guy who lost his legs, in that moment when his family sees him for the first time. And we never see the guy with the nervous twitch who has the bad nightmares, whose family feels like they don't know him anymore, and aren't safe around him. Sure, we know how much money the war has cost America. But we'll never be able to measure how much it's damaged the reputation of our country, or the lives of families on both sides of the Atlantic ocean. Even sadder, so few of us have seen the ugly side of this current war, that although the war has been going on for five plus years, most of us have yet to make a sizeable emotional or intellectual investment. Well my friends, it's time we do.

Something is in our food. It's in our music. It's in our television programs. It was put there by our government to dupe us. To keep us distracted and passive. Everything from Britney Spears on the front of grocery aisle magazines to 50 Cent and his latest beef rants. Even the gas prices and fading economy are designed to make our living experience so arduous, that we'll choose to escape that reality, any time we can. And thoughts about the government, and unjust wars, will be pushed into places so far in the back of our minds, that they will cease to no longer matter. My advice. Stop eating what they're feeding you so willingly. Digest something different. Something real. With any luck, your numbed senses will become acute again. And when they do, you'll start to see and experience the world, free from the affects of "soft peter". Then you'll get mad. Mad enough to organize. Mad enough to demand a change. Maybe even mad enough to strategically create a resistance to force a change. Now that's the kind of world I want to live in. One luv.

dating: the survival game

“At such moments, you realize that you and the other are, in fact, one. It's a big realization. Survival is the second law of life. The first is that we are all one.” - Joseph Campbell

Dating is a dirty dirty game. I'm not saying you'll need to develop super powers to make it, but make no mistake, it's rough out there and survival is key. And survival means having a survival code. Below are my rules that help me survive the game, where the getters get, and the naive get got. Enjoy.

(by the way, these rules were written from a male's perspective, but for the most part, they hold true for women as well)

1. EVERYBODY HAS SOMEBODY.

No one is truly alone. Everyone has someone in their life. Sometimes it's not the person they want in their life, but everyone has someone. Upon meeting someone new, ask them if they have a boyfriend/girlfriend, and they'll most likely tell you, no; which may be true. But it doesn't mean they don't have "somebody". Maybe it's somebody they are trying to get rid of. Maybe it's somebody they can call when they want to go out for a movie or dinner. Maybe it's the booty call somebody, or the friends with benefits somebody. Or maybe it's somebody they're trying to get, or somebody trying to get them. Just remember, just because someone says they are single, and is spending time with you, never think you're the only one, because everybody has somebody.


2. THAT "FRIEND" AIN'T JUST A FRIEND

Is there such thing as a platonic friend? Yes, I have a few. However, most women (and some guys) DON'T. What most women call "friends", are exes, or homie/lover/friends. It's without fail. If he's calling and texting early in the morning, or late at night, that's not a friend, that's a "friend". You know, the one she meets for breakfast or lunch all the time, that guy she has an emotional reaction to when he calls like, "geez, what does he want?". She'll never in a hundred years admit to it. But they have been together. Therefore, always protect your feelings. When dating someone, assume that friend that is closer than close, has truly been closer than close. Long term it will protect you from being shocked, or feeling misled when the truth does surface.


3. YOUR FEELINGS COME FIRST

If you're good people, like myself, it's easy to do what good people do, put other's feelings before your own. If you feel yourself trying to get in someone else's head, wondering how they are feeling, STOP! Don't do that. That kind of stuff comes down the line once you're IN a relationship. But when you're dating, your feelings come first. If you don't like something, don't deal with it. If you train yourself to NOT listen to your likes and dislikes, you'll end up in a deep relationship with someone you didn't really want to be with in the first place.

4. PAY ATTENTION TO PATTERNS.

When you're getting to know someone, you'll notice people are very true to their patterns, when they are telling the truth. When their patterns switch up, that's when they are doing something shady. For example, I know from years of experience, when women are digging a guy, they share more information than they have to. You'll be on the phone with her, and she'll click over, then she'll click back and say..."that was just my friend Nicole". Or maybe it's, "that was just Mom". Then one day the phone will click, and she'll click back and won't say anything. Guess what, that other dude just called. Then it's "hey, let me take this call". And when she calls back, she will most certainly make no mention of that call. Yeah, that was "the other guy". How do you deal with that? Reciprocity. I'm not saying play games, I'm saying share no more information than is being shared. Click over, or even get off the phone so you can "take this call" as well. It's simple, do unto others, but don't get done by others being shady with how they do unto you.

5. BEWARE OF BUSY PEOPLE.

Busy people are cool to meet, difficult to get to know, and even harder to maintain something with. Why? Because most busy people use busy to their advantage. We all have jobs and responsibilities. We all have family and friends and try our best to manage our time and maintain those relationships. But don't fall for the okie-doke. After people establish they are a "busy" person, they tend to use busy like it's a huge curtain they can disappear behind to do who or what they really want to be doing. "Sorry I haven't hit you up in a week, I've been busy". Or how about this one, "I meant to shoot you an email, but I was too busy". The truth is, I'm a busy person too, so yeah, I know how it is to be running a thousand miles per hours in all directions. But, I also know people make time for things they really want to make time for. It takes 10 seconds to write an email or send a text message. Takes an even shorter amount of time to dial a number. So when people don't answer your emails, don't answer your texts, or don't return your phone calls because they 're busy--that's the perfect time to get busy kicking rocks. Either they are truly too busy for you (doubt it), or they are busy pursuing who they'd really rather be with. That's cool too, it's all in the game. But never get caught chasing somebody who ain't chasing you back.

6. KEEP IT REAL

There is no excuse for dating someone under false pretenses. Be bluntly honest always. "Look, I enjoy kicking it with you, but I still want to date other people". Just like that, expectations are maintained. You'd be surprised how easily it is to clear the air and prevent a bunch of drama, just by keeping it real. Unfortunately, most people NEVER keep it real. So even if you are honest enough to put it all out there, don't expect the person you're dating to do the same. A lot of people are just programmed to be sneaky--to keep a little truth for themselves. But if you choose to go that route, don't think the other person is Boo-Boo the fool. They know. They probably just don't care, or aren't speaking on it because they're doing their thing on the side too. It's all in the game I guess. But why play those games? Even after you know you like someone, that doesn't mean you ONLY like them. Embrace the process of getting to know someone, and don't invest solely into one person until you know that's what they are really trying to do with you as well.

7. STAY COOL FOOL

Your emotions are valuable, don't waste them. Don't allow yourself to be baited into silly arguments or mind f*cks. You can not blame someone for not being, or not acting like you want them to. You can only blame yourself for continuing to deal with it. So do yourself a favor, don't play this game with emotions. Keep your poker face on until you reach a much deeper point with that person where you feel like you can truly trust them. Then and only then should you think about revealing the deeper layers of you.

8. END IT THE WAY YOU STARTED IT

We put so much care and energy into how we begin situations. We go out of our way to be kind, courteous, and charismatic. We display a level of humanity that tells someone we're good people. So why do we become people who don't give a f*ck when it's time for things to end? Things happen. People make mistakes, and so do we. But the world is small, so don't burn bridges. We invite people into our lives putting our best feet forward, so don't go showing your ass when it's time to kick them to the curb. Maintain that kindness. Maintain that honesty. And be compassionate. This is a person you may never have to see again, or it may be someone you have to still see every day. Either way, the last thing you want is someone with negative energy towards you floating around in the world. When you end it on a good note, your name, stays your name. You don't have to worry about it being tarnished. Besides, there's this little thing called Karma that has a way of coming for you when you least expect it.

Aight, that's all I have for you. Use it or don't use it, that's on you. Just understand, sometimes the game is actually more checkers than chess. Sometimes the game is not about capturing "the queen" or "the king". Sometimes, the game is about survival--not about getting, more about not getting got. Navigate the board correctly, avoid the traps, and just like that, even you, a simple piece on the board, can get to be The King. One luv.

enough, kwame!

"Busted is what you see!" - Kwame Kilpatrick

Black men, black men, black men. Damn, we can't win. It's bad enough the local news starts with the whole scary black man image every night, something along the lines of; armed black male suspect at large. But lately even the NATIONAL news is leading with a "black man gone wrong" story. And no, I'm not talking about Pacman "make it rain" Jones or Michael "shoot'em in the head or drown'em" Vick. I'm not even talking about (insert rapper name here) with his umpteenth drug possession or gun charge. At least with those black men, when they make the news, even if it's surprising, it's not exactly shocking. And your rational mind can easily wrap itself around the fact that those black men may just be young and dumb. So when you walk into your neighborhood barber shop, you don't feel so bad laughing about their situations when you jokingly say, "the cornrolls made him do it!" But what about when the black man under scrutiny has no excuse? When he comes from a good family, is well educated and from a very early age, has been groomed to be, somebody. When THAT black man gets in trouble and disappoints us REPEATEDLY, over a period of years, it's a much tougher pill to swallow. And when he smugly tries to act as if he can tell us any ole thing like we're dummies, or that the office of mayor is his birth right, that's when the brothaly thing to do, is not to be a sympathizer. The brothaly thing to do is light his ass up the way we would anyone else trying to bamboozle us.

I'm all for the brotha-brotha love thing. I know how it is. We're all functionally trying to make our way out of our own dysfunction, and as a black man, no matter who you are, there tends to be a lot of dysfunction. So when outsiders try to tear us down, we should all attempt to stand up for each other, especially when we begin to rise to levels of power and notoriety. I'm not saying I condone the actions of black men who do wrong. I'm saying I accept apologies, and give people the same kind of second chances I'd hope to get if I made a some major mistakes in my life. No, it really isn't easy being a black man in America, that's why I root for my brothas; that's why I rooted for Kwame. He was elected mayor of Detroit a few years after I arrived here. At the time, I thought Detroit was a pretty damn progressive city to give a young black man the top spot. I thought it said a lot about the people here, and what kind of energy they were hoping to infuse the city with. Instead of going with candidates far older, and with more of a traditional approach, they went with the prodigy, the guy they viewed as the future of Detroit. Well, a zillion scandals later, if Kwame is the future of Detroit, what a bleek pernicious future that is. Since he's been in office, despite being responsible for a slight facelift of downtown Detroit, the majority of his stay has been one minor misstep after another, culminating in a few major ones.

Arrogance is a powerful substance. When applied in heavy enough doses, it actually has the uncanny ability to make people think their shit does not stink. And when you're in that delusional state, not only do you shit privately, you shit openly, boldly, and carelessly. Why not? If you're so convinced your shit doesn't stink, it only makes sense to think it won't stink to other people as well, right? Well, Detroit recently got another huge whiff of Kwame's shit, and let's just say, it's not as minty fresh as ole boy seemed to think it was. Yesterday Kwame Kilpatrick was indicted on 8 counts of felony charges, including perjury, obstruction of justice, and office misconduct. But none of this comes as a shot in the dark, more like a money shot in the dark. That's right, I'm referring to his textual eruptions, with his chief of staff, Christine Beaty. The same Christine Beaty he lied about sleeping with under oath, in a civil case that cost Detroit over 9 million dollars. 9 million dollars for a civil case that started with an alleged party, dead strippers, and unlawfully firing deputy chief Gary Brown. See, because I support my brotha, I can forgive my brotha. But I know my brotha knows better, because I know better. And what's obvious to me is, what's best for Detroit, is something, or somebody, who can do the job better, than my brotha.

What's next for brotha Kwame? Besides trying to stay out of prison--oh yeah, he still has to do that little thing called running the city of Detroit. How you juggle both full time boggles my mind, but our brotha is convinced he can do it. Just yesterday he smugly looked into cameras saying "I'll be exonerated 100%". Who knows, maybe he will in a court of law. But in the court of brothaly opinion, I'm done with him. I think he is guilty of not keeping it real, lying repeatedly, and continually not living up to the high personal standard we set for him. I'm not here to judge his personal life. And even with the situations he may have gotten himself into, I still rooted for him to correct those mistakes. But when you represent a city, and your image, the image of a black man, becomes THE image of the city, you owe that city and all of the people in it the highest standard of excellence. After all, you were groomed for that high standard of excellence Kwame. And when you make a mistake, you show contrition, real honest heartfelt, your grandmama just shamed you contrition. You don't blame the white media. You don't blame the suburbs. You don't blame anyone. You just own up to your part in the mistake, and keep it moving, like a real brotha should. You meet and greet people with open arms, and you go to work hard, every day. In the end, you prove community excellence outweighs missteps and personal shortcomings. That's how a real brotha would have done it; how brotha Kwame SHOULD have done it. But he didn't. So now brothas like me, who rooted for him are left with four simple heartfelt words for our brotha. Enough, brotha Kwame, enough. One luv.

welcome my man darrell to the net,

nigganalysis

the tiger years

(the Columns and Jesse Hall @ The University of Missouri-Columbia)

"one day it'll all make sense" - common

In college, I was somebody...I barely remember now. This nonchalant, too cool for school guy. His overall outlook on life is fuzzy to me, but I definitely used to be him. He wore bright white tennis shoes, kept a gold herringbone chain gripped loosely around his neck, and made sure he had the cleanest/shiniest car on campus hands down. Always waxed, Black Magic always on the tires. That kind of sh*t actually mattered to him. He was kind of quiet, never the rah-rah type, but if you got to know him, you'd be like "ole boy is cool people." And if I showed you pictures of him back then, you'd be like, "yeah man, that's you". But the truth is, nah, that's not me, that's him. See, in the twelve years since I graduated, I've changed. Not like Winter into Spring. More like night into a brand new day. In fact, I've changed so much that, although I remember most of what I did in college, I really have a hard time remembering who I was. I remember laughing a lot, but was I laughing with people, or at people? I remember being low key, but was it because I was in my own world, or because didn't care to be in your world? And for all those people I passed on the yard every day who I locked eyes with briefly without having any exchange, was it because I wasn't on their radar, or because they weren't on mine? I'll probably never know those answers. The interesting part is that I'm even asking myself these questions. Recently, for the first time in ages, I was confronted with my college days...my Tiger years. And it has me rexamining how I remember myself, as well as how others remember me.

Two weeks ago, I'm at work chillin. Phone rings. I answer. "Corey, go to this website!". Umm, hello to you too homie. It was my girl Naomi sounding like she was going to jump through my phone and type out the URL for me. I must admit, I was skeptical. University of Missouri Black Alumni website? Hmmm. In theory, it was a great idea, a place to reunite old friends and serve as a networking tool for old alums. But would people really participate and share, or would they sign up and never put any energy into growing the site? Or better yet, would it be like back in the day, everybdy all cliqued up in their own little circles, never fully embracing the opportunity to explore this small community? Surprisingly, everyone seemed to jump right in, head first.

There's something pretty cathartic about getting to say hello to people again. Or just seeing what they've become. I can honestly say I'm happy to find out what successful family and business people my classmates have become. Graduating was like turning my back on everything I've ever known and climbing a mountain in search of a better life. And finding this site was like reaching the top of that mountain only to find everything and everyone I thought I had left behind, sitting right there at the top. I guess we all chose to move in different directions, yet in our own ways, we all made it. Putting oceans between you and your past reminds you life isn't so much about the destination, but the journey. And I definitely respect my classmates journey, as well as my own. We all went through tremendous hardships, sacrifices, and loss to get here, but nonetheless, we're here. That's why I can cruise the website clean, no longer mad at anyone who ever wronged me back in the day. It's also why I can relink with those I considered friends and embrace those I never really got to know with open arms. The truth is, I'm different, and so are they. None of us can probably remember who we were back in the day, or all the trivial stuff that happened. And for many, they simply don't want to. And that's cool. Because who we are today, is all that really matters.

During my time on the website, I've smiled, laughed, and enjoyed revisiting old places that live as dusty memories in my mind. Whether it's seeing the face of an old crush who will never know I secretly liked her as much as I did, or finding out some former knucklehead is the father of three, it really is just good to see people after all this time. Reading people's comments, and listening to them share memories of me has also helped me understand something important. I might not remember who I was back in the day, but they do. And according to them, I wasn't so drastically flawed after all. By their accounts I was funny, charismatic, and brought a lot of joy into people's lives. Yeah, it feels good to have matured to the point where I can look back at myself with the wisdom of an old owl perched high above in a tree. But it also feels good to realize that even when I was young and dumb, in the quietest most insecure stage of my life, when I was making tons of mistakes--at my essence, I was good people. That's something to be proud of. I mos def like who I am today, but thanks to my alumni website, I've also learned, I got love for who I used to be as well. Funny, suddenly it all makes sense.

One luv.

MLK (the martyr)

"Any real change implies the breakup of the world as one has always known it, the loss of all that gave one an identity, the end of safety. And at such a moment, unable to see and not daring to imagine what the future will now bring forth, one clings to what one knew, or dreamed that one possessed. Yet, it is only when a man is able, without bitterness or self-pity, to surrender a dream he has long cherished or a privilege he has long possessed that he is set free — he has set himself free — for higher dreams, for greater privileges."

- james baldwin

barack and hillary: a lesson in music

"Our goal is to have a country that's not divided by race. And my impression, as I travel around the country, is that that's the kind of country that most people want, as well, and that we all have prejudice, we all have certain suspicions or stereotypes about people who are different from us, whether it's religious or racial or ethnic, but what I think I found in the American people, I think there's a core decency there, where if they take the time, if they get the time to know individuals, then they want to judge those individuals by their character." - barack obama

The beauty of Barack Obama, in many ways, is very much what made Prince such a powerful and intriguing figure. No, with brotha Barack there's no lace, no four inch pumps, or endless parade of light skin singer/sluts. But what Barack does have in common with his purple badness is an image and sound that appeals to white America, while maintaining a certain level of authenticity with black America. If you go back to the height of Prince's career, he was able to win over black people without ever overtly catering to them. Prince made music, that happened to be black. But he never made black music. Prince's music always seemed to stretch the box of the typical black radio station format rather than fit perfectly into it. In fact, he created the Time and Vanity 6 as a way for him to do black music, because his solo stuff wasn't specific enough. Also, Prince made us think of the greats, Jimmy, James Brown, Jackie Wilson. Their voices all existed within his. In many ways, Prince always felt like the one we had been waiting for. The guy who could outsing the singers, out dance the dancers, and get as nasty on a guitar as any white boy in a rock band. Enter Barack Obama, like Prince, he has a mixed hertitage. His skin says he's black, his genes say he's very much something else as well. He has a smoothness about him that no one else seems to have. He can out talk the talkers, out common man the politicians, and still be a politician without leaving the common feeling left out. And he seems like the next great. Like a person of the same ilk as Malcolm, Martin, and JFK. His journey feels, predestined if you will. See, these aspirational type figures appeal to the idealism of white America , especially when they don't directly take on the topics of race. Prince was on some flower child unity sh*t, and Barack is on that everybody aboard, today's the perfect day to make a change thing. They seem to transcend race, without ever compromising their blackness. It would appear, on the surface at least, that Barack and Prince are somewhat the same brotha. The right sound, coupled with the right face, at just the right time.



Maybe Hillary Clinton is Teena Marie to Barack's Prince. You know, the white singer who gets black acceptance because she can hit the high notes. But can she? Or does she simply get a pass cause her husband Bill (Rick James), hit all the right notes and made it easier for people to except her as his protege? So far, it's yet to be seen. But lately, whenever you see Hillary Clinton, she's standing in front of a black choir, in front of a black audience, or in front of some non secular black leaders. It's like Teena coming out on stage for the first time standing in front of Rick's band. Even before she hits the first note, nobody is questioning her because of the people standing behind her. Hmmm. After taking New Hampshire, maybe Hillary is proving she can hit a note or two. And unlike Teena Marie who ONLY had a black following, Hillary appeals even more so to whites. Okay, so let's rethink this. Maybe Hillary is actualy more like Christina Aguillera, a white pop queen lusting to show black folks she can get down and dirty too. Either way, you get the point. Ultimately, black people will definitely support a white girl who can sang, and they'll also stand up in droves for someone they feel is the second coming. I think who gets the Deomorcratic nod will be less about who has the best album, and more about who can drop the hotter singles, Prince or Christina? Based on the last batch of singles by these two, I'd say this political race is still very much up for grabs. One luv.