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)