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