Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat.
We, the unwilling,led by the unknowing,are doing the impossible for the ungrateful. We have done so much,for so long,with so little,we are now qualified to do anything with nothing.
-Mother Teresa
Have you ever watched a child learn?
No, seriously have you ever watched a child's eyes glow with the excitement of understanding or
seen them work harder and begin demanding
more from themselves than
you would EVER burden them with?
Have you ever seen the fire ignite in the heart of one who is JUST learning to read
one who finally sees that
words are more than something to be looked at with contempt but
rather passages that separate human beings from savages...
Have you ever stopped to question the anger behind the swagger?
Have you ever stood so close to someone who can smell fear and lies and
tried to dodge the daggers in their eyes when you tell them...
"Yes, you can be more than this..."
"No, this isn't the end for you..."
"You ARE better than these bastards would have you believe..."
Have you ever watched a 16 year old girl conceive self-esteem?
Have you ever watched a 17 year old boy give birth to a dream?
Have you seen the smile in the lines of the wrinkled foreheads of
children who have never before had the luxury forming an opinion...
They've always been told they're like assholes...
Been treated like prisoners because
classrooms have become cells for miseducated juvenile holding
BETMTVCLEARCHANNELRADIOONECOX molding
Labeled as "criminal" or "potential felon" just for wearing baggy clothing
Their counterculture showing NO SIGNS of folding
they simply want their crowns back...
Though it lies heavy...
Their necks are strong enough from minds being filled with lies...heavy...
I see them...walking...
Slumped over from carrying their own caskets...
They are my own personal Queequeg's...
Funny...because I am Ishmael...
We're not following Ahab...
Or chasing a white whale...
(Although success could be that elusive for them)
We're chasing a dream
together...
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
It's 3:41 a.m. (a.k.a.-Consciously Unconscious)
Spring forward...fall back...possibly flat on your hind parts...have you ever known failure to be anything more than the direct result of an overzealous moment of forward movement...i know failure intimately...falling deeper into a consciousness that never quite manifested itself during a period of alertness...falling deeper in love with...momentum...I breathe freely...I move...swiftly...I think...constantly...I progress...rarely...on the scale of preconceived life notions...
i have thought twice about trying to live my life fearlessly...fear sets boundaries...boundaries create comfort...have you ever worn too little shoes?
have your shoes ever been too big?
then you know what i am talking about...
i remember my first real kiss...i was twelve (?)...she was younger...it was passionate...real...unadulterated...purity...first taste of bliss...she's an adult now...i am jadedcynicalpessimistic...she's just as beautiful today as she was over a decade ago...i am much different now...can i go back?
night...club...what the hell did we join...to become a member...of this club...is it like amway...i want to get out...is there away i can denounce my member...ship...in the night...club...i need a t-shirt...at least...for selling myself...to buy in...to...this...night...club...
sleep is...the cousin of death...says Nas...death...is...the child of...letting go...the cousin too...exhaustion...the brother of...lethargy...will you be my friend...friends don't hurt each other...friends...protect...each other...right?
she called me somebody else's name...i did not even get mad...anger is a sign of insecurity...insecurity is a by...product...of self hatred...self hatred...comes from ignorance...ignorance comes from...refusal...refusal comes from...within...what do you refuse...
i had an evil thought...my con...science...told me i...shouldn't...think that...i think...my con...science...should...leave me alone...
i have thought twice about trying to live my life fearlessly...fear sets boundaries...boundaries create comfort...have you ever worn too little shoes?
have your shoes ever been too big?
then you know what i am talking about...
i remember my first real kiss...i was twelve (?)...she was younger...it was passionate...real...unadulterated...purity...first taste of bliss...she's an adult now...i am jadedcynicalpessimistic...she's just as beautiful today as she was over a decade ago...i am much different now...can i go back?
night...club...what the hell did we join...to become a member...of this club...is it like amway...i want to get out...is there away i can denounce my member...ship...in the night...club...i need a t-shirt...at least...for selling myself...to buy in...to...this...night...club...
sleep is...the cousin of death...says Nas...death...is...the child of...letting go...the cousin too...exhaustion...the brother of...lethargy...will you be my friend...friends don't hurt each other...friends...protect...each other...right?
she called me somebody else's name...i did not even get mad...anger is a sign of insecurity...insecurity is a by...product...of self hatred...self hatred...comes from ignorance...ignorance comes from...refusal...refusal comes from...within...what do you refuse...
i had an evil thought...my con...science...told me i...shouldn't...think that...i think...my con...science...should...leave me alone...
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Lie Me To Rest...
This piece was inspired by Gil Scott Heron's song "Home Is Where The Hatred Is" Here are the lyrics:
"I'm on my way home
I left three days ago, but noone seems to know i'm gone
Home is where the hatred is
Home is filled with pain and it,
might not be such a bad idea if i never,
never went home again
stand as far away from me as you can
and ask me why
hang on to your rosary beads
close your eyes to watch me die
you keep saying, kick it, quit it, kick it, quit it
God, but did you ever try
to turn your sick soul inside out
so that the world, so that the world can watch you die
home is where i live inside my white powder dreams
home was once an empty vacuum
that's filled now with my silent screams
home is where the needle marks
try to heal my broken heart
and it might not be such a bad idea if i never,
if i never went home again"
17 years old and thrust into a lion's den...no prayers offered to save me...no faith at the time to protect me...no God (or so I thought) to bless me...he wasn't really listening to my prayers...or was he?...prayers sounding like voice mail messages...Hey God...it's me...you know?...SE7EN?...Well, I was just wondering...umm...could you...help me pay these bills?...I mean its cool if you don't want to...I'm just saying...Hit me back when you get a chance...Peace...
something I never had until later...3 years of finding myself had me regressing...9 months of indecision had me stressing...5 and a half years turned to 6 and I'm asking where's the blessings?...that everybody else is getting...Instead I'm having my back pushed against the wall...in a delusional centrifuge...where real is recognized...but it makes enemies of fools...
i've stared deep into the eyes of lies...dying to be real again...dying to be better...but the weight keeps crushing him...let it go...bring it back...together...we'll make you the truth...if you want to realeyes what i see then its up to you...
oppressed...depressed...suppressed...hated...debated...excommunicated...left for dead...now i rise from the ashes...so just call me lazarus...though I could be a phoenix instead...i don't fly...much rather stay grounded...on my own two feet...plus I never got burned...too much like hell...I lived there anyway...
in a city known for a proud warrior chief...i had my heart destroyed...my integrity attacked...and my money shot down the toilet...friends became enemies...some say the chief left this city with a vanguard of men and riches from the spaniards...i left with a strong will...a new lease on life...and my self-respect taken back from niggers...(with the -er)
if the love of money is the root of all evil...does that make the love of self it's cousin...does that make the hatred of another it's brother...i'm just wondering...because i hate niggers that beat on their woman...i hate to see niggers that fight over nothing...i wonder how long it can last...hatred...disdain...dislike...whatever...it doesn't matter...i'll wait...
my last trip out of crimson city...i left bloodied and bruised...the red on the jerseys of the football team reminded my of rivers of blood running through the cotton fields of alabama...mississippi...arkansas...from then to now...niggers doing the work...white man reaping the profits...run...nigger...run...roll tide...
i wanted to be loved...i love to be wanted...to be cast away...brokenhearted...was never my intention...thank you...for making me...stronger...if i died now...i wouldn't change anything...bye queen...bye my friends...buy my university...here i die...as they lay me to rest...i'm sure they...will lie me to death...au revoir...
The Taste of Peanut Butter...
My newest poem...not a spoken word piece...
"Nothing quite takes the taste out of peanut butter like unrequited love"-Charles Schulz
Nothing but more is all I ask of you...Some say more is less...Yet I expect nothing but the best things from you...Knowing more than words and voices sing to you...I cling to you...In the hopes that maybe arms would reach out to catch me...
Reality slipping into comfortability...A life worth living...filled with years of fighting in futility...Maybe I don't even understand me...enough to fathom the concept of we...love begins with the greek word fraternate...in my limited understanding of things...
My Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches don't taste the same...lord knows I love them...Been eating them since I was a babe...Maybe its because you and peanut butter share the same skin tone and....thinking about you this way feels so wrong...yet I can't help but think I'm right...sometimes light has to peek out from behind a smile to let you know exactly how dark you've become...
I found myself in the "Lost" box in a country town with a University in it...I found my flaws in a city with a big football stadium...I found love in a forgotten apartment complex in a hidden city...I found you...somewhere in between it all...It's funny how I lost my mind and my heart in the same week because of two different women...One I know...One...I...want to...
I find myself waking up in the middle of the night...yearning to drive down the backroads and eat at EVERY restaurant in the middle of nowhere...let's not go there...the many laughs we shared...all but killed me once upon a time...mainly because I was already emotionally suicidal...and seeing you just made me want to...feel...for the first time...again...
My tastebuds have resumed their normal duties...my nostrils have shrunken back to their regular size...my heart has healed...my mind has changed...my legs are stronger...my arms are wider...my pride is intact...yet my soul is still in traction...
Nurse?I need a peanut butter sandwich...to take my pain away...
"Nothing quite takes the taste out of peanut butter like unrequited love"-Charles Schulz
Nothing but more is all I ask of you...Some say more is less...Yet I expect nothing but the best things from you...Knowing more than words and voices sing to you...I cling to you...In the hopes that maybe arms would reach out to catch me...
Reality slipping into comfortability...A life worth living...filled with years of fighting in futility...Maybe I don't even understand me...enough to fathom the concept of we...love begins with the greek word fraternate...in my limited understanding of things...
My Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches don't taste the same...lord knows I love them...Been eating them since I was a babe...Maybe its because you and peanut butter share the same skin tone and....thinking about you this way feels so wrong...yet I can't help but think I'm right...sometimes light has to peek out from behind a smile to let you know exactly how dark you've become...
I found myself in the "Lost" box in a country town with a University in it...I found my flaws in a city with a big football stadium...I found love in a forgotten apartment complex in a hidden city...I found you...somewhere in between it all...It's funny how I lost my mind and my heart in the same week because of two different women...One I know...One...I...want to...
I find myself waking up in the middle of the night...yearning to drive down the backroads and eat at EVERY restaurant in the middle of nowhere...let's not go there...the many laughs we shared...all but killed me once upon a time...mainly because I was already emotionally suicidal...and seeing you just made me want to...feel...for the first time...again...
My tastebuds have resumed their normal duties...my nostrils have shrunken back to their regular size...my heart has healed...my mind has changed...my legs are stronger...my arms are wider...my pride is intact...yet my soul is still in traction...
Nurse?I need a peanut butter sandwich...to take my pain away...
Monday, October 22, 2007
Today...I almost gave up.
"The reason that we have consistently had underperformance among our children is because too many of us think it is acceptable for them not to achieve. And we have to have a mindset where we say to ourselves, every single child can learn if they're given the resources and the opportunities. And right now that's not happening."
-Barack Obama at the 2007 Democratic Primary Debate at Howard University
"I'm going to insist that we've got decent funding, enough teachers, and computers in the classroom, but unless you turn off the television set and get over a certain anti-intellectualism that I think pervades some low-income communities, our children are not going to achieve. "
-Barack Obama on NBC's Meet The Press July 25, 2004
"“If you are planning for a year, plant rice; if you are planning for a decade, plant trees; if you are planning for a lifetime, educate people.”
-Chinese Proverb
________________________________________________________________
I'm sitting behind a desk in a classroom full of high school seniors. I am praying that they make it beyond their chosen stations in life. I say chosen because they are obviously brighter than their conversations indicate. Rims, shoes, and any rapper with "lil" in his name pervade their conversations. I hear talks of babydaddies, bad mommas, and mments of conscious indiscretion. Profanity flows from their lips like rivers of bile.
This is our future...
The children here are undisciplined and it's not their fault, to a point. At this school, tardies are unheard of. The bell rings and there are 1,000+ students still wandering the hallways as though they have nowhere to be, nowhere to go.
Class is merely a place to socialize. The club being more important than Calculus. The new Jordans are more important than George Washington.
Fights get discussed more than football games. Consequences are few. Crackdowns aren't forthcoming. It just doesn't "look good," they say, to have a bunch of write-ups coming out of your school.
These kids are being miseducated at a political cost. The principal is fighting and so many others are apathetic, or ignorant, towards the problems. Kids cannot learn if they are living the "Freakonomics" of failure.
At this school 60% of the children read AT or BELOW a 5th grade level.
Over HALF of the school is on free or reduced lunch.
AND they have all but given up hope...
They have relegated themselves to being illiterate, impoverished, and for the most part uneducated.
They don't want to learn, they just want to live.
The only problem is, we're not giving them a chance for survival.
Without some of the fundamental skills that are imparted upon students during their formative high school years.
I truly do NOT understand how some teachers do it....fight for these students with little to no support.
It's honestly on the verge of breaking me.
How could we have possibly screwed up so bad that the concept of en loco parentis no longer applies in the schools.
Maybe it's too many teachers only around because they get summers off...
Maybe it's too many administrators without clear educational aspirations for the pupils...
Maybe it's administrators refusing to discipline in favor of friendship...
Maybe it's just me...
-Barack Obama at the 2007 Democratic Primary Debate at Howard University
"I'm going to insist that we've got decent funding, enough teachers, and computers in the classroom, but unless you turn off the television set and get over a certain anti-intellectualism that I think pervades some low-income communities, our children are not going to achieve. "
-Barack Obama on NBC's Meet The Press July 25, 2004
"“If you are planning for a year, plant rice; if you are planning for a decade, plant trees; if you are planning for a lifetime, educate people.”
-Chinese Proverb
________________________________________________________________
I'm sitting behind a desk in a classroom full of high school seniors. I am praying that they make it beyond their chosen stations in life. I say chosen because they are obviously brighter than their conversations indicate. Rims, shoes, and any rapper with "lil" in his name pervade their conversations. I hear talks of babydaddies, bad mommas, and mments of conscious indiscretion. Profanity flows from their lips like rivers of bile.
This is our future...
The children here are undisciplined and it's not their fault, to a point. At this school, tardies are unheard of. The bell rings and there are 1,000+ students still wandering the hallways as though they have nowhere to be, nowhere to go.
Class is merely a place to socialize. The club being more important than Calculus. The new Jordans are more important than George Washington.
Fights get discussed more than football games. Consequences are few. Crackdowns aren't forthcoming. It just doesn't "look good," they say, to have a bunch of write-ups coming out of your school.
These kids are being miseducated at a political cost. The principal is fighting and so many others are apathetic, or ignorant, towards the problems. Kids cannot learn if they are living the "Freakonomics" of failure.
At this school 60% of the children read AT or BELOW a 5th grade level.
Over HALF of the school is on free or reduced lunch.
AND they have all but given up hope...
They have relegated themselves to being illiterate, impoverished, and for the most part uneducated.
They don't want to learn, they just want to live.
The only problem is, we're not giving them a chance for survival.
Without some of the fundamental skills that are imparted upon students during their formative high school years.
I truly do NOT understand how some teachers do it....fight for these students with little to no support.
It's honestly on the verge of breaking me.
How could we have possibly screwed up so bad that the concept of en loco parentis no longer applies in the schools.
Maybe it's too many teachers only around because they get summers off...
Maybe it's too many administrators without clear educational aspirations for the pupils...
Maybe it's administrators refusing to discipline in favor of friendship...
Maybe it's just me...
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Beneath Poverty: The Underbelly of Birmingham...
This is another article that some of my close friends have read. I felt like this is another one that needed to be shared. I wrote this one about 6 months ago. Far too often we ignore the blessings we have in favor of the desires we want...if you're in SOME FORM of shelter, have a LITTTLE bit of food in your stomach, and even a small bit of change in your pocket. BE THANKFUL. Tell me what you think.....
______________________________________________________________
“Hell, I been out here so long sometimes it don’t even seem like I lived nowhere else…”
Behind a building filled with luxury lofts, around the corner from the Alabama Theater, across the street from a nondescript building that holds a credit union and some accountant offices is a pile of rags. Nestled up against the cold concrete of a retail store turned prime apartment real estate and the cobblestone of an alley only frequented by stray cats and high end automobiles looking to enter their hidden parking garage is a dingy, dirty, pile of must rags and sheets.
Cuts and tears in the piss yellow sheets resemble those made in a Halloween costume of days gone by. A sheet fit for a forgotten, thrown away ghost. Willie Foster could very well be considered all three. Forgotten. Thrown Away. A ghost.
“I sleep with my face pushed right up into that corna’ right there. It keep the wind off my face,” says the pile of rags. Tucked away in a cobblestone alley is the ghost of a man forgotten by society. He lives at the mercy of others excess, a half eaten sandwich here and a thrown away flat coke there. A street professional, this ghost has lived on the streets of Birmingham and various other cities for more than 15 years.
“Shiiit man, I just want the same thangs that err’body else want. A roof, some clothes, and maybe a little something warm on me every once in a while.”
Clarence “Bud” Flowers lives in the shadows of skyscrapers. On cold nights, he walks constantly. He searches for a steam grate to warm his body with and a corner to curl up into. Only when the cold is unbearable does he attempt to find a shelter. Occasionally he gets a warm spot near a generator or a place with a little bit of covering to take some of the bite off the cold.
“Hell I used to have a family and everythang man! But shit sometime you know that thang don’t work out like you wan’ it to,” he says. Bud still carries memories of his family that he rambles unintelligibly about sometimes. “That gotdamn Shirley was the best damn woman…got a lil’ lovin way about her,” he says. His dark brown eyes gaze off into the distance as he waxes nostalgic about yesteryear. Days when work was normal. Nights when love was his shelter. “Ain’t like that no mo’. Hell, I’ll be good to get a few dollars from a few of dese young peoples out here.”
“Man, don’t let that shit get at you. I’m tryin’ to tell you it ain’t nothin’ to play wit’.”
The smell of cheap wine covers Bud like New England Fog. Burn marks both old and fresh sit menacingly on his fingers, glaring at passersby from behind his clenched fists. “I ended up out here ‘cause I let that that shit get in my arm and shit. Now I can’t get rid of it,” he said. Bud is an addict. Crack, Heroin, and Cheap Wine, pick your poison. Death is his own personal vulture, hovering unseen to all those that ignore him. Sickness follows him, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Bud lost his family to his addictions, lost his job to his passions, and his mind to the streets. He is a shell of a man searching for sustenance in back alleys and vitality in corners full of degradation and vice.
The wind nips at Bud’s neck and he instinctively pulls the sides of his jacket tighter around his sunken chest. Ashy bruised knuckles with thin, gangly fingers grip his only protection from the elements in an attempt to keep him warm. Bud eases back onto his heels and leans into a wall as he continues talking about his life on the street.
“Shit, I been stabbed, beat up and hit wit’ stuff. All kind of stuff happen to ya’ out here man. Hell, an ol’ nigga like me won’t be here too much longer.”
The small knick on the right side of Bud’s face contrasts with his skin color like an Oreo floating in milk, it almost gives him childish charm that is unseen unless studied carefully. His eyes are wide and dark. They dart back and forth alluding to either constant awareness or the throes of a prolonged high. “Hell, you got ta’ watch your back out here. You got crooked police and these lil’ young niggas tryin’ to take shit from ya’.” Street life is killing Bud and he knows it.
“Hell, I’m ready to go. Least I won’t have to worry no more…hell, may be the best thang anyway.”
Bud knows how his story ends. He’s seen it before. He knows street folks that have died from the cold, an overdose, a beating. He doesn’t expect to be the old homeless man that a family takes in and treats like grandpa. He doesn’t want to be the man cared for by some University as its charity case. “I ain’t goin’ to no damn school man. I’m too old for that shit,” he says. Bud lives at the edge of existence. Death stares at him from the abyss below beckoning him to jump into it’s frigid embrace.
“Shiiiit, I know I ain’t gonna be here too long. Hopefully the good Lord will welcome me in,” he says. Thrusting himself away from the wall, Bud waves his hand up in a gesture of finality. Obviously exasperated with talking about himself, he wobbles toward the dark alley and away from the glare of streetlights and passing headlamps.
Bud ambles lazily back into an envelope of darkness in a forgotten pocket of big city life and traffic possibly to never see the light of day again.
______________________________________________________________
“Hell, I been out here so long sometimes it don’t even seem like I lived nowhere else…”
Behind a building filled with luxury lofts, around the corner from the Alabama Theater, across the street from a nondescript building that holds a credit union and some accountant offices is a pile of rags. Nestled up against the cold concrete of a retail store turned prime apartment real estate and the cobblestone of an alley only frequented by stray cats and high end automobiles looking to enter their hidden parking garage is a dingy, dirty, pile of must rags and sheets.
Cuts and tears in the piss yellow sheets resemble those made in a Halloween costume of days gone by. A sheet fit for a forgotten, thrown away ghost. Willie Foster could very well be considered all three. Forgotten. Thrown Away. A ghost.
“I sleep with my face pushed right up into that corna’ right there. It keep the wind off my face,” says the pile of rags. Tucked away in a cobblestone alley is the ghost of a man forgotten by society. He lives at the mercy of others excess, a half eaten sandwich here and a thrown away flat coke there. A street professional, this ghost has lived on the streets of Birmingham and various other cities for more than 15 years.
“Shiiit man, I just want the same thangs that err’body else want. A roof, some clothes, and maybe a little something warm on me every once in a while.”
Clarence “Bud” Flowers lives in the shadows of skyscrapers. On cold nights, he walks constantly. He searches for a steam grate to warm his body with and a corner to curl up into. Only when the cold is unbearable does he attempt to find a shelter. Occasionally he gets a warm spot near a generator or a place with a little bit of covering to take some of the bite off the cold.
“Hell I used to have a family and everythang man! But shit sometime you know that thang don’t work out like you wan’ it to,” he says. Bud still carries memories of his family that he rambles unintelligibly about sometimes. “That gotdamn Shirley was the best damn woman…got a lil’ lovin way about her,” he says. His dark brown eyes gaze off into the distance as he waxes nostalgic about yesteryear. Days when work was normal. Nights when love was his shelter. “Ain’t like that no mo’. Hell, I’ll be good to get a few dollars from a few of dese young peoples out here.”
“Man, don’t let that shit get at you. I’m tryin’ to tell you it ain’t nothin’ to play wit’.”
The smell of cheap wine covers Bud like New England Fog. Burn marks both old and fresh sit menacingly on his fingers, glaring at passersby from behind his clenched fists. “I ended up out here ‘cause I let that that shit get in my arm and shit. Now I can’t get rid of it,” he said. Bud is an addict. Crack, Heroin, and Cheap Wine, pick your poison. Death is his own personal vulture, hovering unseen to all those that ignore him. Sickness follows him, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Bud lost his family to his addictions, lost his job to his passions, and his mind to the streets. He is a shell of a man searching for sustenance in back alleys and vitality in corners full of degradation and vice.
The wind nips at Bud’s neck and he instinctively pulls the sides of his jacket tighter around his sunken chest. Ashy bruised knuckles with thin, gangly fingers grip his only protection from the elements in an attempt to keep him warm. Bud eases back onto his heels and leans into a wall as he continues talking about his life on the street.
“Shit, I been stabbed, beat up and hit wit’ stuff. All kind of stuff happen to ya’ out here man. Hell, an ol’ nigga like me won’t be here too much longer.”
The small knick on the right side of Bud’s face contrasts with his skin color like an Oreo floating in milk, it almost gives him childish charm that is unseen unless studied carefully. His eyes are wide and dark. They dart back and forth alluding to either constant awareness or the throes of a prolonged high. “Hell, you got ta’ watch your back out here. You got crooked police and these lil’ young niggas tryin’ to take shit from ya’.” Street life is killing Bud and he knows it.
“Hell, I’m ready to go. Least I won’t have to worry no more…hell, may be the best thang anyway.”
Bud knows how his story ends. He’s seen it before. He knows street folks that have died from the cold, an overdose, a beating. He doesn’t expect to be the old homeless man that a family takes in and treats like grandpa. He doesn’t want to be the man cared for by some University as its charity case. “I ain’t goin’ to no damn school man. I’m too old for that shit,” he says. Bud lives at the edge of existence. Death stares at him from the abyss below beckoning him to jump into it’s frigid embrace.
“Shiiiit, I know I ain’t gonna be here too long. Hopefully the good Lord will welcome me in,” he says. Thrusting himself away from the wall, Bud waves his hand up in a gesture of finality. Obviously exasperated with talking about himself, he wobbles toward the dark alley and away from the glare of streetlights and passing headlamps.
Bud ambles lazily back into an envelope of darkness in a forgotten pocket of big city life and traffic possibly to never see the light of day again.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Adventures in Substitute Teaching...
Many of my closest friends have read this article I wrote probably around 6 months ago about some of my experiences as a substitute teacher. . .
Today, I've decided to share it with the world.
This blog post is dedicated to the Students at Shades Valley/JCIB who have made my experiences in teaching wonderfully enlightening and enjoyable. You all have helped me to find my passion.
_________________________________________________________________
Adventures in Substituting…Diary of an Endangered Species
I am a substitute teacher that takes his job too seriously. I am the one man crusade getting paid fifty bucks a day to baby-sit the children of Jefferson County parents while their real teacher is out sick, on vacation, or just plain fed up. The only problem is, I want them to actually learn something.
Walking into the front doors of any high school, after having received both a diploma and a degree, proved to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in life. My stomach was in knots as I moseyed down the fluorescent hallways to my assigned classroom. Today was my initiation into the world of education. I was to become a member of a fraternity of individuals who not only act as teachers, but disciplinarians, and at times surrogate parents
I sat idly behind the teacher’s cluttered desk waiting on the bell to ring and usher in a pack of trendy hipsters with no other purpose in life than to make mine, the new sub, a living hell. As the students amble in one by one, eyes heavy from their early morning bus rides and late night phone conversations about absolutely nothing, I am overwhelmed with a sense of queasiness that twisted my stomach into a Jacob’s Ladder.
“Hey, we have a guy substitute! Oh my God, and he’s black,” yells the 5’9” track star with the flowing ebony locks of hair, “I have got to take a picture!” I chuckle just a little bit and proceed to ask them to take their seats.
Being a substitute has made me highly aware of two facts. I am Black. I am Male. While these were always very obvious to me, I had no idea how obvious they were to those around me. Being such has made me a benefit to some and an oddity to others.
On the one hand I provide a friendly face and an articulate voice to an entire group of children that are “hard to handle” in the predominately white Jefferson County School System. I look like them, I speak their language, I can relate to them. Only six years (and 30 pounds) ago, I was in their shoes.
On the other hand, a male teacher is hard to swallow for some. A black male teacher that isn’t teaching athletics is even harder to grasp. I never was good at basketball, I’m too short. I couldn’t play football, I’m too small. I preferred Chess, poetry, and females to locker rooms and jock straps. I preferred Sum 41 to 50 Cent. I was simply different.
Patrick Carrington is an anomaly such as myself. The 11th grader prefers to wear button-down dress shirts instead of the long nightgownish tees that his friends swim through the halls in everyday. His square toed oxfords are immaculately polished and provide a sharp contrast to the $200 Jordans and Nike Air Force One’s that his peers wear.
Patrick often walks a lonely road in the land of promise and pain that is high school. He stares straight ahead when swiftly making his way through the crush of students that clutter the hallway between classes. He is a young man determined.
I was Patrick’s substitute for a vocational technology class, and was mildly inspired when the young man with the neck tie in a Windsor knot asked me about college, “Is college really that hard, Mr. Hullett?”
“Well, for me it was. But that was only because my focus was wrong in the beginning. I honestly went to college because there were prettier women there,” I reply with a smile. Amused at my response and shocked at my candor, Patrick laughs nervously and fidgets in his chair. He then sits in amazement as I detail the finer points of success in college. I go through the typical clichés and offer him unconventional wisdom.
“Make sure you study enough to get good grades, but don’t forget to have fun,” I tell him. He smiles and says, “Yeah man, I know I’m gonna party when I get to school.” I smile and urge him to focus more on the books than the babes and beer.
Glancing at the clock, I realized I have talked to Patrick for more than an hour. The bell rings and Patrick gathers his items. He says, “Thanks Mr. Hullett, you’re a really good role model. I hope you come back.” I smile and promise to hurry back soon.
“Why do we have to take math? I am never gonna use this stuff again in my life! This is so stupid,” shouts Rusty in the middle of his Calculus class, his pale face flushed and his mop of red hair tousled all over the place. The rest of the students freeze and look like sheep that have wandered into a wolf’s lair. One half of the class is expecting me to explode and write him up like so many substitutes that they have had over the years. The other half of the class is expecting me to nod and smile and pretend that I didn’t hear any of Rusty’s outburst of exasperation.
What they fail to realize is that I’m not the 68 year old retired blue hair who is subbing to keep herself feeling useful, or the 43 year old retired banker who is subbing just for something to do. No, I am the 23 year old naïve optimist, hell bent on making sure they charge bravely into the future.
“Do you really think that you’re learning calculus to teach you how to count,” I ask Rusty? “You’re not learning how to count Rusty, you’re learning how to think. Counting was achieved and mastered in third grade. Everything after that is teaching you problem solving, critical thinking, and logical reasoning skills.”
“I still want to know when in my life that I’m gonna use calculus! This is not what I need to be a police officer,” he bellows, his response a little less intensely delivered than his initial outburst.
“Rusty, when have you ever seen an unknown number? When have you ever had to find the square root of something outside of school? How did those things challenge you though? How many times have you had to work through some problem in your life without having all of the information? How many times have you had to reason your way through something, or break down a concept for your own understanding,” I ask?
Although the questions come rapid fire and in structured succession, Rusty doesn’t seem to feel challenged, his anger is slowly subsiding as the redness slips away from his face. He eases back in his seat and gives me a puzzled look.
“If you’ve ever figured something out on your own, you can thank math for that,” I said. It appears to be the death blow to his argument. With all the fight taken out of him, Rusty eases back in his chair and continues to do work diligently in his Calculus workbook.
The other students exchange glances and breathe the comfortable breaths of newfound knowledge. Calculus no longer seems as scary to them as it once was. A student whispers, “Damn, Mr. Hullett don’t play that huh?”
Later that day, I am recounting the story to the School Secretary, Ruth Waldrep, and she says, “Wow, you mean you actually got them to understand why they do math without raising your voice? You’re a good one.”
I simply reply, “I used to be them…”
Teaching has not all been triumph. As with anything in life, there is both feast and famine. The times of feast make us smile and remind us of the beauty and wonder that childhood and adolescence contains.
The famine though, is often heart wrenching and emotional. We are reminded of our teenage angst, our frustrations and the gripping fear of adult hood that held us captive as children.
You begin to care so much that your life takes on new purpose. Their triumphs become your joy, and their failures hurt you worse than it hurts them at times.
Standing in front of a tenth grade English class is a daunting enough task, it becomes even tougher at 1:30 on a warm Friday afternoon. To add on to my anxiety, I’ve been given instructions to administer their tests, a 23 question quiz on Perfect Progressive tense.
The first two periods of the day finished the quiz in well under their 30 minute time period. This last class, as I expected, would be no different. Except for one student.
Marquez is having a rough time. With two minutes left for the test, his paper is blank, his brow is furrowed and his palms are sweaty. I stare at him in a futile attempt to gauge what he is thinking. Suddenly, he picks up his pen and begins to write frantically. Scribbling answers all the way down the page in just enough time to beat the clock. He slithers out of his sit and propels his body to an upright position. He ambles up to my desk and nonchalantly lets his paper flutter to the pile. Wondering how the dreaming child with the sad eyes and unkempt hair in the first row is doing, I look at his paper. Each answer is the exact same, “I don’t no.”
I shake my head in disbelief and look up to see Marquez staring back at me. I wave my hand, beckoning him to come here. “You think she’ll understand, since I wasn’t here these last two days,” he asks?
I tell him that I don’t know and began to study his face, looking for some sort of dishonesty or an “I don’t care” attitude. I come back from my cerebral fishing expedition with nothing. Behind the baggy jeans, expensive shoes, and oversized basketball jersey is a young man who needs help, but it seems though his appearance, his vernacular, and customs are holding him back. He looks like a thug to some, talks like a rapper to most, and fights his peers as though his last breath depended on it. On the inside though, Marquez is simply scared.
I later hear him exclaim to a group of friends, “Ain’t no nigga gon’ catch me slippin’ in my cutlass cuz. On everything I love I’ll put two in a nigga.” His fellow students nod approvingly, with beaming smiles. I tell them to quiet down and get back to work.
Five minutes later a young lady who recently transferred from another school system (she had been expelled for fighting) creeps up behind Marquez as though they are children playing Cowboys and Indians. She makes a gun with her fingers and gently presses them to his temple in an almost inappropriate manner and says, “Bang nigga. You dead. Anybody can get got.”
I tell her to move away from Marquez and bring her seat closer to mine in an attempt to gain command of her rowdy group. The tactic restores order but the mentality still disturbs me. I can’t help but see a possibility of foreshadowing in the young lady’s actions and in Marquez’s cold and undisturbed response. While I’d like to chalk it up as youthful horseplay, the scene replaying itself in my head is simply chilling.
The concept of Social Learning Theory teaches us that children often form attitudes and beliefs based essentially on imitating their parents and authority figures. While many of these ideas are formulated during a child’s formative toddler years, one cannot ignore the adolescent stage and children’s impressionable nature in this period as one of intellectual development.
Substitute teaching a middle school class is probably one of the most tiring things anyone can do. Between the overactive bladders, hyperactivity, and general inquisitive nature of 11, 12, and 13 year olds, middle school teachers could most likely be seen as the Marines of the educational field. It is definitely intense.
I volunteered myself to sub for an 8th grade class at a suburban, predominately white middle school that had received a boom in the influx of black students over the past couple of years. While this shouldn’t be cause for alarm, at the end of my day subbing there I couldn’t help but think that there were certain elements fearful of this new wave of students.
“One in four of you will be victims of violence at some point in your life,” said the school counselor. She had taken over my class in a coffee driven, blonde haired, pancake makeup whirlwind. She was supposed to be giving them the lecture that she had given the other 7th grade classes.
She looked out over the bright faces of the class and asked, “Does anyone know what violence is?”
“Rape!”
“Homicide!”
“Fighting!”
“Domestic Violence!”
The MTV generation provided example after example flawlessly, which could be expected seeing as how they watch violence every day on their televisions and play violent characters on their XBOX 360’s and Playstations. “Violence is any kind of harmful physical contact that you don’t invite. This is why football isn’t violent,” says the counselor.
Her asinine statements make me smile. “Football’s not violent because you have a reasonable expectation to get hit,” I ask myself as she goes into the finer points of teaching the students the politics of victimization? I listen to the lecture and watch the kids drift off to the dull monotony of her voice like so many reruns of Ferris Bueller. Something she said snapped me out of my trance though.
“There are some people who are in the school, many are new transfers who tend to solve their problems with violence. You don’t want to be like those people,” said the counselor.
Those people? I can’t help but imagine that she was talking about the scores of black faces that I saw in the hallway that were new residents of the area. They stuck out like sore thumbs with their Rocawear t-shirts and baggy Girbaud jeans against a backdrop of Ralph Lauren, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Clarks wallabee shoes.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as she began to give the children a crash course in how to successfully perform gentrification. She drew a makeshift house on the board. “Let’s say this is a house in Clay-Chalkville, and it’s on the market for $150,000,” said the counselor. The children “ooh” and “ahh” in wonder because at twelve, $150,000 could possibly be all the money in the world.
“Every time you get in a fight and every time one of these people does something bad, it damages our neighborhood reputation and it drops our property values. After a while people won’t want their kids to come to Clay-Chalkville Middle School and this $150,000 will only be able to sell for about $80,000 because some people come to your school and don’t know how to act,” lectured the counselor.
I could feel the muscles in my face flex and tighten as I tried my hardest to maintain an air of professionalism in the face of such blatant disdain for people like me, people who came from the places I once played, people who moved to this side of town for a chance at a better life.
I stood up with all of the determination I could muster at this point. My eyes were narrowed into two menacing slits; my nostrils flared like a bull ready to charge and gore the taunting matador. An entire rant was formulating in my head about racism, gentrification, gerrymandering, the 60’s, Jim Crow, and the fact that black history month was coming soon. I was ready. I was a warrior. The spirit of Huey P. Newton possessed me and made old Negro spirituals run through my veins. I opened my mouth wide.
And said nothing…
If I had never been aware of the fact that I was a black man before, I most certainly was now. If I was never made aware of my place on the educational totem pole before, I most definitely knew my place now. At the bottom.
I am a substitute teacher. I am black. I am male. I am a rarity. Some may think I take my job too seriously, I say maybe they don’t take my job as serious as they should.
--Chad A. Hullett
Today, I've decided to share it with the world.
This blog post is dedicated to the Students at Shades Valley/JCIB who have made my experiences in teaching wonderfully enlightening and enjoyable. You all have helped me to find my passion.
_________________________________________________________________
Adventures in Substituting…Diary of an Endangered Species
I am a substitute teacher that takes his job too seriously. I am the one man crusade getting paid fifty bucks a day to baby-sit the children of Jefferson County parents while their real teacher is out sick, on vacation, or just plain fed up. The only problem is, I want them to actually learn something.
Walking into the front doors of any high school, after having received both a diploma and a degree, proved to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in life. My stomach was in knots as I moseyed down the fluorescent hallways to my assigned classroom. Today was my initiation into the world of education. I was to become a member of a fraternity of individuals who not only act as teachers, but disciplinarians, and at times surrogate parents
I sat idly behind the teacher’s cluttered desk waiting on the bell to ring and usher in a pack of trendy hipsters with no other purpose in life than to make mine, the new sub, a living hell. As the students amble in one by one, eyes heavy from their early morning bus rides and late night phone conversations about absolutely nothing, I am overwhelmed with a sense of queasiness that twisted my stomach into a Jacob’s Ladder.
“Hey, we have a guy substitute! Oh my God, and he’s black,” yells the 5’9” track star with the flowing ebony locks of hair, “I have got to take a picture!” I chuckle just a little bit and proceed to ask them to take their seats.
Being a substitute has made me highly aware of two facts. I am Black. I am Male. While these were always very obvious to me, I had no idea how obvious they were to those around me. Being such has made me a benefit to some and an oddity to others.
On the one hand I provide a friendly face and an articulate voice to an entire group of children that are “hard to handle” in the predominately white Jefferson County School System. I look like them, I speak their language, I can relate to them. Only six years (and 30 pounds) ago, I was in their shoes.
On the other hand, a male teacher is hard to swallow for some. A black male teacher that isn’t teaching athletics is even harder to grasp. I never was good at basketball, I’m too short. I couldn’t play football, I’m too small. I preferred Chess, poetry, and females to locker rooms and jock straps. I preferred Sum 41 to 50 Cent. I was simply different.
Patrick Carrington is an anomaly such as myself. The 11th grader prefers to wear button-down dress shirts instead of the long nightgownish tees that his friends swim through the halls in everyday. His square toed oxfords are immaculately polished and provide a sharp contrast to the $200 Jordans and Nike Air Force One’s that his peers wear.
Patrick often walks a lonely road in the land of promise and pain that is high school. He stares straight ahead when swiftly making his way through the crush of students that clutter the hallway between classes. He is a young man determined.
I was Patrick’s substitute for a vocational technology class, and was mildly inspired when the young man with the neck tie in a Windsor knot asked me about college, “Is college really that hard, Mr. Hullett?”
“Well, for me it was. But that was only because my focus was wrong in the beginning. I honestly went to college because there were prettier women there,” I reply with a smile. Amused at my response and shocked at my candor, Patrick laughs nervously and fidgets in his chair. He then sits in amazement as I detail the finer points of success in college. I go through the typical clichés and offer him unconventional wisdom.
“Make sure you study enough to get good grades, but don’t forget to have fun,” I tell him. He smiles and says, “Yeah man, I know I’m gonna party when I get to school.” I smile and urge him to focus more on the books than the babes and beer.
Glancing at the clock, I realized I have talked to Patrick for more than an hour. The bell rings and Patrick gathers his items. He says, “Thanks Mr. Hullett, you’re a really good role model. I hope you come back.” I smile and promise to hurry back soon.
“Why do we have to take math? I am never gonna use this stuff again in my life! This is so stupid,” shouts Rusty in the middle of his Calculus class, his pale face flushed and his mop of red hair tousled all over the place. The rest of the students freeze and look like sheep that have wandered into a wolf’s lair. One half of the class is expecting me to explode and write him up like so many substitutes that they have had over the years. The other half of the class is expecting me to nod and smile and pretend that I didn’t hear any of Rusty’s outburst of exasperation.
What they fail to realize is that I’m not the 68 year old retired blue hair who is subbing to keep herself feeling useful, or the 43 year old retired banker who is subbing just for something to do. No, I am the 23 year old naïve optimist, hell bent on making sure they charge bravely into the future.
“Do you really think that you’re learning calculus to teach you how to count,” I ask Rusty? “You’re not learning how to count Rusty, you’re learning how to think. Counting was achieved and mastered in third grade. Everything after that is teaching you problem solving, critical thinking, and logical reasoning skills.”
“I still want to know when in my life that I’m gonna use calculus! This is not what I need to be a police officer,” he bellows, his response a little less intensely delivered than his initial outburst.
“Rusty, when have you ever seen an unknown number? When have you ever had to find the square root of something outside of school? How did those things challenge you though? How many times have you had to work through some problem in your life without having all of the information? How many times have you had to reason your way through something, or break down a concept for your own understanding,” I ask?
Although the questions come rapid fire and in structured succession, Rusty doesn’t seem to feel challenged, his anger is slowly subsiding as the redness slips away from his face. He eases back in his seat and gives me a puzzled look.
“If you’ve ever figured something out on your own, you can thank math for that,” I said. It appears to be the death blow to his argument. With all the fight taken out of him, Rusty eases back in his chair and continues to do work diligently in his Calculus workbook.
The other students exchange glances and breathe the comfortable breaths of newfound knowledge. Calculus no longer seems as scary to them as it once was. A student whispers, “Damn, Mr. Hullett don’t play that huh?”
Later that day, I am recounting the story to the School Secretary, Ruth Waldrep, and she says, “Wow, you mean you actually got them to understand why they do math without raising your voice? You’re a good one.”
I simply reply, “I used to be them…”
Teaching has not all been triumph. As with anything in life, there is both feast and famine. The times of feast make us smile and remind us of the beauty and wonder that childhood and adolescence contains.
The famine though, is often heart wrenching and emotional. We are reminded of our teenage angst, our frustrations and the gripping fear of adult hood that held us captive as children.
You begin to care so much that your life takes on new purpose. Their triumphs become your joy, and their failures hurt you worse than it hurts them at times.
Standing in front of a tenth grade English class is a daunting enough task, it becomes even tougher at 1:30 on a warm Friday afternoon. To add on to my anxiety, I’ve been given instructions to administer their tests, a 23 question quiz on Perfect Progressive tense.
The first two periods of the day finished the quiz in well under their 30 minute time period. This last class, as I expected, would be no different. Except for one student.
Marquez is having a rough time. With two minutes left for the test, his paper is blank, his brow is furrowed and his palms are sweaty. I stare at him in a futile attempt to gauge what he is thinking. Suddenly, he picks up his pen and begins to write frantically. Scribbling answers all the way down the page in just enough time to beat the clock. He slithers out of his sit and propels his body to an upright position. He ambles up to my desk and nonchalantly lets his paper flutter to the pile. Wondering how the dreaming child with the sad eyes and unkempt hair in the first row is doing, I look at his paper. Each answer is the exact same, “I don’t no.”
I shake my head in disbelief and look up to see Marquez staring back at me. I wave my hand, beckoning him to come here. “You think she’ll understand, since I wasn’t here these last two days,” he asks?
I tell him that I don’t know and began to study his face, looking for some sort of dishonesty or an “I don’t care” attitude. I come back from my cerebral fishing expedition with nothing. Behind the baggy jeans, expensive shoes, and oversized basketball jersey is a young man who needs help, but it seems though his appearance, his vernacular, and customs are holding him back. He looks like a thug to some, talks like a rapper to most, and fights his peers as though his last breath depended on it. On the inside though, Marquez is simply scared.
I later hear him exclaim to a group of friends, “Ain’t no nigga gon’ catch me slippin’ in my cutlass cuz. On everything I love I’ll put two in a nigga.” His fellow students nod approvingly, with beaming smiles. I tell them to quiet down and get back to work.
Five minutes later a young lady who recently transferred from another school system (she had been expelled for fighting) creeps up behind Marquez as though they are children playing Cowboys and Indians. She makes a gun with her fingers and gently presses them to his temple in an almost inappropriate manner and says, “Bang nigga. You dead. Anybody can get got.”
I tell her to move away from Marquez and bring her seat closer to mine in an attempt to gain command of her rowdy group. The tactic restores order but the mentality still disturbs me. I can’t help but see a possibility of foreshadowing in the young lady’s actions and in Marquez’s cold and undisturbed response. While I’d like to chalk it up as youthful horseplay, the scene replaying itself in my head is simply chilling.
The concept of Social Learning Theory teaches us that children often form attitudes and beliefs based essentially on imitating their parents and authority figures. While many of these ideas are formulated during a child’s formative toddler years, one cannot ignore the adolescent stage and children’s impressionable nature in this period as one of intellectual development.
Substitute teaching a middle school class is probably one of the most tiring things anyone can do. Between the overactive bladders, hyperactivity, and general inquisitive nature of 11, 12, and 13 year olds, middle school teachers could most likely be seen as the Marines of the educational field. It is definitely intense.
I volunteered myself to sub for an 8th grade class at a suburban, predominately white middle school that had received a boom in the influx of black students over the past couple of years. While this shouldn’t be cause for alarm, at the end of my day subbing there I couldn’t help but think that there were certain elements fearful of this new wave of students.
“One in four of you will be victims of violence at some point in your life,” said the school counselor. She had taken over my class in a coffee driven, blonde haired, pancake makeup whirlwind. She was supposed to be giving them the lecture that she had given the other 7th grade classes.
She looked out over the bright faces of the class and asked, “Does anyone know what violence is?”
“Rape!”
“Homicide!”
“Fighting!”
“Domestic Violence!”
The MTV generation provided example after example flawlessly, which could be expected seeing as how they watch violence every day on their televisions and play violent characters on their XBOX 360’s and Playstations. “Violence is any kind of harmful physical contact that you don’t invite. This is why football isn’t violent,” says the counselor.
Her asinine statements make me smile. “Football’s not violent because you have a reasonable expectation to get hit,” I ask myself as she goes into the finer points of teaching the students the politics of victimization? I listen to the lecture and watch the kids drift off to the dull monotony of her voice like so many reruns of Ferris Bueller. Something she said snapped me out of my trance though.
“There are some people who are in the school, many are new transfers who tend to solve their problems with violence. You don’t want to be like those people,” said the counselor.
Those people? I can’t help but imagine that she was talking about the scores of black faces that I saw in the hallway that were new residents of the area. They stuck out like sore thumbs with their Rocawear t-shirts and baggy Girbaud jeans against a backdrop of Ralph Lauren, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Clarks wallabee shoes.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as she began to give the children a crash course in how to successfully perform gentrification. She drew a makeshift house on the board. “Let’s say this is a house in Clay-Chalkville, and it’s on the market for $150,000,” said the counselor. The children “ooh” and “ahh” in wonder because at twelve, $150,000 could possibly be all the money in the world.
“Every time you get in a fight and every time one of these people does something bad, it damages our neighborhood reputation and it drops our property values. After a while people won’t want their kids to come to Clay-Chalkville Middle School and this $150,000 will only be able to sell for about $80,000 because some people come to your school and don’t know how to act,” lectured the counselor.
I could feel the muscles in my face flex and tighten as I tried my hardest to maintain an air of professionalism in the face of such blatant disdain for people like me, people who came from the places I once played, people who moved to this side of town for a chance at a better life.
I stood up with all of the determination I could muster at this point. My eyes were narrowed into two menacing slits; my nostrils flared like a bull ready to charge and gore the taunting matador. An entire rant was formulating in my head about racism, gentrification, gerrymandering, the 60’s, Jim Crow, and the fact that black history month was coming soon. I was ready. I was a warrior. The spirit of Huey P. Newton possessed me and made old Negro spirituals run through my veins. I opened my mouth wide.
And said nothing…
If I had never been aware of the fact that I was a black man before, I most certainly was now. If I was never made aware of my place on the educational totem pole before, I most definitely knew my place now. At the bottom.
I am a substitute teacher. I am black. I am male. I am a rarity. Some may think I take my job too seriously, I say maybe they don’t take my job as serious as they should.
--Chad A. Hullett
Monday, August 20, 2007
Link to the podcast!
Here's a link to the Podcast!
http://www.mediafire.com/?dny0m5n1xyt
The topic of this one is the dreaded "N-Word"
Seriously, what is the purpose of burying it or banning it if EVERYTHING else in Black America is falling apart?
I'll try to have the one on Dogfighting and Michael Vick up later....Any suggestions for future topics?
http://www.mediafire.com/?dny0m5n1xyt
The topic of this one is the dreaded "N-Word"
Seriously, what is the purpose of burying it or banning it if EVERYTHING else in Black America is falling apart?
I'll try to have the one on Dogfighting and Michael Vick up later....Any suggestions for future topics?
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
What Type of Seed Will You Be? (My Testimony...)
I've been M.I.A. for quite a while...I know it's bothered some people. Some it has caused concern. If I worried you, I apologize. However, know that God has been moving in my life in an awesome way and I would like to share it with as many people as I possibly can...
On Friday, May 26th my oldest Brother Cedric passed away...needless to say, it was very unsettling to me. His funeral was Saturday, June 2nd. At the request of a very close friend of mine, I went to church that next day. I had not been to church voluntarily in over a year. In the midst of my pain, anger, and frustration I agreed.
On Sunday, June 3rd, 2007 I turned my life over to Christ. I got saved. I knelt on my knees and fell on my face and asked God to take over my life, order my steps, and remove all the pain, frustration, anger, disappointment, reluctance, and unfaithfulness that had taken over my mind and soul. I prayed that He would make me a vessel through which others could see His glory and power. Ever since that day....He has been faithful. I have been....trying really hard. (LOL!)
This is probably strange and foreign to some of you reading this. You're used to me writing about Black Nationalism, activism, poetry, or some other random thing on my mind. Well, this is no different. I'm writing about my passions. My passion (not to sound cliche') has become Christ.
It's funny though, I never thought I could be saved and be "cool" so to speak. True enough, dedicating your life to walking the "straight and narrow" is no easy task. It is the HARDEST thing I will ever do and have begun to do. However, it is comforting to know that I can still be the same crazy, joking fun loving person I have always been and still be dedicated to Him and His word.
Well, recently God revealed something to me and I had to share it with the world...hence, it being posted on the World Wide Web.
While reading the book of Mark, I came across the Parable of The Sower. A Story I had read many times before, I just had not truly looked into it. Well, God gave me a certain revelation about myself in relation to it and I'm sure there are others who can relate as well.
Mark 4:1-9 (KJV)
1 Again Jesus began to teach by the lake. The crowd that gathered around him was so large that he got into a boat and sat in it out on the lake, while all the people were along the shore at the water's edge.
2 He taught them many things by parables, and in his teaching said:
3 "Listen! A farmer went out to sow his seed.
4 As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.
5 Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow.
6 But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root.
7 Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants, so that they did not bear grain.
8 Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up, grew and produced a crop, multiplying thirty, sixty, or even a hundred times."
9 Then Jesus said, "He who has ears to hear, let him hear."
Further on in the 4th chapter of Mark up to Verse 20, Jesus tells His disciples that this parable is about how the Gospel will be accepted among man. However, for those struggling in their faith or those lost in their faith it may serve as a point of reference to their own lives. It may say to them, "God knows what I'm going through." So I ask you today to make a decision. What type of seed will you be?
Jesus spoke of 4 types of seeds....and I have been the first 3. I am determined and prayerful to not regress in my walk with Him back to one of those types...
Seed Type 1:
This type of seed is described in verse 4, "some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up." This type of person is one who lives life as if there is no God. You may know God is there, yet you do not acknowledge Him. He is but a mere afterthought or a passing fancy. Some would even go so far as to say He does not exist.
Now, I never went to the point of saying he doesn't exist, but I have led a life without God. When you live a life without Him, you are completely at the mercy of the World. You have no direction and your life is merely yours. That being said, if you think you can make it without Him, I'm living proof that you can't.
During my period of God-less living, I had more trials and tribulations than I care to remember. I had death, sickness, financial troubles, and pain all around me. I always said to myself, "It's just tough times, everybody goes through them. I can make it out. " I did...sometimes. Other times, I didn't. When I did make it out, I can't say that I made it out unscathed. Many people who know me, met me during this time. Yeah, I'm a preacher's kid in every sense of the stereotype. (I won't say "the phrase" in this instance) I must admit that while I thought my problems were typical and my life was fine without God, in my spiritual growth I'm realizing that my problems were often caused because I was seeking something (acceptance, pleasure, approval, etc.) and I did them in worldly and often FOOLISH ways because I did not know God. I am grateful that I know Him now, but I wish so badly I would have known Him then. I would have been saved quite a bit of trouble and pain.
Seed Type 2:
Seed Type 2 is talked about in verses 5 and 6. It states, "Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root." This is essentially what we commonly call, "the backslider." Yup, I've been that too.
Have you ever been desiring to know God and you didn't feel like you were worthy? Have you ever been to church or heard the Word of God or maybe just felt the words of a song that made you want to have a personal relationship with Him? I'm sure you have. So you went to church right? You confessed your sins, sang the hymns, paid a few tithes and/or offerings and then went outside and listened to your Kirk Franklin cd until you got home. The next few days, weeks, or months (in some cases like mine, hours) you were ON FIRE for Jesus. You sang "Send Down the Rain " in the shower. You were jogging and singing "Order My Steps." You saw a beautiful woman (or man for the ladies) in something flattering to their figure and you said out loud, "Satan, get thee behind me!" Then you got home and saw a bill marked "Past Due", then a bill collector called about your student loans, then your boys or your homegirl calls and asks you to get drunk/high/a combination of the two, you immediately forget all about your "On Fire" for Jesus mindframe and began to live a worldly life again, because you subconsciously believe prayer and faithfulness has failed you.
I've been there. God never said that following Him was easy. It is , however, easy to follow the world. We all know it's easier to be a sheep than a shepherd. You don't have to worry about anything in action or thought as a sheep because the shepherd often thinks for you and tells you what to think. That's how it is in the earthly sense. In God's sense, we are a part of His flock and He wants you to bring those problems to him. He doesn't want you to go back to the worldly ways that you let go off for that period of time as a release or an escape from problems. For all intents and purposes, JESUS should be that release. He is our own personal "beast of burden" so to speak. Just a bull or oxen is tied to a yoke and carries the plow, Jesus wants to be yoked to us and help us plow through the field of trials and tribulations that may make their way into our life. We cannot allow ourselves to get discouraged in tough times. In all actuality, the trying times are there to strengthen our faith, not to destroy it.
Seed Type 3:
Seed 3 is probably the most prevalent seed. Verse 7 says, "Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants, so that they did not bear grain. " This is especially close to my heart, because I've had to deal with it.
When you have acquired new found faith and you are truly 100% sold to the concept of serving God, living your life for Him, and basking in the glory and forgiveness that He has provided through his son Jesus there are things that come against you. You will begin to notice some of the things within yourself that are a hindrance to you in your growth in Christ Jesus. These hindrances, or thorns, manifest themselves in a few different ways...the ones I have had to deal with are people, vices, and spirits. Keep in mind, this is what I have had to pray about. We must each pray that the Lord delivers us from WHATEVER has hindered us or will hinder us in our relationship with Him.
In people form, I have had to deal with my own struggles. I had negative/toxic people in my life that I've had to let go and pray for. I've had people that I disliked for some reason or another be a hindrance to me. (Sidenote: The word says that you MUST forgive others of their sins if you are to receive forgiveness for your own.) I've had people who just don't understand Jesus or live a God-less life try to be a bad influence. While we are to definitely love our neighbors as we love ourselves, for that is the greatest commandment of all, we cannot allow ourselves to go to hell because of them. Giving your life to Christ is like a marriage. You must CHOOSE to be with Him. He'll get your attention, but He is a gentleman...He will not force you. Often times we hear in weddings, "What GOD has brought together, let no MAN put asunder." Well, if a MAN or woMAN is keeping you from a relationship with God....you MUST let it go.
We all have vices. Vices are things of the flesh or of the world that we enjoy that are not pleasing to God. We've got to let those go too. I know my vices. I'm not gonna spell them out for ya, but know that I have them and they are not easy things to let go. When you give up the world to follow Jesus, you are essentially becoming His disciple. His disciples gave up all of their worldly possessions to follow Him. They gave up jobs, family, and lifestyles to be a servant of the Most High. When Jesus called Levi, better known as Matthew, he was a tax collector. Which, at that time was a VERY lucrative position. Now, if Peter, Andrew, James, and John can walk away from their positions as fishermen to become "Fishers of Men" who are we to allow something detrimental to us stand in our way. Why should we let lust, alcoholism, smoking, anger, pride, hatred, or anything else stand in our path? If we truly want to know God, we must pray that he removes these detrimental activities, spirits, and feelings from our lives. I know he's delivered me from some...
Last, but definitely not least, are spirits. Spirits scare people. They conjure up images of ghosts, goblins, and movies about the "undead." Spirits are real. If we believe in God, if we believe in Jesus, then we must also believe in the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is our counselor and comforter. In convicts us when we are wrong and also blesses our spirit when we are right. Now, if we believe in the Trinity, we must also believe in negative spirits. Why? Because they exist according to the life of Jesus. In Matthew 8:16, we are told the story of demons casting a number of demons into a herd of pigs. These demons/spirits had possessed a man and made him do many things that a sane person wouldn't do. Sometimes we are affected by different spirits and don't even know it. Spirits can cause us to have vices. The reason I have separated them is because we often think of vices as tangible things we do and spirits as things we do not see and often don't think about. They exist and we must pray for God to deliver us from any spirit that is not of Him or for the benefit of His Kingdom.
Seed Type 4:
"Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up, grew and produced a crop, multiplying thirty, sixty, or even a hundred times."
This is the seed that we should strive to be. This is the seed I am trying to be. I often ran from the possibility of giving my life over to God because I thought I wasn't worthy, or I thought he didn't care, or I was afraid of any sort of responsibility he may place on me. I couldn't have been further from the truth.
God KNEW I wasn't worthy, He just wanted me to admit it and admit that I need His help to make it . He wanted me to kneel down and confess my sins and ask for forgiveness. I then prayed for His Son Jesus to come into my heart and make me whole again so that I may be a better man and a servant of Him. I wanted to live my life (that he gave me) according to His Will. Ever since then, I have been a better man and a better Christian.
God Cares even when we're too blind or stupid to know it. We often ask God, "Why Me?" when bad things happen to us. Sometimes we don't see how WE caused those bad things and are trying to blame God for it. We don't acknowledge all that God has shielded us from in our own unbelief or disobedience. We often ignore the blessings that God has given us to focus on the bad things that we have brought on ourselves or the devil has brought in our lives. We must be faithful and diligent to, as Cee-Lo put is, humbly hear God when He's speaking. He cares about YOU more than YOU could ever imagine. He's protected and provided for YOU when you didn't deserve it. It hurts Him when YOU sin. He sent HIS ONLY SON to die for YOUR sins. If that's not love....I don't know what is.
I admit....I'm still afraid of what I will do if he shoulders me with any sort of responsibility, but I'm praying about it. It's not a reason to not seek His face is what I had to realize. I learned that He doesn't do things on accident. He does everything in good and perfect order and you won't be given anything or blessed with anything not one millisecond before HE is ready for you to have it.
What much of this boils down to is faith...
God knows that new converts or rededicated Christians are still growing in their faith. He shows us this through a statement Jesus made. Matthew 17:20 says, "And Jesus said unto them, Because of your unbelief: for verily I say unto you, If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you."
Unbelief in Greek means, "little faith." Jesus scolded the disciples for having faith smaller than a mustard seed. A mustard seed is but a little bit larger than the period on the computer screen you're reading this from, but it grows into one of the largest plants in a field.
Think about it, if the disciples were with Jesus EVERY DAY, and they didn't believe (at least fully until after the resurrection) we aren't expected to have this mass outpouring of faith overnight. Our faith must be planted by asking Jesus to come into our hearts, nurtured by studying the word, watered by shepherds sent by Him, and it will grow according to our faithfulness and acknowledgment of Him in our lives.
In a little over two months mine has grown EXPONENTIALLY. It's almost scary....LOL!
So, I want to ask you again. What kind of seed will you be?
Pray for me and my Strength in The Lord. God Bless.
On Friday, May 26th my oldest Brother Cedric passed away...needless to say, it was very unsettling to me. His funeral was Saturday, June 2nd. At the request of a very close friend of mine, I went to church that next day. I had not been to church voluntarily in over a year. In the midst of my pain, anger, and frustration I agreed.
On Sunday, June 3rd, 2007 I turned my life over to Christ. I got saved. I knelt on my knees and fell on my face and asked God to take over my life, order my steps, and remove all the pain, frustration, anger, disappointment, reluctance, and unfaithfulness that had taken over my mind and soul. I prayed that He would make me a vessel through which others could see His glory and power. Ever since that day....He has been faithful. I have been....trying really hard. (LOL!)
This is probably strange and foreign to some of you reading this. You're used to me writing about Black Nationalism, activism, poetry, or some other random thing on my mind. Well, this is no different. I'm writing about my passions. My passion (not to sound cliche') has become Christ.
It's funny though, I never thought I could be saved and be "cool" so to speak. True enough, dedicating your life to walking the "straight and narrow" is no easy task. It is the HARDEST thing I will ever do and have begun to do. However, it is comforting to know that I can still be the same crazy, joking fun loving person I have always been and still be dedicated to Him and His word.
Well, recently God revealed something to me and I had to share it with the world...hence, it being posted on the World Wide Web.
While reading the book of Mark, I came across the Parable of The Sower. A Story I had read many times before, I just had not truly looked into it. Well, God gave me a certain revelation about myself in relation to it and I'm sure there are others who can relate as well.
Mark 4:1-9 (KJV)
1 Again Jesus began to teach by the lake. The crowd that gathered around him was so large that he got into a boat and sat in it out on the lake, while all the people were along the shore at the water's edge.
2 He taught them many things by parables, and in his teaching said:
3 "Listen! A farmer went out to sow his seed.
4 As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.
5 Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow.
6 But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root.
7 Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants, so that they did not bear grain.
8 Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up, grew and produced a crop, multiplying thirty, sixty, or even a hundred times."
9 Then Jesus said, "He who has ears to hear, let him hear."
Further on in the 4th chapter of Mark up to Verse 20, Jesus tells His disciples that this parable is about how the Gospel will be accepted among man. However, for those struggling in their faith or those lost in their faith it may serve as a point of reference to their own lives. It may say to them, "God knows what I'm going through." So I ask you today to make a decision. What type of seed will you be?
Jesus spoke of 4 types of seeds....and I have been the first 3. I am determined and prayerful to not regress in my walk with Him back to one of those types...
Seed Type 1:
This type of seed is described in verse 4, "some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up." This type of person is one who lives life as if there is no God. You may know God is there, yet you do not acknowledge Him. He is but a mere afterthought or a passing fancy. Some would even go so far as to say He does not exist.
Now, I never went to the point of saying he doesn't exist, but I have led a life without God. When you live a life without Him, you are completely at the mercy of the World. You have no direction and your life is merely yours. That being said, if you think you can make it without Him, I'm living proof that you can't.
During my period of God-less living, I had more trials and tribulations than I care to remember. I had death, sickness, financial troubles, and pain all around me. I always said to myself, "It's just tough times, everybody goes through them. I can make it out. " I did...sometimes. Other times, I didn't. When I did make it out, I can't say that I made it out unscathed. Many people who know me, met me during this time. Yeah, I'm a preacher's kid in every sense of the stereotype. (I won't say "the phrase" in this instance) I must admit that while I thought my problems were typical and my life was fine without God, in my spiritual growth I'm realizing that my problems were often caused because I was seeking something (acceptance, pleasure, approval, etc.) and I did them in worldly and often FOOLISH ways because I did not know God. I am grateful that I know Him now, but I wish so badly I would have known Him then. I would have been saved quite a bit of trouble and pain.
Seed Type 2:
Seed Type 2 is talked about in verses 5 and 6. It states, "Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root." This is essentially what we commonly call, "the backslider." Yup, I've been that too.
Have you ever been desiring to know God and you didn't feel like you were worthy? Have you ever been to church or heard the Word of God or maybe just felt the words of a song that made you want to have a personal relationship with Him? I'm sure you have. So you went to church right? You confessed your sins, sang the hymns, paid a few tithes and/or offerings and then went outside and listened to your Kirk Franklin cd until you got home. The next few days, weeks, or months (in some cases like mine, hours) you were ON FIRE for Jesus. You sang "Send Down the Rain " in the shower. You were jogging and singing "Order My Steps." You saw a beautiful woman (or man for the ladies) in something flattering to their figure and you said out loud, "Satan, get thee behind me!" Then you got home and saw a bill marked "Past Due", then a bill collector called about your student loans, then your boys or your homegirl calls and asks you to get drunk/high/a combination of the two, you immediately forget all about your "On Fire" for Jesus mindframe and began to live a worldly life again, because you subconsciously believe prayer and faithfulness has failed you.
I've been there. God never said that following Him was easy. It is , however, easy to follow the world. We all know it's easier to be a sheep than a shepherd. You don't have to worry about anything in action or thought as a sheep because the shepherd often thinks for you and tells you what to think. That's how it is in the earthly sense. In God's sense, we are a part of His flock and He wants you to bring those problems to him. He doesn't want you to go back to the worldly ways that you let go off for that period of time as a release or an escape from problems. For all intents and purposes, JESUS should be that release. He is our own personal "beast of burden" so to speak. Just a bull or oxen is tied to a yoke and carries the plow, Jesus wants to be yoked to us and help us plow through the field of trials and tribulations that may make their way into our life. We cannot allow ourselves to get discouraged in tough times. In all actuality, the trying times are there to strengthen our faith, not to destroy it.
Seed Type 3:
Seed 3 is probably the most prevalent seed. Verse 7 says, "Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants, so that they did not bear grain. " This is especially close to my heart, because I've had to deal with it.
When you have acquired new found faith and you are truly 100% sold to the concept of serving God, living your life for Him, and basking in the glory and forgiveness that He has provided through his son Jesus there are things that come against you. You will begin to notice some of the things within yourself that are a hindrance to you in your growth in Christ Jesus. These hindrances, or thorns, manifest themselves in a few different ways...the ones I have had to deal with are people, vices, and spirits. Keep in mind, this is what I have had to pray about. We must each pray that the Lord delivers us from WHATEVER has hindered us or will hinder us in our relationship with Him.
In people form, I have had to deal with my own struggles. I had negative/toxic people in my life that I've had to let go and pray for. I've had people that I disliked for some reason or another be a hindrance to me. (Sidenote: The word says that you MUST forgive others of their sins if you are to receive forgiveness for your own.) I've had people who just don't understand Jesus or live a God-less life try to be a bad influence. While we are to definitely love our neighbors as we love ourselves, for that is the greatest commandment of all, we cannot allow ourselves to go to hell because of them. Giving your life to Christ is like a marriage. You must CHOOSE to be with Him. He'll get your attention, but He is a gentleman...He will not force you. Often times we hear in weddings, "What GOD has brought together, let no MAN put asunder." Well, if a MAN or woMAN is keeping you from a relationship with God....you MUST let it go.
We all have vices. Vices are things of the flesh or of the world that we enjoy that are not pleasing to God. We've got to let those go too. I know my vices. I'm not gonna spell them out for ya, but know that I have them and they are not easy things to let go. When you give up the world to follow Jesus, you are essentially becoming His disciple. His disciples gave up all of their worldly possessions to follow Him. They gave up jobs, family, and lifestyles to be a servant of the Most High. When Jesus called Levi, better known as Matthew, he was a tax collector. Which, at that time was a VERY lucrative position. Now, if Peter, Andrew, James, and John can walk away from their positions as fishermen to become "Fishers of Men" who are we to allow something detrimental to us stand in our way. Why should we let lust, alcoholism, smoking, anger, pride, hatred, or anything else stand in our path? If we truly want to know God, we must pray that he removes these detrimental activities, spirits, and feelings from our lives. I know he's delivered me from some...
Last, but definitely not least, are spirits. Spirits scare people. They conjure up images of ghosts, goblins, and movies about the "undead." Spirits are real. If we believe in God, if we believe in Jesus, then we must also believe in the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is our counselor and comforter. In convicts us when we are wrong and also blesses our spirit when we are right. Now, if we believe in the Trinity, we must also believe in negative spirits. Why? Because they exist according to the life of Jesus. In Matthew 8:16, we are told the story of demons casting a number of demons into a herd of pigs. These demons/spirits had possessed a man and made him do many things that a sane person wouldn't do. Sometimes we are affected by different spirits and don't even know it. Spirits can cause us to have vices. The reason I have separated them is because we often think of vices as tangible things we do and spirits as things we do not see and often don't think about. They exist and we must pray for God to deliver us from any spirit that is not of Him or for the benefit of His Kingdom.
Seed Type 4:
"Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up, grew and produced a crop, multiplying thirty, sixty, or even a hundred times."
This is the seed that we should strive to be. This is the seed I am trying to be. I often ran from the possibility of giving my life over to God because I thought I wasn't worthy, or I thought he didn't care, or I was afraid of any sort of responsibility he may place on me. I couldn't have been further from the truth.
God KNEW I wasn't worthy, He just wanted me to admit it and admit that I need His help to make it . He wanted me to kneel down and confess my sins and ask for forgiveness. I then prayed for His Son Jesus to come into my heart and make me whole again so that I may be a better man and a servant of Him. I wanted to live my life (that he gave me) according to His Will. Ever since then, I have been a better man and a better Christian.
God Cares even when we're too blind or stupid to know it. We often ask God, "Why Me?" when bad things happen to us. Sometimes we don't see how WE caused those bad things and are trying to blame God for it. We don't acknowledge all that God has shielded us from in our own unbelief or disobedience. We often ignore the blessings that God has given us to focus on the bad things that we have brought on ourselves or the devil has brought in our lives. We must be faithful and diligent to, as Cee-Lo put is, humbly hear God when He's speaking. He cares about YOU more than YOU could ever imagine. He's protected and provided for YOU when you didn't deserve it. It hurts Him when YOU sin. He sent HIS ONLY SON to die for YOUR sins. If that's not love....I don't know what is.
I admit....I'm still afraid of what I will do if he shoulders me with any sort of responsibility, but I'm praying about it. It's not a reason to not seek His face is what I had to realize. I learned that He doesn't do things on accident. He does everything in good and perfect order and you won't be given anything or blessed with anything not one millisecond before HE is ready for you to have it.
What much of this boils down to is faith...
God knows that new converts or rededicated Christians are still growing in their faith. He shows us this through a statement Jesus made. Matthew 17:20 says, "And Jesus said unto them, Because of your unbelief: for verily I say unto you, If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you."
Unbelief in Greek means, "little faith." Jesus scolded the disciples for having faith smaller than a mustard seed. A mustard seed is but a little bit larger than the period on the computer screen you're reading this from, but it grows into one of the largest plants in a field.
Think about it, if the disciples were with Jesus EVERY DAY, and they didn't believe (at least fully until after the resurrection) we aren't expected to have this mass outpouring of faith overnight. Our faith must be planted by asking Jesus to come into our hearts, nurtured by studying the word, watered by shepherds sent by Him, and it will grow according to our faithfulness and acknowledgment of Him in our lives.
In a little over two months mine has grown EXPONENTIALLY. It's almost scary....LOL!
So, I want to ask you again. What kind of seed will you be?
Pray for me and my Strength in The Lord. God Bless.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The Black Male Psyche Riddled With Self-Hatred (Part 2)
The Black Male in America has been labeled...branded...marked.
Adjectives such as "Endangered Species", "Undereducated", "Unemployable", "Ignorant", and "Unambitious" are lobbed at men who look like me every day from the halls of academia, to the bright lights of Hollywood, to the simple "man on the street"....
I often ask why are we labeled as such until I think about the various self-destructive that we do within our own community. We have been trained to hate ourselves and as a result others are allowed to degrade and disrespect us.
In recent weeks and months, Hip-Hop has come under fire as the main source of this self-hatred. While I agree that hip-hop plays a role, I refuse to ignore other factors within this (not to sound like a conspiracy theorist) "grand scheme" of self-hatred. There are other factors in play here. I'll address Hip-Hop but I'll also address poverty, education, the media, societal attitudes, and the justice system.
I'll start with Hip-Hop because it's the easiest to address.
Hip-Hop
"These are more than words/This is more than rap/This is the Streets/and I am the trap..."
-Young Jeezy
I will bet a million dollars (that I don't have) that Jeezy didn't know exactly how true his statement was. Jeezy is a part of the canon of rappers that have enjoyed critical acclaim, wealth, and unimaginable success by telling their street tales in poetic form for audiences of millions. In the same vein as Etheridge Knight, Jeezy paints pictures of the late nights/early mornings that street hustlers see on a daily basis. Violence, Poverty, and Fast Money are his subjects. His Canvas is the street. His fans are afficianado's of this art.
Jeezy is, however, part of the problem. For all of his heartfelt tales, vivid imagery, and the simple beauty with which he tells his life story, Jeezy does not balance his tales of sex, money, and drugs with positive images. He's not the only one.
I don't get mad about it because it's his prerogative as an artist and entrepreneur to put out his body of work as he sees fit. I will defend his right to make his music without censorship.
I said all of that to make this point. Jeezy is not the problem with the black male mind. The problem, in effect, are the "gatekeepers" of hip-hop. MTV and BET (both owned by Viacom) are responsible for Hip-Hop being beamed into millions of homes everyday. Clear Channel, RadioOne, and Cox Communications shoot hip-hop right to the cars and ears of millions listeners every day at various times of day. I think it is an amazing thing. What disgusts me is the prevalence of only one side of hip-hop.
Tatiana Richards told me a quote that she heard someone say. "There are 35 Million different black people. That means there are 35 Million different ways to be black." Hip-Hop is JUST AS DIVERSE. You would never know it though. Hip-Hop is a culture. Rap is her music. Whenever you turn on the radio, all you hear is one type of rap music. You hear poignant street tales, guns busting, blunt blazing, crackhead serving, chickenhead chasing, booty shaking music. Very rarely do we hear "Conscious Hip-Hop" or "Trip-Hop" or "Skate Rap" or even "Rock Rap". We are force fed catchy tunes that do not feed the mind.
I am a firm believer that hip-hop was born out of the poverty of black and latino youth in New York in the late 70's. They rapped about their everyday lives. They rapped, danced, drew graffitti, scratched records, dressed, and lived for the rebellion against society that hip-hop was born from. Hip-Hop was the child of revolution. We are listening to hip-hop's fourth generation of rappers. What all the generation of rappers had in common was that they rapped about their experiences. Incarcerated Rapper Shyne once spit, "They Don't Do It Cause I Rap About It/I RAP ABOUT IT CAUSE THEY DO IT..." It is simply art imitating life.
As Hip-Hop grew up (Most recently turning 30) she became BIG business. She was taken over and distributed by the larger companies in the music making business. Now, if Hip-Hop was created by impoverished black and Latin youth and grew to be taken over by big business, who do you think is REALLY pulling the strings. Rich old men, often white, who package the most taboo and salacious elements of hip-hop culture and peddle it back to us as authentic. It's become so deeply ingrained into the mainstream of our society that you aren't "keeping it real" unless you are talking about serve the soft white or a few bricks of that tan. (Slang for certain types of drugs)
While the poverty, violence, and drug use have always been a large part of hip-hop tales, throughout history they were always told as simply stories. Now they are glorified. I'm not even calling for it to stop. I'm simply calling for a balance in the art. Period.
Hip-Hop is more than words. It's a reflection of impoverished society and many different aspects of black life.
Hip-Hop is more than rap, it's a culture. Essentially it began as a movement.
This is the streets. Hip-Hop came from the Streets. So did the blues, jazz, rock and roll, Etheridge Knight, Amiri Baraka, Ralph Ellison's Creativity, and Romare Bearden's eye for art.
I am the trap. No you're not Jeezy, not intentionally anyway.
Poverty (Specifically geared towards the large number of blacks living in poverty)
Blacks and Hispanics live in poverty in greater percentages than any other ethnic group in the country.
It has been proven that poverty breeds crime. Thus, more black males are expected to either commit or witness crimes in their living in poverty.
Also, since it's been proven that poverty is often cyclical and our living conditions determine our future and mindset often times, I'm naturally inclined to believe that the sins of the father are truly visited upon the son in these impoverished areas where crime becomes a somewhat accepted part of our existence. The more you witness or commit a crime, you less outraged you are by it. This desensitization more often leads otherwise intelligent, good black men who could get out of their situations to take chances within the illegal sector of American life. This coupled with various other factors more often than not becomes a recipe for disaster.
Education
In 2003, the average education level for black males was said to be 10th grade level. That's not even a high school diploma. Without a high school diploma it is almost impossible to get a job above minimum wage. Minimum wage is too low to feed a family or pay the living expenses for one human being. Thus, many black males turn towards crime. So, why are black males undereducated? For a number of reasons.
Black males tend to lose interest in education around 4th grade according to Jawanza Kunjufu's book Countering the Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys (which I read for the first time actually around 7th grade). Kunjufu cites many different reasons for this breakdown. I'll try to go through it as simply as possible.
If they are impoverished, they have more to worry about than conjugating verbs, long division, and the Civil War. It's tough to concentrate on Social Studies when you don't know if you're going to eat that night.
Often times the student feels as though the subject matter doesn't relate to him. The figures in history don't look like him. The things that happen seem so far away. The math seems pointless and uninteresting. English is so very different from the AAVE he speaks at home. (African American Vernacular English) After all of that he is tested to DEATH. Standardized tests hear, Academic competency test there. Eventually he sees no point in trying. Lack of adequate attention to his problems and reconciliation with the world around him forces him to act out.
After he acts out he gets labeled. Learning Disabled. Attention Deficit Disorder. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Dyslexic. Problem Child. Just Plain Dumb. Believe it or not, students at a very young age are highly aware of adult's perception of them. They are very aware of their surroundings as well. They know why they have to go to the special class even though they don't feel anything is wrong with them. They know that the medicine that they are forced to take makes them jittery and jumpy and feel bad and they know that nothing is wrong with their mind. They know when adults think they are hopeless. They know when adults think they are stupid. At some point they give up caring. Special Education is used too broadly by lazy teacher, systems, and administrators to focus on problems that are not educational or mental. That's another soapbox thought.
I would continue but my brain drew a blank on Education just now....
I'll continue with this one as well as The Media, Societal Attitudes, and The Justice System in the next blog post.
Adjectives such as "Endangered Species", "Undereducated", "Unemployable", "Ignorant", and "Unambitious" are lobbed at men who look like me every day from the halls of academia, to the bright lights of Hollywood, to the simple "man on the street"....
I often ask why are we labeled as such until I think about the various self-destructive that we do within our own community. We have been trained to hate ourselves and as a result others are allowed to degrade and disrespect us.
In recent weeks and months, Hip-Hop has come under fire as the main source of this self-hatred. While I agree that hip-hop plays a role, I refuse to ignore other factors within this (not to sound like a conspiracy theorist) "grand scheme" of self-hatred. There are other factors in play here. I'll address Hip-Hop but I'll also address poverty, education, the media, societal attitudes, and the justice system.
I'll start with Hip-Hop because it's the easiest to address.
Hip-Hop
"These are more than words/This is more than rap/This is the Streets/and I am the trap..."
-Young Jeezy
I will bet a million dollars (that I don't have) that Jeezy didn't know exactly how true his statement was. Jeezy is a part of the canon of rappers that have enjoyed critical acclaim, wealth, and unimaginable success by telling their street tales in poetic form for audiences of millions. In the same vein as Etheridge Knight, Jeezy paints pictures of the late nights/early mornings that street hustlers see on a daily basis. Violence, Poverty, and Fast Money are his subjects. His Canvas is the street. His fans are afficianado's of this art.
Jeezy is, however, part of the problem. For all of his heartfelt tales, vivid imagery, and the simple beauty with which he tells his life story, Jeezy does not balance his tales of sex, money, and drugs with positive images. He's not the only one.
I don't get mad about it because it's his prerogative as an artist and entrepreneur to put out his body of work as he sees fit. I will defend his right to make his music without censorship.
I said all of that to make this point. Jeezy is not the problem with the black male mind. The problem, in effect, are the "gatekeepers" of hip-hop. MTV and BET (both owned by Viacom) are responsible for Hip-Hop being beamed into millions of homes everyday. Clear Channel, RadioOne, and Cox Communications shoot hip-hop right to the cars and ears of millions listeners every day at various times of day. I think it is an amazing thing. What disgusts me is the prevalence of only one side of hip-hop.
Tatiana Richards told me a quote that she heard someone say. "There are 35 Million different black people. That means there are 35 Million different ways to be black." Hip-Hop is JUST AS DIVERSE. You would never know it though. Hip-Hop is a culture. Rap is her music. Whenever you turn on the radio, all you hear is one type of rap music. You hear poignant street tales, guns busting, blunt blazing, crackhead serving, chickenhead chasing, booty shaking music. Very rarely do we hear "Conscious Hip-Hop" or "Trip-Hop" or "Skate Rap" or even "Rock Rap". We are force fed catchy tunes that do not feed the mind.
I am a firm believer that hip-hop was born out of the poverty of black and latino youth in New York in the late 70's. They rapped about their everyday lives. They rapped, danced, drew graffitti, scratched records, dressed, and lived for the rebellion against society that hip-hop was born from. Hip-Hop was the child of revolution. We are listening to hip-hop's fourth generation of rappers. What all the generation of rappers had in common was that they rapped about their experiences. Incarcerated Rapper Shyne once spit, "They Don't Do It Cause I Rap About It/I RAP ABOUT IT CAUSE THEY DO IT..." It is simply art imitating life.
As Hip-Hop grew up (Most recently turning 30) she became BIG business. She was taken over and distributed by the larger companies in the music making business. Now, if Hip-Hop was created by impoverished black and Latin youth and grew to be taken over by big business, who do you think is REALLY pulling the strings. Rich old men, often white, who package the most taboo and salacious elements of hip-hop culture and peddle it back to us as authentic. It's become so deeply ingrained into the mainstream of our society that you aren't "keeping it real" unless you are talking about serve the soft white or a few bricks of that tan. (Slang for certain types of drugs)
While the poverty, violence, and drug use have always been a large part of hip-hop tales, throughout history they were always told as simply stories. Now they are glorified. I'm not even calling for it to stop. I'm simply calling for a balance in the art. Period.
Hip-Hop is more than words. It's a reflection of impoverished society and many different aspects of black life.
Hip-Hop is more than rap, it's a culture. Essentially it began as a movement.
This is the streets. Hip-Hop came from the Streets. So did the blues, jazz, rock and roll, Etheridge Knight, Amiri Baraka, Ralph Ellison's Creativity, and Romare Bearden's eye for art.
I am the trap. No you're not Jeezy, not intentionally anyway.
Poverty (Specifically geared towards the large number of blacks living in poverty)
Blacks and Hispanics live in poverty in greater percentages than any other ethnic group in the country.
It has been proven that poverty breeds crime. Thus, more black males are expected to either commit or witness crimes in their living in poverty.
Also, since it's been proven that poverty is often cyclical and our living conditions determine our future and mindset often times, I'm naturally inclined to believe that the sins of the father are truly visited upon the son in these impoverished areas where crime becomes a somewhat accepted part of our existence. The more you witness or commit a crime, you less outraged you are by it. This desensitization more often leads otherwise intelligent, good black men who could get out of their situations to take chances within the illegal sector of American life. This coupled with various other factors more often than not becomes a recipe for disaster.
Education
In 2003, the average education level for black males was said to be 10th grade level. That's not even a high school diploma. Without a high school diploma it is almost impossible to get a job above minimum wage. Minimum wage is too low to feed a family or pay the living expenses for one human being. Thus, many black males turn towards crime. So, why are black males undereducated? For a number of reasons.
Black males tend to lose interest in education around 4th grade according to Jawanza Kunjufu's book Countering the Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys (which I read for the first time actually around 7th grade). Kunjufu cites many different reasons for this breakdown. I'll try to go through it as simply as possible.
If they are impoverished, they have more to worry about than conjugating verbs, long division, and the Civil War. It's tough to concentrate on Social Studies when you don't know if you're going to eat that night.
Often times the student feels as though the subject matter doesn't relate to him. The figures in history don't look like him. The things that happen seem so far away. The math seems pointless and uninteresting. English is so very different from the AAVE he speaks at home. (African American Vernacular English) After all of that he is tested to DEATH. Standardized tests hear, Academic competency test there. Eventually he sees no point in trying. Lack of adequate attention to his problems and reconciliation with the world around him forces him to act out.
After he acts out he gets labeled. Learning Disabled. Attention Deficit Disorder. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Dyslexic. Problem Child. Just Plain Dumb. Believe it or not, students at a very young age are highly aware of adult's perception of them. They are very aware of their surroundings as well. They know why they have to go to the special class even though they don't feel anything is wrong with them. They know that the medicine that they are forced to take makes them jittery and jumpy and feel bad and they know that nothing is wrong with their mind. They know when adults think they are hopeless. They know when adults think they are stupid. At some point they give up caring. Special Education is used too broadly by lazy teacher, systems, and administrators to focus on problems that are not educational or mental. That's another soapbox thought.
I would continue but my brain drew a blank on Education just now....
I'll continue with this one as well as The Media, Societal Attitudes, and The Justice System in the next blog post.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The Black Male Psyche Riddled with Self-Hatred...(Part 1)
Being a Black Man is tough. Anyone with an ounce of knowledge, understanding, and insight knows that or can see that. We are beat down en masse by society, sytematic segregation, laws slanted toward us, and various other factors that make living with a Y-Chromosome and Darkened Skin akin to fighting a war every day.
One thing that has kept the Black Man sane has been the black woman. She has been both mother and father when the black male was unable to take his role. She has raised numerous black males. She has been the backbone of the family in trying times. She's "stood in the gap" and prayed for the favor of almighty in hours of need. She has been a comforting shoulder to cry on, albeit in the dark. She has been that slap in the face when brothers needed a reality check. She is motivator. She is Wife. She is Helpmate. She is Financial Planner. She is Mother. She is Bold. She is Strong. She is Queen of Civilization...
From the Project Dwelling Single Mother to the Penthouse Residing Yuppie, The Black Woman is as versatile as they come.
With the black woman being so much of what all men want and even more of what all men need, why then do many of us as black men choose to degrade them and hate them?
I write that last sentence as both a hypocrite and a man conscious of what I love about black women. I have referred to women as "bitch" before...I have done some less than noble things to my sisters over the years. However, I have apologized and atoned for them. I am not talking about the guy who has a rough past (or present) and sometimes has a bad dealing or two with our sisters. I wanna focus on a specific genre of brothers. The educated, upwardly mobile, seemingly intelligent brother who has a good job, an advanced degree, and is as financially stable as he can be at that point in life.
Believe it or not, many of these brothers have a sort of disdain for sisters that could be viewed as a hatred. They ignore black women. They degrade them. They decry them as ghetto, combative, unrelenting, unaffectionate, unsubmissive, uneducated, and unattractive. Forgetting all the while that they were brought into this world by a ghetto, combative, unrelenting, unaffectionate, unsubmissive, uneducated, and unattractive BLACK WOMAN. That their grandmother was a BLACK WOMAN. It's ultimately a form of self hatred.
In Psychology there is a concept called "projection." This ultimately means that you project your insecurities and perceived shortcomings on those closest to you or the object of your unattainable desire in some cases. Who is closer to you as a Black Man than the woman who brought you into this world? Also, for a successful man, rejection is the ultimate blow to the ego. Who better to hate than those who may have rejected you in life?
Also, another root of this sort of hatred of black women by both fairly and immensely successful Black Men is their constant need to prove themselves. They want to make the statement, "Hey, I'm just like you guy. I am NOT one of those white t-shirt wearing, Jean sagging affirmative action cases. I got here on my own merits and by my own intelligence and their ain't NOTHING different about me." For all intensive purposes, this may be completely and utterly TRUE to the fullest extent. (Minus all of the self-hatred and jargon) As a result, these black men do certain assmilationist things to go to the extreme of proving that they are not like those "black guys." They wear certain clothes, join certain fraternities (*sigh*) , talk a certain way, act a certain way, and do certain customs associated with "Eurocentric culture." (Point, there is a difference from Eurocentric Culture and Professionalism. Don't get it twisted.) They go so far as to see black women as only objects of sexual prowess and only good for the occasional tryst than wife, mother, confidant, and companion.
Is there any hope for this brother? Probably not. Let's see how he feels in 20 years though when the current crop of sisters in upwardly mobile positions start to take over the country. These sisters often outnumber brothers 3 to 1 and are typically more motivated and driven to succeed. Then I guess I'll be writing another one of these on the sisters huh? I've already seen some out there that fit the mold....in fact I'm looking at one right now.
One thing that has kept the Black Man sane has been the black woman. She has been both mother and father when the black male was unable to take his role. She has raised numerous black males. She has been the backbone of the family in trying times. She's "stood in the gap" and prayed for the favor of almighty in hours of need. She has been a comforting shoulder to cry on, albeit in the dark. She has been that slap in the face when brothers needed a reality check. She is motivator. She is Wife. She is Helpmate. She is Financial Planner. She is Mother. She is Bold. She is Strong. She is Queen of Civilization...
From the Project Dwelling Single Mother to the Penthouse Residing Yuppie, The Black Woman is as versatile as they come.
With the black woman being so much of what all men want and even more of what all men need, why then do many of us as black men choose to degrade them and hate them?
I write that last sentence as both a hypocrite and a man conscious of what I love about black women. I have referred to women as "bitch" before...I have done some less than noble things to my sisters over the years. However, I have apologized and atoned for them. I am not talking about the guy who has a rough past (or present) and sometimes has a bad dealing or two with our sisters. I wanna focus on a specific genre of brothers. The educated, upwardly mobile, seemingly intelligent brother who has a good job, an advanced degree, and is as financially stable as he can be at that point in life.
Believe it or not, many of these brothers have a sort of disdain for sisters that could be viewed as a hatred. They ignore black women. They degrade them. They decry them as ghetto, combative, unrelenting, unaffectionate, unsubmissive, uneducated, and unattractive. Forgetting all the while that they were brought into this world by a ghetto, combative, unrelenting, unaffectionate, unsubmissive, uneducated, and unattractive BLACK WOMAN. That their grandmother was a BLACK WOMAN. It's ultimately a form of self hatred.
In Psychology there is a concept called "projection." This ultimately means that you project your insecurities and perceived shortcomings on those closest to you or the object of your unattainable desire in some cases. Who is closer to you as a Black Man than the woman who brought you into this world? Also, for a successful man, rejection is the ultimate blow to the ego. Who better to hate than those who may have rejected you in life?
Also, another root of this sort of hatred of black women by both fairly and immensely successful Black Men is their constant need to prove themselves. They want to make the statement, "Hey, I'm just like you guy. I am NOT one of those white t-shirt wearing, Jean sagging affirmative action cases. I got here on my own merits and by my own intelligence and their ain't NOTHING different about me." For all intensive purposes, this may be completely and utterly TRUE to the fullest extent. (Minus all of the self-hatred and jargon) As a result, these black men do certain assmilationist things to go to the extreme of proving that they are not like those "black guys." They wear certain clothes, join certain fraternities (*sigh*) , talk a certain way, act a certain way, and do certain customs associated with "Eurocentric culture." (Point, there is a difference from Eurocentric Culture and Professionalism. Don't get it twisted.) They go so far as to see black women as only objects of sexual prowess and only good for the occasional tryst than wife, mother, confidant, and companion.
Is there any hope for this brother? Probably not. Let's see how he feels in 20 years though when the current crop of sisters in upwardly mobile positions start to take over the country. These sisters often outnumber brothers 3 to 1 and are typically more motivated and driven to succeed. Then I guess I'll be writing another one of these on the sisters huh? I've already seen some out there that fit the mold....in fact I'm looking at one right now.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Ok, Here comes my hypocrisy....
I am a blogger....
This means I am vain enough to think that other people actually benefit from and enjoy reading my thoughts.
The only thing is, I try my damndest to actually make sense and articulate my points thoroughly enough for whoever is crazy, interested, or drunk enough to read my ramblings to actually follow my logic.
I am a journalist...
This means that I am trained in the art of disseminating information for mass consumption. I have been taught to take the most complicated concepts and break them down to an eigth grade reading level. I have to be intelligent enough to be able to grasp a number of concepts with varying degrees of complexity.
So naturally it frustrates me when people attempt to expound upon B.S. or articulate undefendable points. It really pisses me off when people get verbal diarrhea and try to put all of the big words they know in a few sentences coupled with asinine ideas and try to pass it off as profound, groundbreaking, or "deep."
I have a suggestion for all aspiring to be a part of the black intelligentsia and the scores of Ph.D.'s and scholars in Black America. Before you decide to write something...whether it be a few thoughts, a complex theory of yours, a concept, a political viewpoint, a thesis, or whatever do us all a favor. Actually think about it...
I am one of those people who can sit down and type in a stream of consciousness. Everyone is not able to do that. I'm not saying I'm the Rakim of the blog world, I'm just saying that it's something I do. When I get ready to rap, I sound better if I write it down first. T.I. and Jay-Z are better at freestyling their rhymes in the booth. See where I'm going with this?
I often read blogs and facebook notes and all sorts of other stuff mainly because I'm a nerd, but more so because I like to keep abreast of what my fellow black 20-somethings are thinking about. Sometimes it's Hip-Hop (Fuck Oprah!), sometimes it's Politics (Obama in '08!), sometimes it's utter drivel (my lipgloss be poppin? WTF?!?!?!), and yet and still there are those who enjoy waxing poetic about a laundry list of things much like myself. My biggest problems comes with those whom, I would like to think, are like me. Conscious balls of never ending thought. (Did I just say "Conscious Balls?" I gotta name my next album that.)
Fellow rambling bloggers. PLEASE at least try and make sense if you're going to blog and save the rest of us a brain cramp trying to decipher the dumb stuff that you put on the internet. Thank You and God Bless.
This means I am vain enough to think that other people actually benefit from and enjoy reading my thoughts.
The only thing is, I try my damndest to actually make sense and articulate my points thoroughly enough for whoever is crazy, interested, or drunk enough to read my ramblings to actually follow my logic.
I am a journalist...
This means that I am trained in the art of disseminating information for mass consumption. I have been taught to take the most complicated concepts and break them down to an eigth grade reading level. I have to be intelligent enough to be able to grasp a number of concepts with varying degrees of complexity.
So naturally it frustrates me when people attempt to expound upon B.S. or articulate undefendable points. It really pisses me off when people get verbal diarrhea and try to put all of the big words they know in a few sentences coupled with asinine ideas and try to pass it off as profound, groundbreaking, or "deep."
I have a suggestion for all aspiring to be a part of the black intelligentsia and the scores of Ph.D.'s and scholars in Black America. Before you decide to write something...whether it be a few thoughts, a complex theory of yours, a concept, a political viewpoint, a thesis, or whatever do us all a favor. Actually think about it...
I am one of those people who can sit down and type in a stream of consciousness. Everyone is not able to do that. I'm not saying I'm the Rakim of the blog world, I'm just saying that it's something I do. When I get ready to rap, I sound better if I write it down first. T.I. and Jay-Z are better at freestyling their rhymes in the booth. See where I'm going with this?
I often read blogs and facebook notes and all sorts of other stuff mainly because I'm a nerd, but more so because I like to keep abreast of what my fellow black 20-somethings are thinking about. Sometimes it's Hip-Hop (Fuck Oprah!), sometimes it's Politics (Obama in '08!), sometimes it's utter drivel (my lipgloss be poppin? WTF?!?!?!), and yet and still there are those who enjoy waxing poetic about a laundry list of things much like myself. My biggest problems comes with those whom, I would like to think, are like me. Conscious balls of never ending thought. (Did I just say "Conscious Balls?" I gotta name my next album that.)
Fellow rambling bloggers. PLEASE at least try and make sense if you're going to blog and save the rest of us a brain cramp trying to decipher the dumb stuff that you put on the internet. Thank You and God Bless.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Musings of a Frustrated Substitute
Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.
-James Baldwin
I've often wondered exactly what determines a man's age. Is it the actual physical years that his heart has beaten? Is it dictated by life's experiences? Can age possibly be determined by the moments in which he feels a widening sense of disconnection from youth? The answer to all three appears to be a resounding yes.
I'm writing this from a high school classroom full of students of various ages, socioeconomic backgrounds, and temperaments. Their ramblings, musings, and childish activities all run together into an caucophony of absolutely useless drivel. It forces the question, "What is really wrong with our children?"
There is an obvious difference between the zeal and exuberance of the young and the pointless activities that our youth use to occupy their time. I have often blamed the media, society, and our educational system for failing our children on numerous occasions. While these institutions cannot be rendered blameless, I am finding more and more that our children don't want to do better. They have no desire to make any more of themselves than what their minimal effort and God's good graces will get them.
I know at 13, 14, 15, and 16, much of your life is wrapped up in self-image , fashion, and finding an identity. Much of this identity is shaped by the peer group that you find yourself within. What can one do though when that identity has proven to ultimately be destructive to not only themselves, but those around them? The answer, more often than not, is strict discipline. Detention, Suspensions, and (in some places) Corporal Punishment are handed out liberally as a "one size fits all" solution to even the simplest of behavioral problems. The only problem is that one cannot be disciplined within a school when they aren't disciplined properly at home and haven't been raised in a home where discipline is the norm. Therefore the school acting under the guise of en loco parentis attempt to properly handle a variety of children within certain parameters of not only good educational practice but also an even-handed, universal fairness so that all are treated equally.
Our children are failing in school and society as a result...
Partially of their own volition...
Partially due to a plethora of outside factors...
Is there a solution, or have we gotten too deep into this quagmire?
The optimist in me wants to say, "Hell yeah there's a solution!"
The realist in me recognizes that it would take two acts of God, an act of the United Nations, a conversion of George Bush to Hinduism, and the resurrection of Nipsey Russell to make the solution actually come to pass.
It would take a renewed interest in parenting, a COMPLETE overhaul of the entire U.S. Department of Education, we'd have to scrap No Child Left Behind, B.E.T. would have to be shut down, Hip-Hop would have to undergo a MAJOR transformation, the Dope Game would have to lose its luster, instutional racism would have to completely disappear, community involvement would have to become a priority for blacks, the black nuclear family would have to magestically reappear in the realm of American society, and last but not least our children would have to begin to give a damn...
Think its possible?
-James Baldwin
I've often wondered exactly what determines a man's age. Is it the actual physical years that his heart has beaten? Is it dictated by life's experiences? Can age possibly be determined by the moments in which he feels a widening sense of disconnection from youth? The answer to all three appears to be a resounding yes.
I'm writing this from a high school classroom full of students of various ages, socioeconomic backgrounds, and temperaments. Their ramblings, musings, and childish activities all run together into an caucophony of absolutely useless drivel. It forces the question, "What is really wrong with our children?"
There is an obvious difference between the zeal and exuberance of the young and the pointless activities that our youth use to occupy their time. I have often blamed the media, society, and our educational system for failing our children on numerous occasions. While these institutions cannot be rendered blameless, I am finding more and more that our children don't want to do better. They have no desire to make any more of themselves than what their minimal effort and God's good graces will get them.
I know at 13, 14, 15, and 16, much of your life is wrapped up in self-image , fashion, and finding an identity. Much of this identity is shaped by the peer group that you find yourself within. What can one do though when that identity has proven to ultimately be destructive to not only themselves, but those around them? The answer, more often than not, is strict discipline. Detention, Suspensions, and (in some places) Corporal Punishment are handed out liberally as a "one size fits all" solution to even the simplest of behavioral problems. The only problem is that one cannot be disciplined within a school when they aren't disciplined properly at home and haven't been raised in a home where discipline is the norm. Therefore the school acting under the guise of en loco parentis attempt to properly handle a variety of children within certain parameters of not only good educational practice but also an even-handed, universal fairness so that all are treated equally.
Our children are failing in school and society as a result...
Partially of their own volition...
Partially due to a plethora of outside factors...
Is there a solution, or have we gotten too deep into this quagmire?
The optimist in me wants to say, "Hell yeah there's a solution!"
The realist in me recognizes that it would take two acts of God, an act of the United Nations, a conversion of George Bush to Hinduism, and the resurrection of Nipsey Russell to make the solution actually come to pass.
It would take a renewed interest in parenting, a COMPLETE overhaul of the entire U.S. Department of Education, we'd have to scrap No Child Left Behind, B.E.T. would have to be shut down, Hip-Hop would have to undergo a MAJOR transformation, the Dope Game would have to lose its luster, instutional racism would have to completely disappear, community involvement would have to become a priority for blacks, the black nuclear family would have to magestically reappear in the realm of American society, and last but not least our children would have to begin to give a damn...
Think its possible?
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Ramblings in Frustration
"Butterflies begin from having been another
As a child is born from being in a mother's womb
But how many times have you wished you were some other
someone than who you are
Yet who's to say if all were uncovered
You will like what you see
You can only be you
As I can only be me
Flowers cannot bloom until it is their season
As we would not be here unless it was our destiny
But how many times have you wished to be in spaces
Time places than what you were
Yet who's to say with unfamiliar faces You could anymore be
Loving you that you see
You can only be you
As I can only be
Me
I can only be me"
--Stevie Wonder
I've always loved that song.
Saturday night after an "interesting" dinner and standing outside for a while trying to put a bag over my freshly broken window...that's a story for another time. I sat at this new lounge in Birmingham called "Steel" and contemplated the drastic 180 my life has taken over the past month and a half or so.
I'm not gonna sit here and spout off a list of problems here, that's not the point. I just wanted to get a few things off my chest.
Closing My Circle
I'm finding my circle of interaction closing rapidly. As I've been going through my trying times, I've reached out to certain people only to be sent to voicemail and treated as a veritable leper. I understand that people have things that they go through. True enough. However, more often than not I don't want to call and talk about that. I may mention how frustrating it is to find a job right now, but I really want to talk about music and poetry. If you're busy, I understand. I think I at least deserve the decency of a call back after a few hours, even the next day. Really. Sometimes I just want to talk and laugh to take my mind off the situation.
There are people in my life who make me smile. I hope I do the same for them from time to time. That's why I reach out to them, because in our trying times we can make each other laugh through the frowns and smile through the tears.
I've also been closing my circle for another reason. I'm finding out about entirely too many people who are supposed to be "holding me down" actually bringing me down. I got stories for days and proof for weeks....
Prayer...
I haven't prayed in a very long time. I've often felt ashamed to kneel before Him. Not because I'm embarrassed to pray in front of others or ashamed to be a Christian. I'm more ashamed of myself than anything. I don't feel worthy to stand in His presence and ask for forgiveness. I am embarrassed because I know better than my actions would lead Him to believe. I am ashamed of some of the things I do, say, and think.
I hear all the time, "Well, that's the beauty of God's forgiveness. He knows that you are imperfect and He wants you to lean on Him." That doesn't help my shame. I have the biggest trouble forgiving myself. It's kind of like that line from Nina Simone's song, "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood"
"Sometimes I find myself alone regretting, some little foolish thing, some simple thing that I have done..."
I love that song too...In fact, I feel as though it's my theme song (Check out the John Legend version)
Anyway, I'm afraid of God's reproach...although I'm probably experiencing it now. My definition of "God Fearing" is probably different from 90% of the Christian population's, I fear God in the same way that Adam and Eve feared Him when they first came to the realization that they were naked...
That's the only way I can describe it.
My Love Life...
I give up on this love thing. I've been chewed up and spit out and ground into the dust...
Love sucks...I'm running from it.
Peace ya'll
SE7EN
As a child is born from being in a mother's womb
But how many times have you wished you were some other
someone than who you are
Yet who's to say if all were uncovered
You will like what you see
You can only be you
As I can only be me
Flowers cannot bloom until it is their season
As we would not be here unless it was our destiny
But how many times have you wished to be in spaces
Time places than what you were
Yet who's to say with unfamiliar faces You could anymore be
Loving you that you see
You can only be you
As I can only be
Me
I can only be me"
--Stevie Wonder
I've always loved that song.
Saturday night after an "interesting" dinner and standing outside for a while trying to put a bag over my freshly broken window...that's a story for another time. I sat at this new lounge in Birmingham called "Steel" and contemplated the drastic 180 my life has taken over the past month and a half or so.
I'm not gonna sit here and spout off a list of problems here, that's not the point. I just wanted to get a few things off my chest.
Closing My Circle
I'm finding my circle of interaction closing rapidly. As I've been going through my trying times, I've reached out to certain people only to be sent to voicemail and treated as a veritable leper. I understand that people have things that they go through. True enough. However, more often than not I don't want to call and talk about that. I may mention how frustrating it is to find a job right now, but I really want to talk about music and poetry. If you're busy, I understand. I think I at least deserve the decency of a call back after a few hours, even the next day. Really. Sometimes I just want to talk and laugh to take my mind off the situation.
There are people in my life who make me smile. I hope I do the same for them from time to time. That's why I reach out to them, because in our trying times we can make each other laugh through the frowns and smile through the tears.
I've also been closing my circle for another reason. I'm finding out about entirely too many people who are supposed to be "holding me down" actually bringing me down. I got stories for days and proof for weeks....
Prayer...
I haven't prayed in a very long time. I've often felt ashamed to kneel before Him. Not because I'm embarrassed to pray in front of others or ashamed to be a Christian. I'm more ashamed of myself than anything. I don't feel worthy to stand in His presence and ask for forgiveness. I am embarrassed because I know better than my actions would lead Him to believe. I am ashamed of some of the things I do, say, and think.
I hear all the time, "Well, that's the beauty of God's forgiveness. He knows that you are imperfect and He wants you to lean on Him." That doesn't help my shame. I have the biggest trouble forgiving myself. It's kind of like that line from Nina Simone's song, "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood"
"Sometimes I find myself alone regretting, some little foolish thing, some simple thing that I have done..."
I love that song too...In fact, I feel as though it's my theme song (Check out the John Legend version)
Anyway, I'm afraid of God's reproach...although I'm probably experiencing it now. My definition of "God Fearing" is probably different from 90% of the Christian population's, I fear God in the same way that Adam and Eve feared Him when they first came to the realization that they were naked...
That's the only way I can describe it.
My Love Life...
I give up on this love thing. I've been chewed up and spit out and ground into the dust...
Love sucks...I'm running from it.
Peace ya'll
SE7EN
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