I
I'd like to ask a question...
I swear it will only take a second...
What is Friendship?
I often wonder what constitutes a true friendship?
Is it the stripes of suffering that two people bare together?
Or is it a fleeting journey that people determine their level of dedication to based on the weather?
Seriously, I've got to know...
I bought a ticket for some sort of support, but now I'd like to get off the boat...
This friend ship seems to be destined to go the way of the Titanic...
Sinking quickly after outlandish assertions/
my conversion from a true believer/to a discerner of deceivers happened somewhere along the beginning of this ride
Two souls kept afloat on a friendship floating over a sea of lies...
II
Maybe people just change...
Maybe the fact that I haven't is a sign of immaturity...
Maybe the fact that I refuse is a sign of loyalty...
What's maturity in a friendship anyway?
I just want somebody to laugh with/study universal math with...
Start up a business and possibly split the cash with?
Is that too much to ask in...
This preapocalypticneosoulheartlessmindless world?
I guess so...
Can I get a refund for my ride on the "friend ship"?
I damn sure need one...
III
I've always been told that you can't pick your family...
Yes you can...
I swear to it...
I stand by it...
I believe it...
I've seen it...
I've got a few brothers and sisters...
A boat load of cousins...
An ex-girlfriend or two...
A lost love running around...
And a heart capable of holding them all...
Should I free them from the obligations of this journey?
Probably...
Many jumped off themselves...
Wo/Man overboard...
No shouting...
No rescue effort...
No life preserver...
Just man...
And Nature...
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Tragedy That is the Sean Bell Saga...
1 black male dead...
2 daughters without a father...
3 police officers accquited...
4 grandparents mourn...
1 judge...
2 fellow victims...
3 sides to the story...
4 weeks of testimony (28 days)...
It still doesn't add up to me...
Detective Marc Oliver fires 31 shots into an occupied vehicle and walks away a free man...
There was no weapon found in Sean Bell's car or in any of the other victims possession...
The officers did not identify themselves as police officers...
50 shots....
Can you blame me for being angry right now? I'm a black male. A 24 year old black male. A 24 year old black male who, by the sheer grace and mercy of God, has no felony convictions. A 24 year old black male who has no children. A 24 year old black male who has a college education and is pursuing a terminal degree. A 24 year old black male business owner. A 24 year old black male...who still is seen as a "nigger".
I'm pissed and rightfully so. While Sean Bell and his friends may have had felony charges, when does being an ex-convict not guarantee one justice? Why do we lie to ourselves about being a fair and just society?
I know I'm rambling right now but I'm a tad bit emotional so bare with me...
There is a full frontal assault on black males going on right now in America and it's been going on for almost 2 decades...don't believe me?
Here's a list of men who were killed or brutalized by the police...
Deonte Rawlins, Amadou Diallo, Anthony Baez, Deunta Terrell Farrow, Aaron Harrison, Nathaniel Jones, Ibrahim Muhammad, Lorenzo Matthews, Nigel Smith, Lorenzo Collins, Michael Carpenter, Courtney Mathis, Roger Owensby Junior, Timothy Thomas, Jonny Gammage, Abner Louima, Ousmane Zongo, and Patrick Dorismond
Who mourns for them? Their parents...their children...their families...
My question is, "When did WE stop caring enough to fight for us?" Why have we relegated ourselves to a certain stature, place, or level of comfortability en masse?
I guess some of us have gotten so comfortable in our six figure homes and luxury cars that we've forgotten that blacks in America are intricately intertwined in a tapestry of both pride and pain...
That "nigga" that you turn your nose up with his sagging pants is you....
That bourgie sista that you can't stand...is you...
Look at it like this...Blacks have been freed from slavery for a little over 145 years. We've only been afforded the same federally protected rights as everyone else for about 40. America is 232 years old...
Essentially, we are 1.5 generations from Jim Crow Segregation and about 3 from slavery. My Grandmother's Grandmother was a slave...so was it really that long ago when I have colleagues that can say their grandfather's grandfather was a wealthy landowner?
It takes 3 generations to build wealth. We're 1.5 out of segregation. Then we have had to compete with the destruction of the black nuclear family, media fueled subconscious self-hatred practiced by a few, "Crabs in a Barrell" syndrome, Grandfather Clauses, Ivory Towers, Glass Ceilings, Crack, Cointelpro, the Tuskegee Experiment, Hurricane Katrina, and now the armed assault by the "powers that be" on young black males...
Marvin Gaye was dead on when he wrote "Makes Me Wanna Holla..."
Black America has some issues that MUST be ironed out...
It MUST start with addressing the issues of our youth being railroaded...
I had SO MUCH HOPE when I saw the buzz and excitement about the Jena 6 and the call, by many, for EQUAL JUSTICE...
3 weeks later we were back to the same old stuff...
Why are we so short-sighted and fickle as a community...
What will the new "cause of the month" be in May?
I pray that Sean Bell's story is not forgotten and that we come together and try to fix the injustices that have taken place in this country for generations now.
Many are behind Barack Obama because he advocates Hope and Change...
Hope, is in the eyes of our youth...
Change begins with us...
(BTW, I'm a tad bit unmoved by Obama's response to the Bell Verdict....maybe that's just me though...)
Reverend Jeremiah Wright....my take on the whole thing....
Reverend Jeremiah Wright has caused almost immeasurable damage to Barack Obama's campaign.
So much damage, that the Jr. Senator from Illinois has gone so far as to completely separate himself from Jeremiah Wright the pastor, the man, the media spectacle. My question is, how did it get this far? How did a 30-second sound bite of Rev. Jeremiah Wright saying, "God, Damn America" go so far as to taint the image of one of the most charismatic, capable, and trustworthy politicians in American history?
Well, this is the logic...at least as far as I can see it.
Barack Obama was not raised in America for part of his life + Barack Obama does not wear his flag pin + Barack Obama's middle name is "Hussein" + Barack Obama didn't support the war on terror + Barack Obama's pastor said "Goddamn America" (Although that's NOT what he really said) = Barack Obama MUST hate America!
Wait...2 months ago wasn't Barack Obama a Muslim according to many people?
Ok, now I'm confused. Barack Obama, the Muslim who doesn't wear a flag pin, goes to Trinity United Church of Christ and becomes a member under a pastor who says "God, Damn America," because he hates us for freedom so he runs for President.
That makes a buttload of sense doesn't it? Well...doesn't it?
No. It doesn't. At all...
The attempt of the mainstream "Right Wing" media (God, damn labels...please?) to taint Barack Obama's darling image by connecting him to a 30 second sound bite of his pastor saying a phrase taken completely out of context is completely and totally WRONG. This STRAW MAN tactic is heinous at best and deplorable at worst and has forced the Obama camp to completely sidetrack itself to deal with what should honestly be a "non-issue".
Let's examine Jeremiah Wright for a second.
According to some people he hates America...ok, lets take that argument on.
Reverend Jeremiah Wright spent 6 years in the military. 2 in the Marines and 4 in the Navy.
He was a cardiopulmonary Technician during his tenure and was charged, along with others, with the care of then President, Lyndon B. Johnson. As a result he rceived three letters of commendation from the White House...
Yeah...real unpatriotic.
Reverend Jeremiah Wright is an intelligent man, I mean the guy speaks five languages...
I can honestly say that there is only one viewpoint of his that I disagree with. That is his view on AIDS.
I can honestly say that the only actions of his that I disagree with would be his, as my Uncle Bill said, wrapping "himself in the mantle of 'the black church' as if he represents all black churches." That is a job more suitable for T.D. Jakes or Bishop Noel Jones.
The problem therein lies with A) the media and B) the voters.
The media has IRRESPONSIBLY cast a dark shadow on Rev. Wright in an attempt to slight Barack Obama. We've been relegated to thinking that the two are inextricably related because the media told us they were. (Much like they did with Don Imus and Hip-Hop...)
The voters' problems are two fold. On the one hand you have ardent Barack Obama Supporters who wish Jeremiah Wright would shut up and stop hurting the campaign as if he's some sort of unofficial spokesperson. On the other hand you have Obama detractors who are either sympathetic to Obama or having a field day.
As Public Enemy said, "Don't Believe the Hype"
STOP Allowing soundbites to determine your belief in someone or something. There is an unprecedented idea of unification and change in Barack Obama's message and the tactics of those who it would benefit to keep things as they are should not drown that idea out!
(WARNING: RACE CARD TO BE PLAYED!)
On a message board that I'm on a poster typed something that resonated deeply within me. It made me think of this in racial terms as well.
It made me look at the entire thing from a racial perspective...the only people in arms about Rev. Wrights ALLEGED anti-American, quasi racist comments are the same people who have not cared about the plight of Black Americans in general in this country anyway...I'll delve deeper into that in my Sean Bell post...
BTW, to the people that have glorified the fact that Obama has distanced himself from Rev. Wright...read the full text of the sermon in the link below, TITLE INCLUDED, and tell me exactly how much you think he's separated himself in ideology and actuality...
http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/2008/03/for-the-record.html
Peace.
So much damage, that the Jr. Senator from Illinois has gone so far as to completely separate himself from Jeremiah Wright the pastor, the man, the media spectacle. My question is, how did it get this far? How did a 30-second sound bite of Rev. Jeremiah Wright saying, "God, Damn America" go so far as to taint the image of one of the most charismatic, capable, and trustworthy politicians in American history?
Well, this is the logic...at least as far as I can see it.
Barack Obama was not raised in America for part of his life + Barack Obama does not wear his flag pin + Barack Obama's middle name is "Hussein" + Barack Obama didn't support the war on terror + Barack Obama's pastor said "Goddamn America" (Although that's NOT what he really said) = Barack Obama MUST hate America!
Wait...2 months ago wasn't Barack Obama a Muslim according to many people?
Ok, now I'm confused. Barack Obama, the Muslim who doesn't wear a flag pin, goes to Trinity United Church of Christ and becomes a member under a pastor who says "God, Damn America," because he hates us for freedom so he runs for President.
That makes a buttload of sense doesn't it? Well...doesn't it?
No. It doesn't. At all...
The attempt of the mainstream "Right Wing" media (God, damn labels...please?) to taint Barack Obama's darling image by connecting him to a 30 second sound bite of his pastor saying a phrase taken completely out of context is completely and totally WRONG. This STRAW MAN tactic is heinous at best and deplorable at worst and has forced the Obama camp to completely sidetrack itself to deal with what should honestly be a "non-issue".
Let's examine Jeremiah Wright for a second.
According to some people he hates America...ok, lets take that argument on.
Reverend Jeremiah Wright spent 6 years in the military. 2 in the Marines and 4 in the Navy.
He was a cardiopulmonary Technician during his tenure and was charged, along with others, with the care of then President, Lyndon B. Johnson. As a result he rceived three letters of commendation from the White House...
Yeah...real unpatriotic.
Reverend Jeremiah Wright is an intelligent man, I mean the guy speaks five languages...
I can honestly say that there is only one viewpoint of his that I disagree with. That is his view on AIDS.
I can honestly say that the only actions of his that I disagree with would be his, as my Uncle Bill said, wrapping "himself in the mantle of 'the black church' as if he represents all black churches." That is a job more suitable for T.D. Jakes or Bishop Noel Jones.
The problem therein lies with A) the media and B) the voters.
The media has IRRESPONSIBLY cast a dark shadow on Rev. Wright in an attempt to slight Barack Obama. We've been relegated to thinking that the two are inextricably related because the media told us they were. (Much like they did with Don Imus and Hip-Hop...)
The voters' problems are two fold. On the one hand you have ardent Barack Obama Supporters who wish Jeremiah Wright would shut up and stop hurting the campaign as if he's some sort of unofficial spokesperson. On the other hand you have Obama detractors who are either sympathetic to Obama or having a field day.
As Public Enemy said, "Don't Believe the Hype"
STOP Allowing soundbites to determine your belief in someone or something. There is an unprecedented idea of unification and change in Barack Obama's message and the tactics of those who it would benefit to keep things as they are should not drown that idea out!
(WARNING: RACE CARD TO BE PLAYED!)
On a message board that I'm on a poster typed something that resonated deeply within me. It made me think of this in racial terms as well.
It made me look at the entire thing from a racial perspective...the only people in arms about Rev. Wrights ALLEGED anti-American, quasi racist comments are the same people who have not cared about the plight of Black Americans in general in this country anyway...I'll delve deeper into that in my Sean Bell post...
BTW, to the people that have glorified the fact that Obama has distanced himself from Rev. Wright...read the full text of the sermon in the link below, TITLE INCLUDED, and tell me exactly how much you think he's separated himself in ideology and actuality...
http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/2008/03/for-the-record.html
Peace.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Understanding Black Patriotism....
Taken from http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1734809,00.html
By Michael Eric Dyson
Mainstream America has shown little understanding lately of the patriotism that a lot of black people practice. Black love of country is often far more robust and complicated than the lapel-pin nationalism some citizens swear by. Barack Obama hinted at this when he declared in Montana a few weeks ago, "I love this country not because it's perfect but because we've always been able to move it closer to perfection. Because through revolution and slavery ... generations of Americans have shown their love of country by struggling and sacrificing and risking their lives to bring us that much closer to our founding promise."
That's a far cry from the "My country, right or wrong" credo, which confuses blind boosterism with a more authentic, if sometimes questioning, loyalty. At their best, black folk offer critical patriotism, an exacting devotion that carries on a lover's quarrel with America while they shed blood in its defense.
By Michael Eric Dyson
Mainstream America has shown little understanding lately of the patriotism that a lot of black people practice. Black love of country is often far more robust and complicated than the lapel-pin nationalism some citizens swear by. Barack Obama hinted at this when he declared in Montana a few weeks ago, "I love this country not because it's perfect but because we've always been able to move it closer to perfection. Because through revolution and slavery ... generations of Americans have shown their love of country by struggling and sacrificing and risking their lives to bring us that much closer to our founding promise."
That's a far cry from the "My country, right or wrong" credo, which confuses blind boosterism with a more authentic, if sometimes questioning, loyalty. At their best, black folk offer critical patriotism, an exacting devotion that carries on a lover's quarrel with America while they shed blood in its defense.
It is easy to see why the words of black critics and leaders, taken out of context, can be read as cynical renunciations of country. Abolitionist and runaway slave Frederick Douglass gave a famous oration on the meaning of Independence Day, asking "What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer, a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim." But instead of joining the chorus of black voices swelling with nostalgia to return to their African roots, Douglass stayed put. Poet Langston Hughes grieved in verse that "(America never was America to me) ... (There's never been equality for me,/ Nor freedom in this 'homeland of the free')." But his lament is couched in a poem whose title, like its author, yearns for acceptance: Let America Be America Again.
Even Martin Luther King Jr. was branded a traitor to his country because he opposed the war in Vietnam. When King announced his opposition in 1967, journalist Kenneth Crawford attacked him for his "demagoguery," while black writer Carl Rowan bitterly concluded that King's speech had created "the impression that the Negro is disloyal." Black dissent over war has historically brought charges of disloyalty despite the eagerness among blacks to defend on foreign soil a democracy they couldn't enjoy back home. Since the time of slavery, blacks have actively defended the U.S. in every war it has waged, from the Civil War down to the war on terrorism, a loyalty to the Federal Government conceived by black leaders as a critical force in gaining freedom. W.E.B. DuBois argued in World War I that blacks should "forget our special grievances and close our ranks ... with our white fellow citizens." Some 380,000 soldiers answered the call even as they failed to reap the benefits of their sacrifice when they came home.
Even the angry comments of Jeremiah Wright have to be read as the bitter complaint of a spurned lover. Like millions of other blacks, Wright was willing to serve the country while suffering rejection. He surrendered his student deferment in 1961, voluntarily joined the Marines and, after a two-year stint, volunteered to become a Navy corpsman. He excelled and became valedictorian, later a cardiopulmonary technician and eventually a member of the President's medical team. Wright cared for Lyndon B. Johnson after his 1966 surgery, earning three White House letters of commendation.
Dick Cheney, born in the same year as Wright, received five deferments--four while an undergraduate or graduate student and one as a prospective father. Both Bill Clinton and George W. Bush used their student deferments to remain in college until 1968. Clinton did not serve, and Bush was on active duty in the National Guard for two years. If time in uniform is any measure, Wright, much more than Cheney, Clinton or Bush, embodies Obama's ideal of "Americans [who] have shown their love of country by struggling and sacrificing and risking their lives to bring us that much closer to our founding promise."
Wright's critics have confused nationalism with patriotism. Nationalism is the uncritical support of one's country regardless of its moral or political bearing. Patriotism is the affirmation of one's country in light of its best values, including the attempt to correct it when it's in error. Wright's words are the tough love of a war-tested patriot speaking his mind--one of the great virtues of our democracy. The most patriotic thing his nation can do now is extend to him the same right for which he was willing to die.
Dyson is a sociology professor at Georgetown University and author of April 4, 1968: Martin Luther King Jr.'s Death and How It Changed America
Sunday, April 20, 2008
My Alphaversary...
1097 days, 17 hours and 16 minutes ago I became a member of Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity Inc., THE Kappa Alpha Chapter...
As I'm writing this I'm reflecting over the past 3 years and how my life has drastically changed. I've seen my highest highs and lowest lows over the past 3 years and I thank God that I'm here to talk about it...
First, lets talk about me and Alpha...I am NOT what many of my brothers would call a "Good Alpha". Seriously, I'm not. I'm being perfectly honest about that. One of the main qualities of an "Alpha Man" as described by the fraternity is that he pays his fraternity financial dues in a prompt manner. Well, other than my initiation fee, I haven't paid any financial dues. I never had the money.
In college I had rent, a car note, utilities, and I had to send money home. I simply didn't have the extra money to pay dues with.
Now that I've graduated I have a few more bills. Luxuries are few. One of those luxuries would more than likely be membership in a graduate chapter. With my priorities being listed the way they are, honestly, graduate chapter membership is not high on that list. I have my car note, student loans, various bills, startup costs for my business, and school to worry about. Grad chapter membership has to come second...maybe even third if I get a mortgage soon. (Praying on that...)
None the less, I still could have been a good "Alpha Man" by attending chapter meetings, participating in service projects, and doing various other things. Well, once again I'm gonna lay it all on the table. Chapter meetings were on Sunday in undergrad. When I wasn't at my pops' church I could have come...instead I chose not to. I chose to be with my girlfriend at the time. I was attempting to build a future, but instead ended up getting my heartbroken....but I digress. I chose to not be with my brothers. That was a decision I MADE. Was it right? Probably not. I could have seen her later and spent some time with them. Do I have to live with it? I sure do.
Right now I seem like a pretty poor excuse for an Alpha...I'll admit that. I do. None the less, I'm a pretty darn good MAN outside of that. (Not me being conceited or cocky about it, I'm just putting it in perspective.) I've done a bunch of community service, I have a big heart, I'm honest, I've always tried to help those around me, and I REFUSE to give up on myself or anyone around me that I care about.
In the past 3 years that I've been an Alpha I've made some friends that I'll probably have for the rest of my life. I can honestly say that I've had a chance to fellowship with some of the most intelligent brothers that this world has ever seen and I thank GOD ALMIGHTY for that opportunity. I've created a bond with a group of gentlemen that has been forged in blood, tested by fire, and still stands unbroken. I appreciate that kind of love. That's amazing to me.
I've also been talked about and probably made a few enemies...some I know about....some I don't know about. That's ok too. It doesn't bother me. I know that as long as I'm living some people will not like me and possibly tell lies about me. I've been through that a thousand times and don't expect it to stop any time soon. Hey, worse things could happen. I pray for my enemies (those I know and those I don't know) and keep it moving. I refuse to allow another man's opinion of me define my progress, personality, and future.
Also, becoming an Alpha caused me to lose a few friends....God Bless them too....I still love them....
At this point some readers are probably asking, "Well...why did you even become an Alpha?" That's a fairly easy question to answer. My uncle pledged Alpha back in the 60's. My entire life I've looked up to him. He is my role model and an all around great guy. I aspired to be an Alpha as a means to emulate him.
One of my best friends in this world is Lindsey McAdory. In the Fall of 2003, Lindsey became a member of Alpha Phi Alpha. Ever since we were younger, I've always held Lindsey in high esteem and I still do. I aspired to be an Alpha because of the friendship that Lindsey has shown me and the fond way in which he spoke of his brethren before I became an Alpha.
Lastly, I aspired to become a member of Alpha Phi Alpha because of the leadership traits and sociopolitical views held by certain members that I saw. From high school to college, various Alphas popped in my life at pivotal moments to grant me a blessing here and there in terms of knowledge and friendship.
Alpha Phi Alpha, in my humble opinion, is one of the greatest collections of black men on this planet. I think that Alpha has the potential to change the world if properly exercised as a vehicle of change. Has Alpha changed my life for the better in 3 years? In some ways, I can unequivocally say an emphatic, "yes." Has it defined me as a man? I can just as emphatically say, "No." I like that about myself...I love the fact that regardless what I may do, become or go through I can still wake up in the mirror and say, "I'm the same person today as I was yesterday. I'm a little bit wiser, a little bit stronger, and a whole lot better....but I'm the same person."
Happy Alphaversary H.Y.P.O.T.H.E.R.M.I.A.
From your Ace...
As I'm writing this I'm reflecting over the past 3 years and how my life has drastically changed. I've seen my highest highs and lowest lows over the past 3 years and I thank God that I'm here to talk about it...
First, lets talk about me and Alpha...I am NOT what many of my brothers would call a "Good Alpha". Seriously, I'm not. I'm being perfectly honest about that. One of the main qualities of an "Alpha Man" as described by the fraternity is that he pays his fraternity financial dues in a prompt manner. Well, other than my initiation fee, I haven't paid any financial dues. I never had the money.
In college I had rent, a car note, utilities, and I had to send money home. I simply didn't have the extra money to pay dues with.
Now that I've graduated I have a few more bills. Luxuries are few. One of those luxuries would more than likely be membership in a graduate chapter. With my priorities being listed the way they are, honestly, graduate chapter membership is not high on that list. I have my car note, student loans, various bills, startup costs for my business, and school to worry about. Grad chapter membership has to come second...maybe even third if I get a mortgage soon. (Praying on that...)
None the less, I still could have been a good "Alpha Man" by attending chapter meetings, participating in service projects, and doing various other things. Well, once again I'm gonna lay it all on the table. Chapter meetings were on Sunday in undergrad. When I wasn't at my pops' church I could have come...instead I chose not to. I chose to be with my girlfriend at the time. I was attempting to build a future, but instead ended up getting my heartbroken....but I digress. I chose to not be with my brothers. That was a decision I MADE. Was it right? Probably not. I could have seen her later and spent some time with them. Do I have to live with it? I sure do.
Right now I seem like a pretty poor excuse for an Alpha...I'll admit that. I do. None the less, I'm a pretty darn good MAN outside of that. (Not me being conceited or cocky about it, I'm just putting it in perspective.) I've done a bunch of community service, I have a big heart, I'm honest, I've always tried to help those around me, and I REFUSE to give up on myself or anyone around me that I care about.
In the past 3 years that I've been an Alpha I've made some friends that I'll probably have for the rest of my life. I can honestly say that I've had a chance to fellowship with some of the most intelligent brothers that this world has ever seen and I thank GOD ALMIGHTY for that opportunity. I've created a bond with a group of gentlemen that has been forged in blood, tested by fire, and still stands unbroken. I appreciate that kind of love. That's amazing to me.
I've also been talked about and probably made a few enemies...some I know about....some I don't know about. That's ok too. It doesn't bother me. I know that as long as I'm living some people will not like me and possibly tell lies about me. I've been through that a thousand times and don't expect it to stop any time soon. Hey, worse things could happen. I pray for my enemies (those I know and those I don't know) and keep it moving. I refuse to allow another man's opinion of me define my progress, personality, and future.
Also, becoming an Alpha caused me to lose a few friends....God Bless them too....I still love them....
At this point some readers are probably asking, "Well...why did you even become an Alpha?" That's a fairly easy question to answer. My uncle pledged Alpha back in the 60's. My entire life I've looked up to him. He is my role model and an all around great guy. I aspired to be an Alpha as a means to emulate him.
One of my best friends in this world is Lindsey McAdory. In the Fall of 2003, Lindsey became a member of Alpha Phi Alpha. Ever since we were younger, I've always held Lindsey in high esteem and I still do. I aspired to be an Alpha because of the friendship that Lindsey has shown me and the fond way in which he spoke of his brethren before I became an Alpha.
Lastly, I aspired to become a member of Alpha Phi Alpha because of the leadership traits and sociopolitical views held by certain members that I saw. From high school to college, various Alphas popped in my life at pivotal moments to grant me a blessing here and there in terms of knowledge and friendship.
Alpha Phi Alpha, in my humble opinion, is one of the greatest collections of black men on this planet. I think that Alpha has the potential to change the world if properly exercised as a vehicle of change. Has Alpha changed my life for the better in 3 years? In some ways, I can unequivocally say an emphatic, "yes." Has it defined me as a man? I can just as emphatically say, "No." I like that about myself...I love the fact that regardless what I may do, become or go through I can still wake up in the mirror and say, "I'm the same person today as I was yesterday. I'm a little bit wiser, a little bit stronger, and a whole lot better....but I'm the same person."
Happy Alphaversary H.Y.P.O.T.H.E.R.M.I.A.
From your Ace...
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Last Man Standing...(Inspired by Lyfe's song "Cry")
I done had money
I done been broke
I done been talked about something awful
Done been lied on by so many folks
I done even been depressed at times
and didn't wanna cry cause my pride was too strong
But over the years I thought it over
And after struggling for so long and still holding on
I figured, can't be nothing all that wrong with crying
If anybody says that they're that strong they're lying
I'm taking off my pride for a second to let you see the convalescence of a man who's been broken hearted...
Downtrodden...
Abused...
Forgotten...
Misused...
My rotten disposition is a direct result of the feminine manner in which so many males tend to keep up idle banter, chatter or whatever you want to call it...I think Puffy/P.Diddy/Sean John called it "bitchassness"
I know this isn't a typical poem but don't think because I use a few pop culture references that the regular level of mentality or creativity isn't flowing...you know how hard it is to rhyme something with "bitchassness?"
But I digress...
This stress can only be described as prodigious and my ignorance hasn't diminished one bit, the gift of education was heaven sent and I thank God every day for him making me a wordsmith but the negligence with which some of you cats speak so reckless is nothing more than evidence and a testament to your own personal..."bitchassness..."
In other words...say it to my face...or shut up...
I've heard it said that sticks and stone can break my bones, but words can never hurt me...that's true. They hurt you!
Now that I've pulled the daggers out of my back, I'm healed and I got my swagger back
Sometimes friends stay closer than enemies, now that I know that/I keep my real friends close and we stay back to back...pain will never creep up on me again...
See I done been a player
I done been played
I done went for some of the oldest tricks
from some of the coldest chicks God done ever made
I was in love once...maybe twice...either way I'm not there now...I'd be less than a man if I said that it didn't hurt now...I spent years doing all that I could just be where I am now...so how is it that I can be this honest with myself...how can I stand as a man after suffering the pain of a thousand deaths...scratch that...
To be brokenhearted is worse than death...
To be on the verge of spending eternity with another to spending the down payment on a ring on drinks for you and your brother is a long way to fall...I'd be lying if I said that I didn't miss you then but now you've moved on and I'm asking myself how/in the world did I screw this wonderful thing up completely...
So, I could stand in the mirror and tell myself lies but when you're brokenhearted all you have left is your pride so you have to find the you that lives in the recesses of your mind and rewind time to the place that you knew so well before...or fast forward to the point where your prayers reach higher than the floor and seek something a little stronger than your will...
It wasn't me that forced me to get over you...it was God and the fact that I chose NOT to stand as a man but kneel...
Talkin' bout wo wo wo yea yea yea
They say a man ain't supposed to cry
but I know, know, know
fasho' sho', sho'
that even men go through problems somtime
cry
I done been broke
I done been talked about something awful
Done been lied on by so many folks
I done even been depressed at times
and didn't wanna cry cause my pride was too strong
But over the years I thought it over
And after struggling for so long and still holding on
I figured, can't be nothing all that wrong with crying
If anybody says that they're that strong they're lying
I'm taking off my pride for a second to let you see the convalescence of a man who's been broken hearted...
Downtrodden...
Abused...
Forgotten...
Misused...
My rotten disposition is a direct result of the feminine manner in which so many males tend to keep up idle banter, chatter or whatever you want to call it...I think Puffy/P.Diddy/Sean John called it "bitchassness"
I know this isn't a typical poem but don't think because I use a few pop culture references that the regular level of mentality or creativity isn't flowing...you know how hard it is to rhyme something with "bitchassness?"
But I digress...
This stress can only be described as prodigious and my ignorance hasn't diminished one bit, the gift of education was heaven sent and I thank God every day for him making me a wordsmith but the negligence with which some of you cats speak so reckless is nothing more than evidence and a testament to your own personal..."bitchassness..."
In other words...say it to my face...or shut up...
I've heard it said that sticks and stone can break my bones, but words can never hurt me...that's true. They hurt you!
Now that I've pulled the daggers out of my back, I'm healed and I got my swagger back
Sometimes friends stay closer than enemies, now that I know that/I keep my real friends close and we stay back to back...pain will never creep up on me again...
See I done been a player
I done been played
I done went for some of the oldest tricks
from some of the coldest chicks God done ever made
I was in love once...maybe twice...either way I'm not there now...I'd be less than a man if I said that it didn't hurt now...I spent years doing all that I could just be where I am now...so how is it that I can be this honest with myself...how can I stand as a man after suffering the pain of a thousand deaths...scratch that...
To be brokenhearted is worse than death...
To be on the verge of spending eternity with another to spending the down payment on a ring on drinks for you and your brother is a long way to fall...I'd be lying if I said that I didn't miss you then but now you've moved on and I'm asking myself how/in the world did I screw this wonderful thing up completely...
So, I could stand in the mirror and tell myself lies but when you're brokenhearted all you have left is your pride so you have to find the you that lives in the recesses of your mind and rewind time to the place that you knew so well before...or fast forward to the point where your prayers reach higher than the floor and seek something a little stronger than your will...
It wasn't me that forced me to get over you...it was God and the fact that I chose NOT to stand as a man but kneel...
Talkin' bout wo wo wo yea yea yea
They say a man ain't supposed to cry
but I know, know, know
fasho' sho', sho'
that even men go through problems somtime
cry
Gone in 60 Seconds...
I've Got/60 Seconds to prove to you that I've got something worth saying
Since I'm already losing some of you I've got about 57 seconds left and I'm gonna start praying
That the brainstorms that come like torrential rainstorms destroy your preconceived notions of a brother like me spittin/hopin'/wonderin' if these wordforms reach the recesses of your mind...
Damn...48 seconds to get my point across
If I write down all of the profound thoughts that crossed my mind and balled them up to put 'em in a rhyme I'd probably run out of time so I'll leave you with a few more lines so that you don't have to decipher the sublime messages that metaphors and similes tend to convey best and give you the raw facts
Just like that I've given you my thesis in a manner that bespeaks a man who believes in...
GOD/Love/Family/The Black Woman/The Black Man/and Hip-Hop and I won't stop spittin' these passionate verses of prose until my lungs collapse and blood starts comin' out my nose
30 more to go and I'm only halfway there...
At this point I hope that just one of my phrases make you read the chapters in between the pages of my tattered and torn moleskin notebook with the sole purpose of making you look at the poets that grace this stage as non-profit teachers praying for another page at the resurrection/hoping to capture the beauty therein while asking for repentance of a life full of sin/got 20 left...
The blood that flows in my veins and maintains the lyrical umbilical to the past is that of a million poets that tread in shoes with tattered lasts
I am the descendant of Sinke, remember...the guy from Amistad? "Give us us free?" The only difference is that I'm still stuck in the slave ship of materialistic mentality, voracious vanity and I'm wondering how can it be that I'm one of the few trying to escape...
So with ten seconds left I'm asking you to fight to the death and sing redemption songs until you run out of breath...
5 seconds to go and my knees hit flo' taking two seconds so that you know....God is Love....
Since I'm already losing some of you I've got about 57 seconds left and I'm gonna start praying
That the brainstorms that come like torrential rainstorms destroy your preconceived notions of a brother like me spittin/hopin'/wonderin' if these wordforms reach the recesses of your mind...
Damn...48 seconds to get my point across
If I write down all of the profound thoughts that crossed my mind and balled them up to put 'em in a rhyme I'd probably run out of time so I'll leave you with a few more lines so that you don't have to decipher the sublime messages that metaphors and similes tend to convey best and give you the raw facts
Just like that I've given you my thesis in a manner that bespeaks a man who believes in...
GOD/Love/Family/The Black Woman/The Black Man/and Hip-Hop and I won't stop spittin' these passionate verses of prose until my lungs collapse and blood starts comin' out my nose
30 more to go and I'm only halfway there...
At this point I hope that just one of my phrases make you read the chapters in between the pages of my tattered and torn moleskin notebook with the sole purpose of making you look at the poets that grace this stage as non-profit teachers praying for another page at the resurrection/hoping to capture the beauty therein while asking for repentance of a life full of sin/got 20 left...
The blood that flows in my veins and maintains the lyrical umbilical to the past is that of a million poets that tread in shoes with tattered lasts
I am the descendant of Sinke, remember...the guy from Amistad? "Give us us free?" The only difference is that I'm still stuck in the slave ship of materialistic mentality, voracious vanity and I'm wondering how can it be that I'm one of the few trying to escape...
So with ten seconds left I'm asking you to fight to the death and sing redemption songs until you run out of breath...
5 seconds to go and my knees hit flo' taking two seconds so that you know....God is Love....
Sunday, April 06, 2008
45 Years...
This week we celebrated the 40th anniversary of the murder of Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. Many of these celebrations invoked Rev. Dr. King's famous "I Have A Dream" Speech. While many of us know the constant refrain of "I Have A Dream," I would much rather focus on the portions of the speech that are not easily recalled from the suppressed psyche of the media and so many scholars of color...
"We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.
And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force."
45 years later...would Dr. King be proud?
No...he wouldn't.
There is an inherent distrust of all minorities of white people. Many Hispanics are under the impression that most whites (and I use that term sparingly) see them as a nuisance. An immigration problem to be dealt with only under the harshest terms that the law will allow. Ignoring the fact that many of them are hardworking, patriotic, and *gasp* LEGAL.
Our Arabic brothers and sisters are under the strain of being viewed as terrorists. They are in constant fear of being victimized under the banner of patriotism. They are called "raghead", "sand nigger", and "terrorist" as though these monikers describe them in a universal sense.
Black people...well, we have an entire struggle that continues. This does not diminish the stature of other minorities' fight for civil rights and equal treatment, because we are undoubtedly in lockstep. However, we seem to be a target of preference. (Keep in mind, this is coming from a slightly biased perspective) Our youth are under attack in the form of Shaquanda Cotton, Marcus Dixon, Genarlow Wilson, and the Jena 6. We are constantly the victims of police brutality with cases such as Sean Bell and Amadou Diallo. We are used as minstrels in various forms of society through artforms of our own creation. Lastly, we kill ourselves in unprecedented numbers as society deems those in our lower social stratas incorrigible and worthy of ridicule. (See the AL.com "Hardball Politics" forum for more on that...)
It is tragic...
In 2008 is is truly tragic that there is so much racial discord in America...
I am not naive enough to think that our racial problems would disappear overnight with the signings of the Voting Rights Act or the Civil Rights Act. I'm also the first to admit that we've made MUCH progress over the past few decades. However, the past few years have brought deep seated feelings of racial hatred to the forefront and a spotlight has been shone on it as a result of this year's presidential race...but this is not a post about Barack Obama so I'll leave it at that.
Another thing that we typically ignore around this time and MLK Day is Rev. King's opposition to the war in Vietnam. Of this war, he said:
""Let me say finally that I oppose the war in Vietnam because I love America. I speak out against this war, not in anger, but with anxiety and sorrow in my heart, and, above all, with a passionate desire to see our beloved country stand as the moral example of the world. I speak out against this war because I am disappointed with America. And there can be no great disappointment where there is not great love. I am disappointed with our failure to deal positively and forthrightly with the triple evils of racism, economic exploitation, and militarism. We are presently moving down a dead-end road that can lead to national disaster. America has strayed to the far country of racism and militarism. The home that all too many Americans left was solidly structured idealistically; its pillars were solidly grounded in the insights of our Judeo-Christian heritage. All men are made in the image of God. All men are brothers. All men are created equal. Every man is an heir to a legacy of dignity and worth. Every man has rights that are neither conferred by, nor derived from the State--they are God-given. Out of one blood, God made all men to dwell upon the face of the earth. What a marvelous foundation for any home! What a glorious and healthy place to inhabit. But America's strayed away, and this unnatural excursion has brought only confusion and bewilderment. It has left hearts aching with guilt and minds distorted with irrationality.
It is time for all people of conscience to call upon America to come back home. Come home, America..."
I concur...
His words echo into this millennium as we are in the midst of a STILL unjustified war in Iraq...
While I will not tarnish MLK's post with my feelings on this war, I will say that I believe that he would be firmly opposed to such a military action...
I pray that one day our children will be able to grow and learn in a world that does not have racism, reverse racism, or even "unracism" as I like to coin certain actions.
I only pray...or dream...that my children will learn from MY mistakes...their grandparents mistakes...their great grandparents mistakes and live as a generation without bias or hate...
Because at 24...I've already lost that hope for MY generation...
"We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.
And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force."
45 years later...would Dr. King be proud?
No...he wouldn't.
There is an inherent distrust of all minorities of white people. Many Hispanics are under the impression that most whites (and I use that term sparingly) see them as a nuisance. An immigration problem to be dealt with only under the harshest terms that the law will allow. Ignoring the fact that many of them are hardworking, patriotic, and *gasp* LEGAL.
Our Arabic brothers and sisters are under the strain of being viewed as terrorists. They are in constant fear of being victimized under the banner of patriotism. They are called "raghead", "sand nigger", and "terrorist" as though these monikers describe them in a universal sense.
Black people...well, we have an entire struggle that continues. This does not diminish the stature of other minorities' fight for civil rights and equal treatment, because we are undoubtedly in lockstep. However, we seem to be a target of preference. (Keep in mind, this is coming from a slightly biased perspective) Our youth are under attack in the form of Shaquanda Cotton, Marcus Dixon, Genarlow Wilson, and the Jena 6. We are constantly the victims of police brutality with cases such as Sean Bell and Amadou Diallo. We are used as minstrels in various forms of society through artforms of our own creation. Lastly, we kill ourselves in unprecedented numbers as society deems those in our lower social stratas incorrigible and worthy of ridicule. (See the AL.com "Hardball Politics" forum for more on that...)
It is tragic...
In 2008 is is truly tragic that there is so much racial discord in America...
I am not naive enough to think that our racial problems would disappear overnight with the signings of the Voting Rights Act or the Civil Rights Act. I'm also the first to admit that we've made MUCH progress over the past few decades. However, the past few years have brought deep seated feelings of racial hatred to the forefront and a spotlight has been shone on it as a result of this year's presidential race...but this is not a post about Barack Obama so I'll leave it at that.
Another thing that we typically ignore around this time and MLK Day is Rev. King's opposition to the war in Vietnam. Of this war, he said:
""Let me say finally that I oppose the war in Vietnam because I love America. I speak out against this war, not in anger, but with anxiety and sorrow in my heart, and, above all, with a passionate desire to see our beloved country stand as the moral example of the world. I speak out against this war because I am disappointed with America. And there can be no great disappointment where there is not great love. I am disappointed with our failure to deal positively and forthrightly with the triple evils of racism, economic exploitation, and militarism. We are presently moving down a dead-end road that can lead to national disaster. America has strayed to the far country of racism and militarism. The home that all too many Americans left was solidly structured idealistically; its pillars were solidly grounded in the insights of our Judeo-Christian heritage. All men are made in the image of God. All men are brothers. All men are created equal. Every man is an heir to a legacy of dignity and worth. Every man has rights that are neither conferred by, nor derived from the State--they are God-given. Out of one blood, God made all men to dwell upon the face of the earth. What a marvelous foundation for any home! What a glorious and healthy place to inhabit. But America's strayed away, and this unnatural excursion has brought only confusion and bewilderment. It has left hearts aching with guilt and minds distorted with irrationality.
It is time for all people of conscience to call upon America to come back home. Come home, America..."
I concur...
His words echo into this millennium as we are in the midst of a STILL unjustified war in Iraq...
While I will not tarnish MLK's post with my feelings on this war, I will say that I believe that he would be firmly opposed to such a military action...
I pray that one day our children will be able to grow and learn in a world that does not have racism, reverse racism, or even "unracism" as I like to coin certain actions.
I only pray...or dream...that my children will learn from MY mistakes...their grandparents mistakes...their great grandparents mistakes and live as a generation without bias or hate...
Because at 24...I've already lost that hope for MY generation...
Monday, February 11, 2008
All The Lonely People....
"...Blank stares like nobody care
In a room so exclusive nobody there
But really, truth is that nobody there
Cuz it's feelings inside that nobody share
I want God to smile on me
But see, fame is a drug and you wild on E
Celebrities decorated like Christmas trees
God complex like they want a Christmas Eve
Sing a song to yourself and you stand alone
Get nominated for a gold gramophone...
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
I look at all the lonely people (I look at all the
lonely people)
I look at all the lonely people (yeah)
-Talib Kweli and Michelle Williams "Lonely People" (They used a HELLUVA Beatles sample for this.)
____________________________________________________
So, last night I went out for the first time in a long time. All the "beautiful people" were out and about rubbing elbows, shaking hands, and pretending to enjoy each others company. (I say pretending because you could see that certain people were uncomfortable with their "sometime friend" standing next to them.)
I knew the event would be something of such a nature though. It's always like that when you're around the "beautiful people". Me...I don't fashion myself one of the "beautiful people." I don't really have the time, patience, wardrobe, or desire to be. Yeah I take care of myself but being one of the "beautiful people" is a full-time job.
You have to make sure you are seen at the "right" places. You have to wear the "right" clothes. You have to have the "right" amount of individuality with those clothes. You have to make sure that the latest trend in BananaRepublicGapAmericanEagleAbercrombie&FitchExpress(for men AND women)EddieBauerLuckyBebe[Insert clothing label here] is in your closet. You can't have an off-day. You have to be sure and look down your nose at those who are inferior. You have to be disrespectful of certain people that you don't get along with for one reason or another. You have to stand around and look sophisticated while having a conversation that ranks at about a 7th grade level. You have to be greek sometimes. [Not just greek, but SOOPER greek] Occasionally you will be called upon to have a complete thought, expressed in a complete sentence; but you must REFUSE to expound upon anything because people will stop listening. You must enjoy the sound bite. You must listen to music that you honestly don't like because it's what all the "Grown and Sexy" people are listening to even though you have something ultimately musically inferior in your CD Pla...oops, I mean iPod.
Yeah, being one of the "beautiful people" is a TOUGH job.
I've always had a problem reconciling my materialism with my intellectualism. I like to dress fly. I like to have my own style and embrace the VERY OCCASIONAL trend. (That whole sexually androgenous metrosexual thing wasn't my style...) It's like, I wanna be fly and well dressed and all that, but I want to be conscious, a revolutionary, and an unpretentious intellectual. They are, at times, diametrically opposed.
So, how am I supposed to be both? How can I reconcile myself to a certain level of bourgeois thought while being ADAMANTLY anti-bourgeois. Hmmm....I guess I'll find out one way or another. One of my biggest fears about my intellectual growth and development is that I'll wake up one day and be EVERYTHING I hate...I will have given up my beliefs and slowly allowed certain things to become kosher in the name of success and/or friendship....
Sucks...I know.
In a room so exclusive nobody there
But really, truth is that nobody there
Cuz it's feelings inside that nobody share
I want God to smile on me
But see, fame is a drug and you wild on E
Celebrities decorated like Christmas trees
God complex like they want a Christmas Eve
Sing a song to yourself and you stand alone
Get nominated for a gold gramophone...
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
I look at all the lonely people (I look at all the
lonely people)
I look at all the lonely people (yeah)
-Talib Kweli and Michelle Williams "Lonely People" (They used a HELLUVA Beatles sample for this.)
____________________________________________________
So, last night I went out for the first time in a long time. All the "beautiful people" were out and about rubbing elbows, shaking hands, and pretending to enjoy each others company. (I say pretending because you could see that certain people were uncomfortable with their "sometime friend" standing next to them.)
I knew the event would be something of such a nature though. It's always like that when you're around the "beautiful people". Me...I don't fashion myself one of the "beautiful people." I don't really have the time, patience, wardrobe, or desire to be. Yeah I take care of myself but being one of the "beautiful people" is a full-time job.
You have to make sure you are seen at the "right" places. You have to wear the "right" clothes. You have to have the "right" amount of individuality with those clothes. You have to make sure that the latest trend in BananaRepublicGapAmericanEagleAbercrombie&FitchExpress(for men AND women)EddieBauerLuckyBebe[Insert clothing label here] is in your closet. You can't have an off-day. You have to be sure and look down your nose at those who are inferior. You have to be disrespectful of certain people that you don't get along with for one reason or another. You have to stand around and look sophisticated while having a conversation that ranks at about a 7th grade level. You have to be greek sometimes. [Not just greek, but SOOPER greek] Occasionally you will be called upon to have a complete thought, expressed in a complete sentence; but you must REFUSE to expound upon anything because people will stop listening. You must enjoy the sound bite. You must listen to music that you honestly don't like because it's what all the "Grown and Sexy" people are listening to even though you have something ultimately musically inferior in your CD Pla...oops, I mean iPod.
Yeah, being one of the "beautiful people" is a TOUGH job.
I've always had a problem reconciling my materialism with my intellectualism. I like to dress fly. I like to have my own style and embrace the VERY OCCASIONAL trend. (That whole sexually androgenous metrosexual thing wasn't my style...) It's like, I wanna be fly and well dressed and all that, but I want to be conscious, a revolutionary, and an unpretentious intellectual. They are, at times, diametrically opposed.
So, how am I supposed to be both? How can I reconcile myself to a certain level of bourgeois thought while being ADAMANTLY anti-bourgeois. Hmmm....I guess I'll find out one way or another. One of my biggest fears about my intellectual growth and development is that I'll wake up one day and be EVERYTHING I hate...I will have given up my beliefs and slowly allowed certain things to become kosher in the name of success and/or friendship....
Sucks...I know.
Friday, February 08, 2008
In Between The Chapters...
I've realized that there are certain essentials in my life that I am missing...
No longer have I neglected my relationship with God. Though I am best described as the prodigal son, I know now that I am warm and welcome in his arms. As a good father does, he chastizes me from time to time...
As a writer though. I am missing a few things...
One of them is a muse...
I've often stated, "I don't like to write love poems," or, "Love poems don't pay the bills." That's still true. I don't like to write them unless ultimately and divinely inspired. I have actually avoided writing about my love life in my book...I'm not talking about that kind of muse though...
I've realized that an artists work is often determined by his/her surroundings and that a muse may simply be whatever MOVES them...
I want to write about more than my experiences as a teacher. I want to write about more than being a pariah. I want to write about more than just pain, pride, and prejudice. (No cliches intended) I want to simply...write...
All I can do is write...
Writing is my ultimate survival skill...
I have FINALLY realized that a writers TRUE sanity lies IN BETWEEN the chapters as opposed to that which the entire text is drawn from...
Where do you go when you have nowhere to be? (The essential, internal, intellectual question of ALL writers...from Hemingway to *ugh* Zane)
No longer have I neglected my relationship with God. Though I am best described as the prodigal son, I know now that I am warm and welcome in his arms. As a good father does, he chastizes me from time to time...
As a writer though. I am missing a few things...
One of them is a muse...
I've often stated, "I don't like to write love poems," or, "Love poems don't pay the bills." That's still true. I don't like to write them unless ultimately and divinely inspired. I have actually avoided writing about my love life in my book...I'm not talking about that kind of muse though...
I've realized that an artists work is often determined by his/her surroundings and that a muse may simply be whatever MOVES them...
I want to write about more than my experiences as a teacher. I want to write about more than being a pariah. I want to write about more than just pain, pride, and prejudice. (No cliches intended) I want to simply...write...
All I can do is write...
Writing is my ultimate survival skill...
I have FINALLY realized that a writers TRUE sanity lies IN BETWEEN the chapters as opposed to that which the entire text is drawn from...
Where do you go when you have nowhere to be? (The essential, internal, intellectual question of ALL writers...from Hemingway to *ugh* Zane)
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
This One's for My Teachers...
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...
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...
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.
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