History

It was an amazing evening this past Tuesday. I started the day by heading back to my old hood to scoop up Jus and take our historic trip to the polls. Our personal history as father and son bumped into us on every street corner as we walked through the only hood he’s really known in his nine years. We moved to the Bronx this past summer and I was careful not to do any change of address with my voter registration. My healthy-black man-paranoia-spidey senses told me to watch out for “the man’s” tricknology. So up in the morning, to get that 5 train to the J to Essex back to the Lower East Side to vote.

I was a little concerned my name might not be in the book like during the Democratic Primary. But that wasn’t any conspiracy theory against my first Black President and me. That was because I’m registered as a socialist (The Working Families Party to be more exact), which I need to change but that’s something other to discuss. Jus and I stepped into the voter’s booth after a rather short wait in line. Which is not a comment on the hood because I saw mad regular hood cats on the block community organizing.

“Yo my nigga! I better not see you on the block till your ass voted muthafucka. True story, our vote counts my nigga, we could have our first Black President. Are you even registered? I bet your ass didn’t even get that shit done”

“Nah yo, I registered. I’m just gonna get this dutchie from Sharif’s spot so I can have the ‘I voted’ L when I get back upstairs.”

“Aight my nigga, that’s what I’m talking ‘bout! Niggaz standing up and being accounted for and shit.”

“Whatever Farak Ofama.”

When we got in there, I felt a little overwhelmed. If memory serves me correctly, I’ve voted in every major election since I registered at eighteen. And it’s always been about the lesser of two evils except for the couple of times I got to vote for David Dinkins. But on Tuesday, I was about to do something that I think most of us thought would be close to impossible in our lifetime.

When I was a kid one time this lady asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said “a football player like OJ Simpson he’s my favorite player. And President, and maybe a drummer.” Looking at me with a smile, she said “There has never been a black President before maybe you can be the first”.

Just an aside, yes OJ Simpson was my favorite football player as a kid. Had an action figure and everything, he came with weights and shit. No! He didn’t come with a knife and glove! I was a kid and who knew.

In a rush, the first thing I did was go for the little turn down pegs but Justin stopped me in mid motion. “Dad! You have to pull the red lever first, can I pull it. Then you can do those things up there.”

“Shit Jus, I’m glad you’re here I might of fucked … um sorry, messed that all up. Barack needs my vote, I better be on point.” And just like that, we sipped history much like our hero’s before us when they we able to vote for that very first time. “You know dad, Barack is like George Washington. Not the first President but the first Black President.” It was awesome to be sharing a historical moment with my kid that we were both aware of.

Politics never really materialized for me but Barack did. And not only for me but for thousands of kids like me and like him. The American Dream. For the first time in my life I felt like the American Dream included me. It was strange to feel my cynicism towards this country melt as I sat on my couch mesmerized listening to his speech. I felt like … I can’t believe I was thinking it, I felt like an American. Like those flags placed behind him as he spoke were waving for my family and me too. Its funny how a moment in time can begin to shape every moment that comes after it.

These are indeed exciting times.

M

Biggie Tribute

I don't really post on the weekends BUT I was skipping around the world of the web and bumped into Biggie!!!!

Mr. Cee's Notorious B.I.G 10th Anniversary Tribute Mix ... 4 hours of BIG on a Sunday!!!

Sit back, steam a L, and enjoy the memories of our nigga Notorious.

M

Mixtape Memories/Summer of '95

It was the summer of ’95 Raekwon’s "Incarcerated Scarfaces" was booming from just about every car stereo or apartment building. You have to remember this particular summer if you’re a Hip Hop head. Illmatic, Enter the 36 Chambers, Ready To Die, and Enta Da Stage had all dropped plus the mixtape DJ’s were putting out classic street albums.

This was a different world, we didn’t even have Reasonable Doubt yet but we did have Doo Wop, Double R, S&S, and others all holding us down with classics cuts … like the first time I heard the “Method Man remix”! We were on our way to the Willis Ave. spot to cop like six nicks each (yeap in ’95 you could still get fat nicks in the BX) and when that song came on the S&S tape I must have rewound that shit like eleven times.

“Yo Miz! You killing my batteries nigga! Fuck! Next you gonna be rewinding that Black Moon shit.”

Boobie was right because “Shit Iz Real” to this day has me reciting every lyric in time with Buck Shot like we're doing Hip Hop karaoke.

But my favorite mixtape cat was Doo Wop & The Bounce Squad. Not only did I get the Bounce Squad setting the tape off but I got mad joints by Money Boss Players (an extremely personal favorite). Minnesota was a beast on their beats and Lord Tariq & Eddie Cheeba were talking that slick “SEX, MONEY, MURDER” shit back when the only place to hear it was on the mixtapes. Gangsta Rap was still getting minimal airplay during daytime hours in “the old days”.

I think the mixtape (which were CD’s by this time) that gave the official coronation, as King for me was Doo Wop’s Wopduizm Pt. One. This joint had a super hero type track listing.

Doo Wop started off with the “Ten Tape Commandments”, freestyles from Money Boss Players, Bounce Squad members Uneek & Don Black (Uneek was a monster and Don Black had a real slick style).

Ok and that was just the warm up because of the AWESOME track “Keep Your Hand High” by Tracey Lee and Biggie. That’s when BIG spit the infamous “them rings and things you sing about bring em out its hard to yell when the barrels in your mouth”. That was such a hard song, it never really got airplay and it seems like a forgotten Biggie verse to me.

Any way Smoothe Da Hustler & Trigger Tha Gambelr spit on “Smith Bros.”, which is like the last song I think I ever heard from either of them. “Beast From The East” Redman and Canibus on the same fucking track! That’s all I have to say on that song. “De Ja Vu” long before the video and song were everywhere, the “Step Into A World” remix KRS & Puff Daddy … yo, I’m just saying. And “Triumph” before it was getting play and I know I was still looking forward to any Wu releases back then.

That is a champion mixtape.

But back to the summer of ’95 I was still so young and raw and this shit was the soundtrack to my life. The best of my rooftop or project hallway smoke/slap boxing/freestyle sessions were in full motion during this summer. It was all about “the women, the weed/sticky green” even though BIG hadn’t gone back to Cali yet. That was back when the most anticipated album by me was Method Man’s Tical. I mean every time Meth was on the mic on any song it was going to be fire. It was pretty hard to find cats who disagreed with that sentiment.

So much has changed in Hip Hop since then but I will always love the Golden Era, which for me goes from ’86 to ’98 (which still allows The Score, Capitol Punishment, Hard Knock Life, and a few others).

Yes, the Golden Age does end suspiciously for me after BIG is murdered and Big Pun dies.

But more on that later.


M

Ready to die is why I act this way ...

This is HOT!!!!

I must admit this is old but I'm sure there is some Biggie fan out there (just like me)that hasn't found it yet ... so this joint gives us the uncleared versions of some of the illest joints & other portions with unheard lyrics from Ready To Die.

This is just so f**king dope!!!!


B.I.G Forever!!!!

M





http://www.hiphopdx.com/index/mixtape/id.507/title.dj-semi-the-notorious-b-i-g-ready-to-die-the-o-g-edition

The Notorious B.I.G

“The Greatest rapper of all time died on March 9th”
Canibus

It took me a long time to recover from the news on that Sunday morning … the news that Biggie had been shot. For a minute the game tasted mad sour to me, I was jaded and angry that Big had decided to go back to Cali.

The usual, sloppy attention was paid to young black death but I knew the world had changed. Right then, 1997 and even though Puff said they wouldn’t stop … I did and did so for a good minute. It was just too hard, too vague, too many fake rappers that wouldn’t get half a mic minute if Big was still here … Too many unanswered questions, too many names not yet named, Big never got that third album … the one that explained what we could only pick up in word play bread crumbs.

Ten plus years later and the movie is almost here. We’re trying to get an interview concerning the movie over at Beyond Race but this is more than another story for me, this is Biggie … B-I-G Forever baby!

Enjoy the clip …

M



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Y9dLZoZ1O0

Skinny-dippin in the nude

Woke up to this world so cold and lonely/a damaged soul left me exhausted, dazed, & confused not yet ready to speak out in disapproval of sanctioned self-torment/ knowing the fruit from those seeds inspire the darker side of me, soooo …

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you!

The path of my better man calls as my ignorance dissipates and I see myself naked and finally no longer ashamed … See! And that’s just what I was figuring on, so as a matter of record let’s throw all our cards on the table, discarded the joker before fishing my Ace, undisputed King wit my Queen shuffling the deck - feeling lucky so let’s roll them dice cuz we got angels on both of our shoulders tonight – sticky life changing challenges kept our backs to the wall like Joe Cool spittin’ fuck that! Exclamation mark comma quotation marks screams, “we puffs that ganja”

Late one night on television Soul Food said the fastest growing new cases of HIV/AIDS is black girls under 21/like throwing Hebrew babies in the Nile/like taking Black motherhood from the future of Black girls/like does that mean we need Black teen mothers to survive? Walking through a wasteland of jackhammers, scaffolding, wires, smoke stacks, new boutiques, and alehouses/coffee shops, imploded school buildings with specifically selected Educrats … only corner store bodegas remain with their nostalgic reminiscence/ we were all sent running for shelter, peace of mind, and a more cost effective community to start over again in … revitalization is what I think they call it

Ghetto birds be clockin’ me and chicken heads stay chicken hawkin’ me because magnificent missiles be heat seekin’/but let me take it back to the kid wit the white on white Puma Baskets … red + grey/blue + white/solid blue, red + green fat laces – on that very first day of prep school I came in rockin’ pre Fresh Prince of Bel Air but post Beat Street, LL Cool J in my walkman, and the summer of ’86 on my nasty little mind

“My radio believe me I like it loud/I’m the man with the box that can rock the crowd/walking down the street/wit my hardcore beat/while my JVC vibrates the concrete …

Ghetto fabulous before I could proudly say it, a black novelty suburban B Boy before I could clearly display it/stuck in between with a vaguely staccato stutter in my step and a self conscious glitch pruning the branches of my social development/violently taste testing the surplus my stubby working class fingers tips just couldn’t clutch -

Growing wit the times you learn to adjust a lil quicker/doubling up on them L’s, while slowing it down on them liquors/bloodstains from my battle scars sketches out the peripheral of an unique figure/though deep in my heart I still remain that Illmatic nigga/’94 Metro north to the 6 train Willis Avenue spot/4 fat bags please my nigga/on project roof tops we slap boxed, beat boxed, & free-styled pausing to dissect the city’s missteps sparked by our superior cipher rhetoric

A 70’s kid who awkwardly developed into an 80’s teen forced to become a 90’s hustler … until my scorpion infested purgatory @ the most high/holy virtue/solo only voice of God/but I swear we love everyone church/temple/sanctuary of God/incorporated … As I recollect the dialect from my mind/ its prone to function much like a tech 9 with the inclination to jam at your most inopportune time/convincing yourself of the need for deeper investigation, pleasing your inner detective/you'll find me horizon hopping with two of God's stars neatly tucked beneath each shoulder blade

This black nigga/blacked out from the blackened tar left around the chamber/graduated from high school before I dropped outta college/before I dropped outta seminary... Get it/irrelevant cats’ spazed when my ecclesiology rendered the establishment a non-factor within my paper-stacking factory

Sadly, I was forced to make a cameo appearance on that liquor store video with them twin calicoes/house slippers and a raincoat/Newport long in between my lips/talking incoherent history from my former existence/when I'm being watched I watch back that's the policy/I am so dope/like the haze with the purple feathers/now you'll take what I give you & we'll both call it help in the meantime daily challenging my uncanny lung capacity/when I fly we be so high yet remain chastised for spinning the bottle while kissing the sky/Magnificent Aquarian Righteously Creating Unrest Semi-annually connect the first letter twisted within the contents of my honey dipped blunt & see the name that'll prove my point

Pop Champagne

Everyday I'm becoming more of a Jim Jones fan.

I think his ability to deliver a good sound bite keeps people from seeing a genuine & savvy individual ... Respect the grind.


You can catch him on Hot 97 w/Angie Martinez about right now, this joint is hot.


M

How to roll a blunt ...

What up world.

Check out the link below, Redman was in concert in ATL cashing some checks off of Scion Toyota.

Its good to know that in this climate of downloads and ringtones someone as important to Hip Hop as Redman is still doing them shows and ripping the mic.

It’s a 20 minute clip and time well spent as he hits some of his classic joints … class is in session!

Divine Sinner



Redman Performing @ The Loft in Atlanta from Broccolicity TV on Vimeo.

Mad Healthy

“What’s really good son?”

“Nothing, chillin’ yo, kissing the stars taking this shit to the face. What’s really good with you yo?”

“Nah, you know it ain’t really nothing, blowing it down wit wifey on this side. You know how we do son … zone coasting”

“Word, I hear you my nigga, what happened last night mad niggaz thought you was coming through”

“I know yo, but wifey made this bangin’ dinner last night and that shit was mad healthy. A nigga get that belly full and wanna have that good night L”

“Word, but what kinda shit she made yo?”

“She made these pork chops but she didn’t fry them shits yo, she like made them shits on the stove and then she made like this zucchini shit yo … boom and that shit was like mad healthy yo ... hold up ... what babe? It was eggplant? Well, whatever yo! That shit was mad healthy yo yanahmean?”

Seven Seconds of Ecstasy (The Kiss)

The symphonic expressions from the traffic surrounding us
No longer seemed to be … it simply just didn’t
I’ve imagined this actual moment
So many times, rehearsed my smoothed-out-Mac-playa-response
And now?
Now?!!?
I’ve got nothing …
Because I’m so melted to my core
Butterflies I haven’t seen in years
Are bouncing off of every corner
Of my insides

The tilt of your neck exposes
The smoothest skin I’ve ever encountered
Your lips,
Shimmering from the sexiest lip-gloss …
Puckered out, stretched in my direction
Like a gift and today ain’t even my birthday,
Not even close …
Your mouth begins to open,
As your eyes begin to close
(Now proper kissing etiquette demands that I close mine too)
But I felt it virtually impossible, and down right criminal
Denying myself the privilege of looking into your majestic, angelic face

Your tongue had a bubble gum flavor
From the gum you were chewing,
(I love a woman that keeps it hood)
And your lips had this, apple-like essence
I was hypnotized by this physical interaction
The feeling of our bodies’ close, our arms wrapped

I explored the contour of your top lip
With the moistened motion from the bottom of mine
Listening to the rhythmic pattern of your breathing
Alerted me to your approval of my style
Permitting my mind to drift off into the regions where my ego abided …

Liquor Rhythms

Staring at you from across a steamed out dance floor, magnetically attracted we glide together to that pulsating jungle beat mixing with the intense, and intoxicatingly erotic liquor rhythms

Gyrations bio-chemically produce invitations I sweat, from the heat as our eyes speak to what our bodies are really saying watching, as countless human representatives surrender willingly to their seductive natures

The incoherent and, fuzzy baseline disengages my mind-body-and-soul,
enticing my reflections on disregarded segments … of … our … past … history ... visions of Harriet Jacobs, Robert Smalls, and Frederick Douglass disapprovingly gaze as I caress your ass, on the dance floor in the span of 2 or 3 songs I had a dream we slept together, when I woke up and called you-you told me it was all good

Is my misogynistic machismo the final definition of my illuminating charisma?

Or does the smoke-filled room provide protection as we disrespect each other’s personal spaces violating both our situational and sexual ethics … now don’t get me wrong, rubbing up on a sistas breast while romantically reciting the lyrics of the
late … great … Notorious B.I.G in your ear,
is what I consider to be living

But while walking back to my table-aggressively occupied by my boys, with you digits in my pocket I presently realize that because of our recent past history, we have absolutely have no chance, for a future

7 songs later our lust reconnects us 2, on the dance floor with our physical familiarity
multiplied by 9 eagerly anticipating signals pointing in the direction of a liquor induced proposition, effectively redeemable for 1 night 6 advil, 12 hours, and 4 organisms later
we awake to the alarmingly devastating notion

That because we presently use each other as past reference points, we have effectively destroyed any chance for a future

This is for the hater in you ...

Over the weekend, I was hit with some hate from outta nowhere. So I figured I'd post this Maya Angelou joint that was sent to me ... So to all them haters out there please read and digest ... and then maybe you can live your life while I live mine ... PEACE!

A hater is someone who is jealous and envious and spends all their time trying to make you look small so they can look tall. They are very negative people to say the least. Nothing is ever good enough! When you make your mark, you will always attract some haters ... That's why you have to be careful with whom you share your blessings and your dreams, because some folk can't handle seeing you blessed ... It's dangerous to be like somebody else ... If God wanted you to be like somebody else, He would have given you what He gave them! Right? You never know what people have gone through to get what they have ... The problem I have with haters is that they see my glory, but they don't know my story ... If the grass looks greener on the other side of the fence, you can rest assured that the water bill is higher there too! We've all got some haters among us! Some people envy you because you can:

1. Have a relationship with God

2. Light up a room when you walk in

3. Start your own business

4. Tell a man/woman to hit the curb (if he/she isn't about the right thing)

5. Raise your children without both parents being in the home

Haters can't stand to see you happy. Haters will never want to see you succeed. Haters never want you to get the victory and most of our haters are people who are supposed to be on our side.

How do you handle your undercover haters? You can handle these haters by:

1. Knowing who you are & who your true friends are *(VERY
IMPORTANT!!)

2. Having a purpose to your life. Purpose does not mean having a job. You can have a job and still be unfulfilled. A purpose is having a clear sense of what God has called you to be. Your purpose is not defined by what others think about you.

3. By remembering, what you have is by divine prerogative and not human manipulation.

Fulfill your dreams! You only have one life to live ... when its your time to leave this earth, you 'want' to be able to say, "I've lived my life and fulfilled my dreams, Now I'm ready to go HOME!"

When God gives you favor, you can tell your haters, "don’t look at me ... Look at who is in charge of ME"

Watch out for Haters .................... BUT most of all don't become a HATER!

Maya Angelou

The Aftershock ...

Fresh off of my newly minted conquest within the industrial sith-lord messianic complex, I was confronted by porch monkey theology seasoned to perfection by a twist of gone with the wind nostalgia

- niggaz don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies -

watching knowingly while my avatar is savagely clunked on the head by the oreo magistrate,

beaten, and lynched in honor of emmett teal, fred hampton, and amado diallo

What wicked manner of evil is black on black soul assassination when carried out with an ivory accomplice and reprobated intentions

ghetto church birds chirpin’ tales of transformation while seeking counsel all day about whose the dopest pastor - dollar, olstein, or long

- shit sister thompson digs the sanctified stylings of peter popoff but if you ask me my eyebrow arch might slap the shit outta you ...

Sorry, I can no longer believe the words you utter,

all will say what they want to get what they need

pearly jibs shinning

and soul pockets filled with violent thoughts of body crevice invasions upon a proudly indoctrinated army of impassioned opiates

- now I'm not trying to shake you fat lil figs outta line, not really trying to service sight to the blind, but I'm persistently pursuing that dream when life is blowing wind up her summer dress with a thong and no panty lines -

vividly translating desire because it seems I'm dangerously ahead of my time

Verbal Photography

Eighteen syringes strapped to niggaz wit fifteen plastic glocks, tripping off that bom-ba-zee/die casted into pseudo classic positions of honor within their psycho-religious Caste system/I’d rather be, racing dolphins having deep-sea diving competitions with the wind and watching myself overdosed while engrossed by Lilth in an Amsterdam coffee shop

Now the new me is back, such a paradox, and the chances of my return are slim to subliminal none, further enlistment for another tour of duty will only serve to delay the inevitable advent of freedom - begrudgingly, I find myself lavished with the lush reflective praises from contemporaries previously hating amazingly on our Logan’s run, where cumulus clouds of greenery inspire blurry-eyed choke sessions

Depending on which side of the bullet you was chewing, blessings from my gun permit rejection notice having already selected infa-red melon invitations for jelly back bitch niggaz from bk to the bronx - apologies are in order to the fathers of all the daughters … consequently it was consensual when I was diggin’ that out

I’ve got peoples who stress the mistakes made out of state, niggaz who can’t kick dream shattering habits, and my minds eye fixated upon the location of the prize … I’m focused man, so focused … from day one parallel parking in the back of my black hearse the queen has more than tripled her kismet net worth, elaborating on the selection of her future collection coming standard with beautiful Her-mes pur-ses

Presently collecting applications for a friendly, all recently assaulted bitch niggaz need not apply

Introducing me …

As nicotine and in-dough-nee infiltrate well-traveled and convoluted paths through out my bloodstream, I see silhouettes of, plastic hearted minions, manic perpetrators in well-intended destruction. It is altogether use-less for you to con-test the pleasurable in-gest, of this sticky green blow town induced lyrical maa-lest-station specifically delivered into your inner listen. Birthed from the, unchecked passions of an ancient harlot makes me the sum of witnessed brutality to soul and spirit, “all in the name, of the blood stained banner of Jesus”

Young broads with bodies built to lust for C cup titties, honey dripped thick, brown, and round, graffiti covered vaginal tragedies long before the age of 21

As I live and breathe … We’ve gone from ez rock and base to, pumping ez rocks from base giving birth to a new type of nigga, splitting banana clips like a jungle hungry gorilla, the lust for paper will lead to, no hesitation in the disrespectful and, brutal pursuit of respectability

Please put down the pen and, slowly back away because without warning or delay you’ll be blown to spastic from the kick back attached to the ass whipping of my verbal spit tactics

Perpetually with my board in the shop,chopped from the, frequent-high-flying-hover-craft type mileage like a decept I can transform from, cere-bral to, bru-tal producing 2 twin jet packs from my back, sumari inspired helicopter choppaz and a rubber griped 9, just in case revolution sparks before we finish this splif

Supreme writer I'm a bitter of myself none other, when I twist a hot verse I'm biggin’ up my culture, biggin’ up my music, birthed flow con-do-it, you ass salty, hatin' that the swag is foolish, so them rings and things you sing about bring em out, its hard to yell when tha bar-rels in your mouth

And now, a word from our sponsor ...

Have you had the wonderful misfortune of ever meeting my nine? Whether chrome or black, plastic or rubber gripped she pines for the time when she can stand @ attention, waiting in eager anticipation, selecting standing ovations with pre assigned projectile evictions.

Now this next paragraph might makes ya laugh, when a brotha rolls a blunt and his breath smells like pure ass - ok class, 10 hip hop pts if u idee the lst paragraph

But back to the clap talk for a second, it was always my favorite helped an angry nigga feel the hate inside his ears - wondered if he had it in em when ordered to park hollows in between the ears of his peers, but that's when them other cats flashed that chrome, licked them shots, and missed my dome.
Was like 20 back then, that's when I developed the phantom, ghost like qualities back then, listened when NaS told me sleep was the cousin - so never was I sleeping again nah cousin.

Decided to grab the mic for real, back then. Burnaz captured my minds eye metaphor back then, 4 fifths, 380's, 12 Gage, & dessert ezy spitting loogies wit intention of twistin icons & leakin em wit they chest breathin' wheezy, stayed eazy nigga ... wasn't fashioned to be blastin, matriculated up the field to avoid my under achieving ass from being sent to Iraq - fuck it black - tried to forget while I smoked where I was rollin it at … That’s about the time when I met a man whose neck, ear, wrist, and pinky ring gleams with a unique gift for touching the nerve of young ghetto dreams ...

This is dedicated to bad bitches who moonlight as day time chiropractors, sexuality discreetly bubbling like espresso foam in a warm Amsterdam coffee shop. If I could figure out your name with my psychic pheromone capabilities, I'd stop my preoccupation concerning the hue of your Vicky inspired thong and bra ensemble, I respect your gangsta though, bx authentic hip hop on that first night splashed beyond recognition I peeped you zoning to Rakim's "The Punisher", instantly celebrating the location of my kismet ...

Took the ladder to success escalator style, the personal blueprint of spago blowing muthafuckaz twisted in 7 jeans, D&G eye covers, and newborn baby clean footwear, crystal clear ice skating rinks with rainbows fruitfully multiplied throughout the land

My style is sick like high school mono, when I spit that heavy shit transformational conversions opens doors to unlimited choices as vehicles for cultural revolution … While still clockin fat ass' on project chickens sportin’ 5411's blasted from the scent recoiling from the body of my buddy.

It was either the pistol, the pulpit, the mic, or the pen

The gospel according to m

Live the sounds of the block, sprinkled with city grid inspired pay phone stalls attached to the ears of …

“Yo! What’s up mamita? Yeah you, looking nice wit that thick ass-ass … Yo son, for real I’d fuck the shit outta her!”

17 years old, 34C almost close to a D, pretty brown round and trying to run with these thoroughbreds – lil niggaz breathing every breath and living with their appointments for death and in this game offsides, personal fouls, and missing a sign could lead to murals for life after death and shorties screaming, crying –

“He was such a good kid”, “That was my nigga yo”, “Fuck the police and fuck them crackers too!” “He was my baby”

Welcome to the block where summers are hot, hood stars catch fire, and the stories live – because each voice has a face and every face has a scar. Young souls grow colder faster while innocence develops a resistance to the infinite possibilities of hope. Stop. Take a breath. Look around. Soak it in. So deep are her impressions you can smell, hear, and taste her affects. She gave me my swag and taught the importance of watching while listening, her points were made crystal clear every time she laid a nigga down. Hollow points tear the fabric of my pride every time my oldest is forced to eat his 4th favorite dinner with juicy juice punch though at best I can only muster ambivalence towards his mother. They long ago received their nostalgic triggers – 3 days ago my nicotine retirement and the ever-present aroma of indo scent. Their souls will remember my frequent misremembering, trips out of the room for “What the fuck did I come out her for anyway?” Kisses while they slept and conversations concerning their grandchildren’s well being.

I love my sons!

The divine creator’s gift to my existence, two treasures, and newer visions of myself in this predestined voyage of free will. Now to be fair, maybe he was too damaged to love his approval came with chutes + ladders type consequences self loathing, self pity, and self destruction, ya headin’ for self destruction – but ya only get one pops right?

Provoked by transformational re-creation we can now see past, each building erected in efforts to shorten the boundless nature of our horizon, each high-rent luxury condo complete with swimming pool world class fitness facility movie theater and other exclusatory amenities. We can now see past every hood hustlin’ high performance vehicle driving voice box for the Lord. Can I get a witness ...

I think slow & far now, the future is my reality. Gone is the trigger from his verbal cannon replaced by love + praise, for those truly are the seeds of any impassioned childhood. The older I get, the more I like him. The older he gets, the more I know I’ll miss him when he’s gone. The more I look in the mirror, the more I see him …

The Genesis

1972 was the year, January 22nd triple-double’s for the first born on the third day of Aquarius. Grew up in a green van with ex-fiends, rolling by currently future relapsing ex-fiends, leaning without touching the ground in mix matched, knee high, tube socks. The van was always filled with songs of redemption, vocalized by those on the receiving end of newly found divine forgiveness and a well worn family distrust. You can’t sell the kid’s Atari, your wife’s jewels, and your momma’s TV and think a few popcorn testimonies will bring that ass back home …

But at my home, “you a stupid ass nigga” and “well, your fat ass is a bitch!” Yelling, pushing, scratching and … “you betta get the fuck outta my house!”
A dizzying transportation of internally diminishing child cargo Norwalk, Harlem, Camden, Harlem, Queens, Norwalk
It’s early A.M. and the same lips that cursed the fat, stupid nigga is now praying down heaven all over my face in attempts to purge my dark and sinful nature.

Was not too long before the two kids were packed with all the gospel records she owned and the combo 8-track, stereo, record player … she figured at least as much for time served with his funky ass. Even though it seemed like she didn’t really take much else. But who wants stretch marks and some other niggaz ankle biters? My sister and I were simply snot-nosed cock blockers “give that nigga back his kids and we might got something baby-girl”, in his plushed-out green and ivory seats, laundry mat stopping big daddy caddy. And every time my mind would make note when he came outside, looked around, and went to the trunk.

They say patience is a virtue – I say, patience is a virtue matured through layers of pain. Fighting to make sense of failure … and disappointments, realities altered, and innocence compromised. The years have polished over thick remnants of ash, the last testament to my volcanic rage, though I witness its simmer in the eyes of my childhood reflection. A child’s eye was never meant to recall in such sharp and vivid detail the liberties taken in under supervised and anointed environments – though we beg to forget.

But that was about the time my soul had a rhythm for the pocket. 1978 was the year and I secretly realized at the tender age of 6, my prepubescent gift to memorize all the shit them roach clip rockin’ niggaz kicked. Intrigued and captivated by the stories told, places the imagination of a lonely, frightened, and traumatized boy could escape.

She was so fucking selfish and he was soooo fucking bootleg – but for he, she popped out three all while praying for the day the other would “just drop dead!” It’s what their hearts say while faining misery’s bliss.

caste, creaming, and others - pt.2

Due to the fragility of the American cultural psyche it seems we have limited ability when confronted with issues of human suffering. Much of this could be connected to the church and its refusal to acknowledge its own history of oppressive behavior.

When the American church endeavors to find her voice pertaining to oppression of any kind she is confronted with the truths surrounding her conspicuous silence on issues concerning the disenfranchised in the past. This usually forces the church into a position where she is fending off questions, which attack the epicenter of her motives and intentions. All of this is indeed difficult but certainly not an excuse, which exempts her from entering in.

For example, how can the church speak out against the suicide bombings in Israel while refusing to speak against the daily terror perpetrated upon the Palestinians by the Israeli armed forces? How can we highlight the suffering in Serbia while neglecting to ever mention The Sudan, or Rwanda? How do we explain our years of silence concerning apartheid in South Africa? This is without mentioning the years of suffering in Latin America, Haiti, and Asia.

Understanding and listing our process of inoculation is one of our favorite past times. The question we have grown extremely adapted at dodging is “Why can’t we consider pain?” This problem is not relegated to a certain sector of our Christian society, meaning this is not simply a “White” problem. The African American and Latino church in the opinion of some, are actually at the forefront of silence, choosing rather to preach the godly pursuit of the American dream. They try desperately, as a diversionary tactic, to convince us that poverty is the indicator of sin in the lives of the oppressed.

Some light might be shed on “the why” as we consider our cultural inability to embrace personal pain without attempting to invert it for the purpose of an Evangelistic commodity. An extremely lucent example would be the reaction of the American Evangelical Church in the after effects of September 11. The now retired Rev. Dr. James Forbes of Riverside Church called the reactions from the Christian community towards people of Arab decent ”Pornographic Patriotism”. Others have referred to it as “Evangelical Nationalism”.

Because the American Evangelical community is in possession of an Imperial theological viewpoint, there was small belief that an attack of that magnitude could ever be perpetrated on American soil. Our belief emanated from our views that we are God’s chosen people called to evangelize the world, within God’s chosen country, which we believed to be endowed with a certain amount of Heavenly protection.

This viewpoint disallowed the opportunity to genuinely reflect on the magnitude of human suffering, which was taking place for those who lost family members, friends, colleagues, and spouses. We also were not able to sympathize with those undocumented workers who were now without the low paying jobs they attempted to support their families with.

What we were extremely adept at doing was assigning blame on a people group and their countries, moving towards them as an inspired angry mob. America went forward, believing that God had called us to “crusade” towards justice and the annihilation of those whom served “other gods”.

Using religious rhetoric as a cover for our brazen pain and outrageous racism, we sang obstinately for God to bless America at every church gathering. Knowing that are hearts were actually asking for God to curse Islamic Nations while in the process of blessing “our great and godly nation”.

Our Evangelical Nationalism was so prevalent that some actually preached from our pulpits that Bin Laden was beyond the reconciling grace of the Holy Spirit. All of our prayers concerning the innocent people in Afghanistan seemed to come across a forced and hollow while we remained eerily silent as countless numbers of Islamic peoples were imprisoned and tortured by our God-fearing government officials. We simply could not deal with our own immense pain so we defaulted to religiously finding fault with our Islamic brothers of Arabic decent.

“God whispers in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences but shouts in our pains … it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world”
C. S. Lewis – The Problem of Pain

sonic transitions

I love music … I know we all love music but I love it in an – its almost hard to find a song that’s not my jam – kind of way. One of the things I love about music is that it has the ability to transport you from where you are to where you were in life when a particular song comes on. What you were doing, how you were living, what you wanted, what that song represented at that time … all of it at the same time. The song is so rich and fresh, transcendent and melodic, that it’s even able to withstand being butchered by our less than perfect renditions each time. Amazing!

Or how about the anthem song? The one that always seems to come on when you are looking for that mystic conformation, its becomes your soul’s warrior cry even after all the radio stations and video shows have played it out. It always will always have that special space in you.

I’m also one of those types of people whose favorite cuts are the album cuts, the ones that never get the light of day in radio play. Even though that is changing with artist taking more control, going independent, and having more control over the selection of their single but that’s not the point right now. I’m feeling nostalgic.

Though tempting, I won’t use Hip Hop as an example because it’s only since the early to mid 90’s that Hip Hop has made its rush to where its everywhere. I’m old enough to remember when we had to wait for Kiss and BLS to bring on Red Alert, Mr. Magic, and Chuck Chillout, (back when Funkmaster Flex was carrying crates for Chuck Chillout). Back then we were happy to get what we got on the radio and buy the tape – yes tape and I had mad tapes. I bought everything, there are some artist that should send me a letter of thanks because I was one of the 37, 212 that purchased the album. Like, Steezo or Paris … see?

And I can’t go old school because most of that was about making hit records. Though you will always have to make exception for artist like Ray Charles, Isaac Hayes, Barry White, Stevie Wonder, Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, and James Brown who twisted genre so much for so long until they created their own. And so I do not act like I’m living in a James Brown song because it is not a man’s world … Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Ruth Brown, Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, Tina Turner, and Patti LaBelle.

Anyway, lets use a song like “Spanish Joint” off of D’Angelo’s “Voodoo” CD … yes, CD. Or “Ready for love” by India.Arie, or anything by Goapele and Amel Larrieux, those types of songs never make the radio but you know the artist made it from a special place and it reaches you at a special place. I will not even bother to argue against the sheer aesthetic and lustful genius of the “How does it feel?” video as a first single choice by D’Angelo because that’s just business right there plus we really have yet to hear from him since. I hope all is well and he can get back to giving us that good soul music.

And music has mood shifting capabilities also, no really it does. Like when I’m on my – Hov, hustler, half a billie in the bank roll shit – or my – Kweli, Black Thought, Mos Def “Fake Bonanza” shit.

And that’s just the Hip Hop side of things. There are so many songs that have the ability to change my mood before the song is even finished.

I also am the kind of person who has lyrics from Rap joints constantly floating around in my thought stream, like …

“These cats drink champagne to toast death and pain, like slave on a ship talking about who got the flyest chain”– Talib Kweli

“I look into the eyes of the nigga, who fell, I hit my head on the concrete to beat defeat, ch-khaa! Another dead nigga in the streets, bulls eye direct hit don’t miss, now how many MC’s must get dissed” – Black Moon

“Hold up, call the coroner, there’s gonna be a lot of slow singing and flower bringing if my burglar alarm starts ringing” - Biggie

“Black fresh from Iraq, wild look in his eyes missing part of his arm, what the fuck is the prob, oh lord fake bonanza” – Mos Def

I’m the guy that knows all the words to all the songs in my iPod, every playlist has like 300 songs because I can never stay on course. So, no playlist has ever been heard to its completion but I cannot apologize because I love it. I can leave the TV off all day (after the Yankee highlights from the game I sat and watched the night before) and just listen to my iPod play all day long. There are some shows that will have K very confused because he’s going to think that when the characters speak to one another they sound like Nas, Sly Stone, or Jill Scott because I leave the shows on with the music playing.

Dialogue replaced by lyrics, you’d think I’d love musicals too but sadly enough no I don’t and there is not enough space to explain all of that. Ruthie and I have already started a playlist of all of our favorite songs, so they can all be played at the wedding party but when you have a reputation for creating playlist that can last 4.5 days some songs just might not make it.

Jus loves Kanye, so the cycle is starting all over again. What will Hip Hop give my boys?

I figure they have an advantage because when Hip Hop and I grew up together, she was always the friend that my parents didn’t trust me hanging out with. But for them they have a father who knows that Hip Hop is a grown woman, making her choices and working her way home.

Extremism lacks imagination …

Those of you who know me, know that I always feel as if I am one of the smartest people in any room that I may find myself in … except for when my lil’ sister is in the room, yes my biological sister.

Shante is like 32 I think (if you have more than one kid you’re lucky if you even call the right one the right name at the right time, so you know ages go out the window - I can barely remember mine sometimes). Anyway, she is ADB at NYU and just has a whole host of accolades attached to her name, so it seems while I played Techmo Superbowl in my room on my Nintendo all through high school she was apparently in her room doing homework or something.

And that was way before Madden, that is my adult obsession but Techmo Superbowl was the don dada, that was the first football game that your guys could jump to catch the pass in, had a halftime show, flipped the field at halftime, and a nice little celebration after you won the super bowl … Oh, and most importantly it was the first football game to start keeping stats unheard of in the late 80’s. My team was Houston; back when they had Warren Moon and I used to cheese that fly pattern with Earnest Givens as the “Y” receiver… no one wanted it!

So the other day she responds to the family paradox post and raises all these wonderful questions and uncovers all these wonderful insights, which in turn inspired me to write again on the topic spring boarding off of some of her observations.

Oh, and Google her when you get some time (‘Shante Smalls’ or visit http://www.shanteparadigm.com), she is one of the most talented, intelligent, generous, and well respected people I know and I am so glad that I get the honor of being her big brother …

Shante is a practicing Buddhist, who was raised within the same family environment - that in itself is perceived as a paradox because the Christian tradition believes in homogeneous regeneration. Meaning that if one is raised in a Christian home one should turn into a Christian, I believe this is loosely based on “raise a child in the way he should go and when he is older he will never depart”. I know from my personal home experience that people who believe in the supernatural (atonement, transformation, etc.) can also suffer from a lack of supernatural imagination. “Raising a child in the way…” seems to suffer from an extremely narrow interpretation. Some might say that I suffer from a heretical imagination but we won’t digress there at this time.

How is it that most Christians have better relationships with friends of their choosing than they do with their own family members? We could offer the weak excuses, which usually place the blame at the feet of the “unsaved loved one” or we could question our practices, which have subtly taught us exclusion over the years. Reaching quickly for our “unequally yoked” line of reasoning, or my favorite “when I’m there they all know to watch their language - yada, yada, yada” and in the end that seems more like a barometer on our own spirituality than an true demarcation of whatever positive impact we may or may not have left.

This much I do know. I am the culmination of all my experiences at 36 years of age and that includes all the Evangelism pitfalls I am always railing against, the old school Pentecostalism that boarders on mysticism at times, and the whole Ecumenical exposure throughout my high school years that has truly shaped most of my spirituality. When I tally it all up at the end and watch the witness of my sister’s life I’m hard pressed to believe that this Gospel message is really reduced down to who is wearing what color jersey … not when God’s word tells me that He seems to be concerned with the condition of a person’s heart. Besides, by Christian standards I’m on the outside looking in as well … so who am I to defend the prosecution?

Black Imagination – what’s a nigga to do? Part 3

An interesting imagery submitted into discussion, suggested the word had grown to Pandora like proportions rendering us incapable of ever claiming any ability to reframe or reform the word or its usage. How can a people group compete against a musical genre culture, which purports that it is the voice of that people’s group youth culture? Plainly stated, Urban Black America created Hip-Hop culture to redefine our savage, concrete reality while celebrating the elements of hope oxy-moronically thriving within that bleak existence. Thirty years later it has become the largest revenue grossing music genre in the world as well as the pied piper of African American misconception while simultaneously enticing and seducing an entire generation to eagerly seek the destructive inheritance set aside for those who aspire to become “niggers”.

One of the older brothers stated he believes the word has become so “watered down” that it doesn’t even hold the same significance toward African Americans anymore but instead points more in the direction of a demonic mindset being projected into and onto the lives of this generation of young people. It is almost impossible for me not to interpret his views through the lens of geography; he has lived in New York City for the majority of his life and is a product of the Black Power and Civil Rights Movements. Though I know he empathizes with the views of our Southern brothers, I think it is unconscionable for him to infer that the word “nigger” has lost its ability to puncture the soul of any African American, particularly those who’ve suffered the indignity of repeatedly being called this word to their face, beginning with the vulnerable and formative years of their youth. With all of that being understood, I do believe this brother has uncovered an extremely interesting point.

How are we to view this newest evolutionary twist from the word and its most recent carriers; it now travels through the lips of Chinese, Mexican, Indian, and German youth-just to name a few-as they communicate with one another using the word in terms of inclusion and affection while equally interchangeable with anger and inanimate identifications. Basically they have learned to use the word in the same manner we as African Americans do because we have taught them extremely well. Their tutelage has followed the same trajectory as that of our Puerto Rican brethren whom we share neighborhoods, buildings, and schools with as well as the creation of one of our greatest accomplishment, Hip-Hop Culture.

The one question, which left the majority of my interviewees with some sort of bewilderment, was when I asked them if they could explain why we were the only people group to use a term of destruction as a term of endearment towards one another …

a voice from the under

The subject of finances and spiritual wellness are prevailing conversations within the African American and Latino Church community simply because most of the congregants are economically challenged in some way. Narrowing our ways of seeing God and reducing His capacity to mostly fiduciary, we desperately need to believe in a God that will supply our every financial need because our financial needs are so overwhelming.

Those within the same faith community who do not suffer from the ravages of under employment and under education seem to attribute their success to God’s favor and blessing over their lives. While it is extremely difficult to argue this thought process, it is juxtaposed to the reality of those without the same benefits but seemingly serving the same God. Therefore to equate God’s blessing with financial wellness is affirming to some and debilitating to others, if for no other reason but that it presents a hazardous question while offering no solid answers.

It is these issues as they relate to financial wellness, which present one of the largest inhibitors to our ability to hear or see the Gospel message with clarity and power. Neither position - those asking for money or those who are asked to provide it - are able to be in agreement, while most of those on the margins of life continue to suffer.

Ironically enough, as we continued to discuss the church’s inability to listen to the voices of the marginalized some within the discussion felt as if they were being pushed off to the margins. It became clear to me that all one needs in order to qualify as a marginalized individual is to simply feel that way. This became the case, as some felt extremely uncomfortable with the direction of the dialogue, seeing it more as an attempt to tear down and indict the Church instead of an objective conversation concerning the perceived blind spots of the Church.

In response to this feeling, those of the marginalized viewpoint began to become vigilant protectors of all things church, conceding nothing - even against certain personal convictions. As this took place the ability to listen to each other began to be replaced with the desire to convert one another, and true to our human blueprint we eventually began retreating from those believed to be in the camp of the opposite point of view.

It was amazing to me as I observed our inability to sit and honor the pain we were witnessing within each other. We were a group that gathered together on some level of commonality, we all at least believed in a theology from below but as we attempted the ministry of coming together our ability to listen to one another began to disintegrate under the weight of our own world-views.

When reflecting on what I saw as I watched Tim during the week I noticed that I had little to no ability to sit in the presence of his pain, no ability to enter into his pain because his pain opened way too many of my own issues. It knocked up against too many of my own “do not enter” areas, so I left him … standing there … alone. Even though he asked me to stand there with him. This is in no way an over dramatic account of the information but more an observation on how I couldn’t do what I feel I am in some ways really called to do.

Look at and understand the pain of others.

I seem to think that I’m able to observe and on some levels understand the utter dysfunctional nature of the Cross - the exceedingly grotesque nature of it all - but as I watched Tim I realized I couldn’t even listen to him. Forget about mustering enough courage to look at him and I get the feeling that most others couldn’t either … not without passing judgment in some manner. When he reached out, I turned my back, and if I could do that with him (a man I have an intense admiration for), I know that I’ve done it with those I work with and believe that I work for.

caste, creaming, and others - pt.1

Structurally speaking, the focus of church youth programming or ministry can become extremely compromised whenever the offspring of the most prominent church attendees are involved.

This is hardly an outrageous phenomenon within the context of adult interaction and youth development as often proven by overzealous parents and your local youth sports league. Growing up playing sports was a wonderful experience that equipped me with all the proper axioms, which now consistently attempt to govern the terms of my everyday life. The coach’s kid was always the star quarterback, pitcher, or point guard; unconsciously living as the vicarious vehicle of lost dreams.

Systematically, church based youth development operates under the same principles - straining to provide an equitable environment for various family representatives while subtly mandated to leapfrog the youth with a “specialized family calling”. Church-based programs seem almost bound by the rules of spiritual succession though it is never spoken but almost certainly implied. I don’t think I have ever met a young person whose family was prominent in church-based ministry that had not heard they were also “called” to follow in those footsteps simply due to the nature of their genetic composition. What I believe develops over time is an absolute genuflection of services and opportunities in the direction of that family member and a freeze out of sorts for those not fortunate enough to bear the family crescent.

I am increasingly disheartened by this system of hierarchical creaming, which attempts to influence outcomes by simply herding young people into predestined slots. Plainly stated, kids whose parents have little or no power always seem to get the proverbial short end of the stick, while those in power continually convince themselves that simply providing the best situation for their own teen will somehow create a spiritual Reaganomics type trickle-down theory.

Confronting issues of entitlement, which are so entrenched within the fabric of church culture, leaves one with little ability to protect the infrastructure of the youth ministry/program from the impending stress fractures. Being an eyewitness to these types of interactions have moved me to believe in, and call for complete reformation in our youth ministry methodology. I fear we have become nothing more than an elaborately adorned Christian version of the Caste system. Seemingly less interested in the possibilities that could reside within a communal vision of redemption for our family systems because of our single-minded focus on the establishment of our own family legacies and transferable titles of nobility.

Before discussing some options that might be considered when trying to reform the current system there is an additional portion I would like to explore. This portion deals with the American Christian family’s inability to embrace, enter into, and develop an understanding concerning human pain and suffering. To completely blame the American family is extremely irresponsible because our present church structure is ill equipped to even attempt a basic conceptualization.

Our ecclesiasticism (or principles of thought) is one that seems to promote a “glory to glory” type of Christian experience leaving those with hardships to wonder if they are lacking in faith, knee deep in sin, or simply cursed. Why does the American church gloss over human pain and suffering as if it were an outdated Old Testament ritual? Where did we acquire the viewpoint that any hardship we encounter must originate out of the sin of the person who is suffering without ever considering issues of systemic corruption? Have we become like the witnesses found in Job’s story that only sought to assign blame as a result of a particular person’s sin?

a day like today ...

I love days like today, the ones in March that have a hint of spring to them. Even though we know New York won’t see real spring-like weather until the fall … we always seem to skip from winter straight to summer.

On a day like today, you would find me in Mrs. Warner’s 7th grade Spanish class. The only drawback to this situation was that Spanish class was right after lunch and it was an elective. I elected to take Mrs. Warner’s class not because of my love for the romantic language of Spanish but because my 11 year-old, distorted - by puppy love – mind had convinced me that this was a good place to work out my crush.

Any way because I chose to play with the language of love, I had to sacrifice recess with my crew … Tony, Stevie, Mike, Kenny, Allan, Allen, Malik, Scott, Paul, and whoever else was rolling hard in 7th grade with us. We played football everyday, seriously everyday. And it must have been some sort of championship tournament because I remember getting mad at Tony one day and trading him for Allen in between plays … like some George Steinbrenner shit … 7th grade recess football was serious and I was missing it for a crush …

Well, they all laughed as Tony told the story. He was looking directly at Jus and K, his head tilted towards the floor slightly and fighting very hard not to allow any of those tears behind his shades to slide down his still chubby checks. “Your father was a good man,” he told them and after a pause he very gently returned to his seat.

I was standing in the back so I really couldn’t see who was next to speak but when I saw that gait I knew exactly who it was. It was almost like looking into a mirror, those deep brown eyes – so hard to read sometimes, the walk, and the confidence, it almost dripped off of him. Shit, I knew who that was no hesitation … that’s my boy. My oldest. I couldn’t believe the sheer amount of satisfaction I was able to feel at that moment … I knew I did it, I knew I had accomplished what I had set out to do … I had been a good father, I raised a man. Someone who could stand on his two feet and decide for himself, feel comfortable within himself but blessed with the capacity to go outside himself.

“My father was a lot of things to a lot of people, if I had to choose a word I would have to say he was an ‘enigma’. Most people just really never understood him. A lot of people thought they knew him, thought they had him figured but you never really know a person until you lived with them – my dad use to say that all the time – and I lived with him … and sometimes I didn’t understand him. I think his mind just worked too fast for most people and by the time they caught up to him he was some place back where he passed before on the journey. He always saw life as cyclical, ‘it all comes back around’ he use to say.”

At that point I saw my boy start to break – he started to fall under the weight of the reality that he wasn’t going to see me anymore and I wasn’t going to see him. He knew we couldn’t play catch again or playstation, or any of those types of things again. The things we did when he was little and in turn did with his children. He knew we played hard for every inning of the game, we held no regrets because we loved hard.

I couldn’t look any longer; I had to get out of there. My tears were racing down my cheeks filling my mouth with the taste of salt and sadness as I watched them let me go.

Black Imagination – what’s a nigga to do? Part 2

As an example of art, imitating life, imitating art let’s review a classic movie from the Black Exploitation or “blaxploitation” genre as it is better known, to observe this phenomenon a little closer - a personal favorite - SuperFly.

Priest, the main character, is the prince of the streets. He is a slick and charismatic pusher who dresses super-sharp and always plays for keeps. Priest wants out of the biz for good, but to buy his way out of the gutter he has to make one final score to earn him the cool million he needs. As he fights and hustles his way to his fortune, he must approach The Man, a shadowy kingpin who runs the entire rotten and corrupt drug trade in the city. When The Man wants Priest to stay on the streets and keep on pushing (because Priest is “a class A pusher”), Priest fights back, triggering an explosion of murder, revenge and double-crossing.

It is extremely interesting to examine how we, as African Americans are able to encase our protagonist in the vilest of situations, have them be devoid of moral repercussions, and yet still have them represent Justice. Symbolism abounds within this movie. The hero is a pimp. Though we never see him sending any of the female characters off to have sex for pay, he does interact with them as if they are the finest portions of his disposable income. The fact that he is a notorious drug dealer and murderer is credited to the circumstance of his condition, which has been created by The Man and is also in direct conflict to what he is really searching for, peace and freedom from the corrupt systems that birthed him. And if all of these symbols were not enough, his name is Priest while the character of The Man remains nameless, virtually faceless, and exceedingly contemptible.

I believe one of the major reasons this film resonates within the African American community is because of its complete inversion of positions held by the establishment and Black America. This inversion of power, interestingly enough could only be articulated in the person of a convoluted and troubled man, he had to have dirt on him in order to reverberate the reality of the Black Experience in America.

It is interesting to note that none of these "inversion of power" issues were even that relevant within the context of the older southern blacks because the word “Nigger” was like an atomic bomb to them. For them there is absolutely no mistaking or misunderstanding within the usage of the word, the convoluted and ambiguous nature of this words post 60’s Northern existence has absolutely no baring in this portion of the discussion; it was purely an act of hatred.

Ironically enough, even though I have no interaction with any portion of my family that might live in or come from the Southern United States this conversation with the older black men from the south was very much like talking with my own father.

My father - Rev. Alonzo J. Smalls - was born in New York City in 1932 during the tail end of The Great Depression, his birth certificate actually sates his race (Colored), so even though he was born in the North it was still a very oppressive New York City - with New York and New Jersey being the last two northern states to outlaw slavery - his experience as a “colored” in the “North” is eerily close to that of a “nigger” in the Jim Crow South. I use this example to bring out the point that geography plays a huge factor into - but is not the only factor when - investigating the views of this word. Up until about the late fifties and early sixties most African Americans had little use for any double-sided meaning for this word and I suspect the idea of a counter cultural usage of this word might have emanated from the radical West coast and Midwest Black Power movements. This radical movement, powered by the angry children of Jim Crow swept across to the Northern Ghettos of the United States where the idea of wholesale systemic change was not only conceivable but also absolutely necessary.

Black Imagination – what’s a nigga to do? Part 1

In his book, The Souls of Black Folk W.E.B DuBois describes the existence of the Negro male in America as “a problem.” He explains the Negro as a social problem because he lives in “a world, which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world.” His existence as a problem is further complicated by the far-reaching implications of his perceived problematic status and the manner in which it manifests within the institutions of family, community, faith, and economics.

In Race Matters, Cornel West explains this phenomenon as Nihilism, “the lived experience of coping with a life of horrifying meaninglessness, hopelessness, and lovelessness. The frightening result is a numbing detachment from others and a self-destructive disposition toward the world. Life without meaning, hope, and love breeds a cold-hearted, mean-spirited outlook that destroys both the individual and other.” I wanted to find a way to track the effects of the word “nigga” on the life of the African American male and its ability to create for us a subconscious and outwardly manifested nihilistic destiny. That is when I realized I would also need to find away to weigh the effects this word has had on Urban Pop Culture, which is better known as youth culture. If image is indeed everything, then the challenges facing a generation of youth who have been raised with this word inhabiting daily residence within their sentence structure is two-fold.

Primarily, there must be a reintroduction to the vile historical connotations attached to this word and then an education of what the power base’s intentions are for a generation, which proudly identifies themselves as “niggaz.”

I mean if “nigga” is indeed just a word.

If it is true that the image, which is impressed upon you, is the image which one literally owes one’s life to, then what is the outcome when the image that is being sought is one of a “nigga”? I wondered about what historically had been the outcome for African American men and those family members closest to them who suffer because of the misogynistic repercussions attached to this word? Or what the cultural/family/economic implications could be for subsequent generations?

This particular topic presents numerous challenges due to the inflammatory nature of the word - Shit, I throw the word around like a beach ball myself.

I felt my only chance at capturing the true essence of the extremely convoluted emotions attached to this subject was through the medium of media. I interviewed twenty people with rural and urban roots because I figured the perception of the word could also have a lot to do with your own geographical orientations. I also only interviewed African Americans because I wanted to limit the discussion to those who live with the ramifications of the word on a daily basis, asking them seven questions with eight follow-up questions.

I began each interview asking them to share with me the first image that comes to mind when I said the word “nigger.” And I ended each interview asking their opinions on why other race groups do not use the derogatory epithet directed towards them as “terms of endearment” the way we do as African Americans.

The standard interview process lasted approximately 20 minutes in the beginning stages of the project but the conversations steadily began to grow because each person who participated left me with even more issues to bring to the table in subsequent interviews.

Each interview also provided opportunities for symbiotic learning to evolve between people trapped in the same prison; subtly separated by the issues produced by gender, time, and perspective.

It was quite evident that as African Americans we deal with an enormous amount of duality, openly conflicted about our “love/hate” relationship with this word. On some level I thought I was alone in this journey but as dialogue took place I learned I was certainly not the only one who felt the abysmal weight of this graphically profane dysfunction. We shared in our travails with what we proposed to be an outwardly endearing term, which intrinsically produced profoundly unspeakable violence to our inner essence. It was almost like recounting our shared experiences at the hands of a vile abuser.

Every time we tried to give context to the reasoning we had for allowing this word to live amongst us as African Americans, we would promptly and almost instinctively disqualify that particular line of reasoning.

Another interesting finding was how this word surfaced in our interaction with our European (White) brethren: the older the person, as history would dictate, the more violent the usage of the word. With the younger participants the murky and convoluted nature of the word was perpetually present in their interaction with people of European decent. Almost every inclusion of White people into Hip Hop culture produced awkward moments of misidentification on the sides of both parties, causing the “cool white-boy” to feel so comfortable that he would chose not to edit himself when reciting his favorite rap lyrics. Some reported even deeper levels of self-loathing by admitting the allowance of some white people the “honor” of saying the word “nigga” as well as inclusion on terminology, “that white-boy is my Nigga” or “ya’ll my Niggaz”, to present a few examples.

This point also uncovered another layer within our discussion, the inclusive effects of Hip Hop culture, and its easily accessible counterparts - misogyny, murder, and materialism. When we settle in to examine and exegete the content of Hip Hop Culture we are bombarded with images which emanate from the Black Experience.

“Pimp”, Player”, and “Hustler” are words which are rooted in the African American psyche as we attempt to identify ourselves. We search for markers, which symbolize our independence from supremacist thought process, while simultaneously presenting an image of edge and danger.

someone had to be judas

I think it is safe to say that most of us live in the abyss between the pseudo and the chaotic. We are continually vacillating between the two stages hoping to find a place beyond something … a place that is real, new, fresh, and alive.

Why is there so much disconnect? Can most of these failings be directly connected with and attributed to the lack of authenticity found within our church experience? Does this make it difficult to see oneself as a vital member of the body of Christ? Or are we simply asking too much from the community of faith? It’s been said, “church is the place where natural enemies gather. That, in essence, is what the Kingdom is.” I have also heard it said, “Grace is always manufactured from the outside but is God’s gift. It will always be external forces that push the church to be the church that God intends for it to be within His creative intention.”

Another question I found myself exploring, as a youth minister is why we were so “in-reach” focused. Not a week went by without my office being inundated with flyers, club cards, and other “ministry explosion” invitations. All of these events promised that the Spirit of God would be there and lives would be altered. Within this invitation there is little to no mention of their own local community, which they are called to serve. Instead these invitations often ask that we invite our community youth. Why has the expression of our faith reached entertaining proportions? Why have we identified what is pseudo as reality and identified reality as heresy? What are we so afraid of?

On the one hand it can be said that we lack the ability to dialogue with the world outside of our church walls. But it may actually be that we lack the very desire to even go outside. What are the effects of this mentality on our core mission? Do we still see ourselves as salt? Is it still part of our functionality to be a light on a hill? Or is that expectation not only lacking in cost efficiency but also woefully inefficient? It is my opinion that Sunday morning may be the largest, ongoing pseudo-event happening. Mercifully, God’s thoughts are so far above our own that life sometimes will simply force us to consider a wheat & tears theology (Matthew 13:24-30).

Another crazy question I started to ponder revolved around the inclusion of Judas into the Twelve. Was Judas’ inclusion into the circle of the apostles more for the community of the twelve? Asked another way, were there human elements deep inside of Judas, which could only come to the surface through the blessing of authentic relationships – which in turn would draw other human elements out of the other members within that circle?

Is Judas the ultimate “wheat & tears” example?

It seems we have, for years focused on the “spiritual” component of Judas’ selection. We understand that someone had to betray Jesus. But are we also able to see Judas as someone who had no desire to understand the principles of the Kingdom because he almost seemed to become disillusioned with Jesus and His Messianic pronouncements?

I think what we fail to highlight is Jesus’ inclusion of someone whom He knew was already disqualified and seemingly had nothing to offer. Could it be that Judas represented the possibility of someone who was regenerated while their mind still resided within the depths of Hell?

Failure of imagination is the loss of the ability to envision life any differently than the life already being lived and experienced by the person. Could Judas have suffered from a failure of imagination? Could this have been his main assault to the Kingdom? Was it his inability to imagine a life separate from what he already envisioned the Messiah to be that doomed him to be the one who would betray the Son of Man?

I wonder if this could another glimpse at some of the root causes behind our stagnated Evangelical youth movement. Are we ready, as a community of faith, to not only seek to convert souls but actively seek the conversion of the even more difficult to reach imagination? Are we willing and able to allow God to convert our imaginations? Can we imagine this Grace, which the Lord will bring from the outside, to be what will most definitely propels this conversion?

Although there are so many questions standing between where we are and our destination, one thing I do understand is that this does not happen in isolation. It can only take place within authentic community. This is indeed the very hard journey to finding a way of understanding and enjoying God through our family of humanity.

opening statements

When faith crashes into culture there is that silent, sickening anticipation of the violent reaction to come from those who are watching this collision. This would correctly describe the experience I have just completed. I now have the long journey of making sense of what I have seen, heard, and felt during this intense time together. We began this journey from a place where everyone could come together in agreement. I believe that we agree that mission is more than a department in the church but as soon as we began down the road of what mission “is” we were plagued with conflict for the rest of the journey.

How could it be different things to different people if our Jesus is the same as their Jesus? If God is bigger than culture than how can culture affect what we see and why we see it? And the biggest question of them all; has the church, as an institution, co-opted people into a twisted theology of power? These questions are very hard questions to deal with. They are also questions that require a multi-layered approach. I understand there is a hesitancy to approach the issues in a multi-layered manner because of fear of what the end result will be to our “personal” relationship with God.
And yes, this is yet another shot at the oppressive thought process of Western Evangelicalism, but I also believe there is an inability of some sort to address such issues in a health manner that won’t send us off into tangents

The frustration and tension I felt during the intensive and in the time spent afterward was not with those who can’t see the multiplicity of the coded power theology language, but rather with those who defend the oppressive language of the institution because of fear; the fear of what is behind the veil of the wizard. The flipside of this journey is the calling of authentic community while still honestly differing in viewpoints. I must resist the inclination to either convert or walk away. Falling into that trap will make me an alternate reality version of the same institutional perversion that has created the tension I am now walking through. I so desperately want out of this matrix, knowing that the reality that awaits me is not Utopian, but grim and humiliating.

I willingly trade away any rights of passage into Power Theology for the painful, conflicting, and somewhat lonely journey of Street Theology (or what I like to call the Theology of the Oppressed) because I believe in a counter-culture, left of center, God of the oppressed more than I could ever believe in the four spiritual laws and ‘pray until something happens’ way of life.

the human family paradox

The Human family is a paradox, for it is larger inside than out
G.K. Chesterton

I believe it is safe to say that the journey of humanity runs squarely through the township of family structure. There are many who have come before us and presented an image of the human journey that is “inward and upward.” During the course of our journal time together I will explore family themes, which lean more in the direction of “downward and outward”.

These two themes are held up in contrast and tension against one another because of their obvious diametrical nature. As I journey through the painful, shame filled and awkward pieces of my family system I have observed how those dynamics have empowered and dismembered me simultaneously.

What is it about the family system and its ability to be both life affirming and dream shattering? Why is it virtually impossible to find a family system that creates and recreates only the healthy elements? Is it because that system would then become the norm, spawning untold amounts of virtual replicas? The system usually does both at the same time, building us up and tearing us down with each breath. I wonder why this is. Are we doomed by the unfulfilled dreams of our generational predecessors? Is it the unrealistic expectations created by popular media culture? Or is it simply the sheer complexity of our human nature? Somehow, I believe it is the pure synthesis of all these, working against and within.

The very thought of the topic actually forces me to re-enter my own family systems. With age I have grown more comfortable with the journey of reflection but I think it really comes from simply submitting myself to the process more regularly. One of the joys of growing older - in a somewhat healthy manner - is being able to remember and almost relive the interwoven spoken and unspoken themes of ones family history with distance and perspective. My developmental journey is filled with dogmatic religious viewpoints and its violent clashes with the embryonic stages of my own world-view and desire to individuate.

My family history is one of grassroots community work. My parents both showcased their Christian beliefs by working with the people who were found on the underbelly of life. My father is a recently retired executive director of a prominent Christian drug and alcohol rehabilitation center, while my mother works with women who suffer in situations of domestic violence as well as other types of misogynistic abuse. The success of our family system is also seen in the career choices of my younger siblings who have chosen to be educated and work as musicians and artists in the area of social justice. It is safe to describe us as a family that feels compelled to work in areas of compassion ministry though I am the only sibling that professes Christianity as my faith foundation.

Though both of my siblings are committed to working and fighting for the equability of all people groups, this desire does not seem to stem from an overt Christian sensibility. They have been able to identify the obvious disconnect between what we as Christians proclaim as the core of our mission and the way in which we carry out that mission. This disconnect can also be traced to our upbringing. Though our parents practiced an enormous amount of incarnational methodology with those they served on a daily basis, we were not able to benefit from that belief system in the home. We instead were the recipients of their supremely dogmatic Pentecostal worldview and in retrospect were robbed of the genuine compassion they displayed to “those in need”. It is amazing for me to think back and recall two people who were so cutting edge outside the home and inflexibly old school inside it.

Another portion of the dogmatic mindset that dominated our home life was the unspoken law that “ministry” or “the Lord’s work” came first. Family gatherings of any sort were very rare because one of the parents was always scheduled to be “ministering” elsewhere in some capacity. Suffice to say this created a bit of resentment within our understanding of church ministry and God, though not necessarily towards the people who were the object our parent’s affection.

The most powerful and lasting influence on a young person’s life is the family of origin. No other system has a greater impact on the long-term development of their faith. The power of the family system increases rather than decreases with age .

When reviewing my family system, the above statement is probably the best explanation of how I have subconsciously and methodically reconstructed my present family system into a paradigm more to my liking. Just like my parents, I have worked within systems, which allowed me to directly impact the lives of families. And even though I have tried to run away from anything church related, I walked right into being a member of the clergy. My life seems to have taken a very familiar path.

So with all of the frustrating experiences this world has produced for us we have still decided to answer the call, maintaining that we have discerned The Spirit primarily active in the community and not chained inside the church building.

To that end, we have consciously attached the redemption of our family system to the simultaneous redemptive process within our own community. Meaning that we believe there is no way our family system can truly experience its complete redemption while those around us, living within the same community are left out to fend for themselves.

I often wonder about the drawbacks of this decision to journey towards communal redemption but I definitely have seen enough evidence to dissuade me from trying the traditional church method. We will simply take our chances.

today

They tried to kill me today; I mean I think that they think they’ve finally done it. I’m not part of this inner circle, not by blood at least; my family hit the ceiling at high-level line workers, actually it was my father. He never made those proper moves; you know that ones that secure your family’s future, those proper alliances with the proper power brokers. Nope, not my dad he always was just fine being small potatoes, just enough for his get high and he was good with the hustle. He didn’t sniff that shit anymore, it’s was the money and the women this trip around the pony track but a nigga still gotta have his get high. Besides he’s washed up now anyway, not much protection to me now - the inner circle put him to pasture about six or seven years ago he’s actually lucky it didn’t end for him right then. He’d gotten sloppy, caught up with his importance and no longer worth the risk - it was his being just close enough to the inner circle and the ability to generate revenue that’s saving his crazy ass to this day.

Even with his earning potential I was still alone and out of jurisdiction, his New York value had long since diminished, I was an easy target - out spoken, articulate, and instinctively honest. I had been spending time with my girl’s godfather but he’s part of the old guard and the new regime has no regard for what was, so his protection was more cosmetic than anything else - it simply brought me more time - time, which assured I’d survive what was coming. Fortunately for me everything was destroyed in the attempt so as of right now I’m untraceable but I know it won’t take long for them to figure out I’m still alive. I’m not looking back though, time will settle all accounts I have some other things to figure out right now and once those things are figured the rest will play. I know who carried out the task, I just don’t know how deep this betrayal extends I’ve identified the few allies remaining, what I haven’t been able do is figure all the enemies and I fear I’ve over looked a few. Truth be told its extremely difficult to know them all, even for those of us that are in by our outer regional blood. Most believe it’s mainly due to the introduction of self-ascension, in that environment there is no room for honest old-school allegiances.

Tomorrow I make contact with some that have already escaped the labyrinth, we will sit, drink coffee, and share memories - this will be the last time we see one another for a few seasons. It is also utterly important that none find them selves connected with me in any way; connection with me will expose them no matter where they choose to submerge. I however do not have this option of submersion, though I have escaped death it has occurred to me that remaining alive has rendered me an exile to all I knew and a nomad to all that awaits me. In the aftermath of the attempt I saw his face, a shadow of it actually and quickly I identified the hatred within his countenance. Malice and destruction had already taken residence within his heart replacing his professed dedication to all that was good. Death implored him to effectively terminate my essence because I detest the weakness of this realm under his tyrant-like scorching

One must always stay attuned for the next ...

I died today - tomorrow begins the life after.

reclaiming youth at risk - a book review

The tension that exists between those who practice theory and those who spout theory is a visible tension that is felt every time the two parties interact. The dilemma in the eyes of the writers of “Reclaiming Youth at Risk” is that those who research and write do not understand practice, while those who are gifted practitioners feel they rarely have the time to write. The combination of ever evolving theory birthing from the trenches of practice is rare but this is what the book attempts to merge.

The material offered endeavors to present the growing interest in building theories from successful practice rather than forcing semi highly esteemed theory into practice. Their ideas spring forth from two fountains of thought; “The Seeds of Discouragement” vs “The Circle of Courage.” The presentation seems off center at first because it is the integration of Native-American philosophies and western psychology but maybe it is the thought process of practicing each from different ends of the spectrum that presents them as strange bedfellows.

The writers break their theory into three sections; the alienation of children in modern society, the holistic approach of Native American child development, and a list of principles and strategies that can help in the creation of a reclaiming environment. The result is a book that shows you what child development should look like, why it should look that way, and how to get there - without reading at all like a “how-to” book.

As I interacted with this book I couldn’t help but feel like I was reading about everything that is wrong with church youth ministry. I fear that every “Purpose Driven” youth ministry might be unsuspectingly planting the “seeds of discouragement.” This is a very bold statement, I know. But if writing is not a place to challenge the status quo, then I fear l might never have an outlet for my observations. With that disclaimer out of the way, let me explain my thought process.

The culture of church youth ministry is breeding ground of destructive relationships, climates of futility, learned irresponsibility, and the loss of purpose. Youth group is an exclusive world that only allows those, which look, sound, and perpetuate the part. This exclusivity is fertile ground for relationships that can destroy adolescents who are living to find a place where they fit in, at their very core. This “purpose” which “drives” most Evangelical youth ministries is one that spits out offspring that will “carry on the vision” without honestly working with the youth to produce a vision or a purpose for themselves. The two major themes that prove worthy of effort from this book are Belonging and Generosity.

I wonder what ministry would look like if we focused on helping young people to know that they belong to the Kingdom of Heaven. If we could transmit to them that if there is any place that the misfit fits in is the Kingdom. If there was ever a home for the people who just can’t seem to get their act together, people who have failed to say the right thing, come from the incorrect part of town, attended the incorrect school, or make the incorrect amount of money per year. People who have a past, feel as if they have no future, or are just trying to make it through the present – those are the people that the Kingdom of Heaven was made for. That sense of belonging all by itself would lead all its inhabitants to an altruism way broader than the desperation that once residenced. The focus would lean less to outreach and more to development because everyone would already be considered “in”.

Some might say that my thought process is utopian in its approach but if so called “savages” within the Native American culture can commit themselves to communal and holistic development of their offspring, then just maybe we can work here as a local body to unlearn some of our programs of alienation in favor of Belonging, Mastery, Independence, and Generosity.

This all sounds very much like our principles of discipleship , (selection, association, demonstration, and reproduction) that can be found in books like Colemen's "Master Plan of Evengelism" ... just healthier.

Mahogany Blue

One of the crucial element of survival for the African slave was the ability to sing, the irony of that survival is that this also became a major component in the minstrelization of our culture. The land of their captivity taunted them with thoughts of songs that were sang in the homeland, songs that represented celebration, songs that elicited memories of a life they would never live again; its not just the simple issue of displacement from their home land because even if they could return back home that very day, the painful stain of slavery would never dissipate.

The secondary issue is one of cultural mockery; their pain, degradation, and displacement are now a source of entertainment for their captors. This is a phenomenon that has psychological ramifications that will not be realized for generations to come but it quite plainly sets the stage for a culture that can no longer experience itself without the defining parameters of their oppressor’s objectification. This train of thought explodes when layered over the African American expression. Much like the Hebrew slave, the African salve began to only experience themselves through the eyes of their captors thus every element of their personal and cultural experience came under the lens of the oppressor.