In The Ghetto ...

I thought the ghetto was the worst that could happen to me
I'm glad I listened when my father was rapping to me …
Eric B. & Rakim-In the Ghetto


As a kid my Dad was like a super hero to me. In each story he was the underdog in the fight of his life against the world and the hand life dealt him. As I got older he appeared worn from the battles and bent low by the immovable force of my mother’s remarks. “When are you going to stop this foolishness, Toney? The Lord has been calling but you continually choose to stay in the shadows. Only sneaky people stay in the shadows, Tony and I know you think you’re hiding but whatever is done in darkness will come to light. I’ve been in my prayer closet, the Lord has showed me things and all will be revealed.”

He was never holy enough for my Mother, he sought too many carnal passions and she never had time for that type of foolishness. Away from her, on his beloved long trips with Miles, Coltrane and Nat King Cole in the deck he was a different man. “Your Grandma Ruby was a domestic. She cleaned houses for white people downtown. It was good work for women back then, back breaking but steady work. She was able to bring us good food too. She’d wake us up, feed us lima beans and sausage or sometimes beans and rice. But she had to take the A train, you know the 8th Avenue line by herself all those years. I’d stay awake by the window every night until she got home. My Dad was a Pullman porter for the Pennsylvania railroad, so he was gone a lot my Mom said he spent most of his time and money in the parlor car. He was a frustrated man, you know angry a lot. I couldn’t understand it then. I just thought he didn’t like me. He was hard on me, yelled and hit me a lot. I tried to stay away when he was home, but the place was but so big. Being a Porter was hard but prestigious work for a man in our neighborhood to have. Everyone knew my Dad went a lot of places but he didn’t bring much back except funny stories and cool nicknames that made me want to be like the guys he worked with. He mostly came back with complaints about the white people he served. The shoes shined, beds made, pants pressed, toilets cleaned, and every time he had to say, ‘Thank ya kindly, Sir’. My father hated white people and that made him a bitter man to be around except for when he was drunk. When my father was drunk, he was the nicest guy in the room. He died when I was ten and I got locked up for the first time when I was thirteen. It’s funny how quickly life can switch up on you”


*Editor’s note: There isn’t a full version video of the “In the Ghetto” available so I had to chose another classic.

Bridging the Gap ...

Tony Baxter was born December 21st, 1931 right up in Harlem, U.S.A the second youngest of thirteen children. His birth certificate actually has him listed as “colored” that shit always bugged me out. I only met Grandma Ruby a handful of times before she passed away when I was thirteen. It’s like that with my Father’s side of the family we’re always reacquainted at funerals. I do remember the little sex toys all around her crib, my Mother’s facial expressions when she’d walk into the apartment and that we’d always stop at Junior’s to bring her a slice of Strawberry cheesecake. My Dad’s side of the family lived throughout Harlem, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. When I was a kid he’d take me with him on his monthly visits, every mission we’d locate an old friend and they’d retell the stories of a world filled with bittersweet.

“The family migrated to Brooklyn first from Georgetown, South Carolina, then to Harlem, and then my older brother, Harry, moved up to the Bronx. Hunts Point area but that was after, when he got older and knew Mom was okay. Before that, though, we were pretty much all together in Harlem as much as we could be. Around ten or eleven my older sister Ollie started to bring Billie Holiday around the house but I was too young for that to be a big deal. We had it all, right there in Harlem. As teens Harry, and I played for the Unknown Seven most of them went on to play with the Globetrotters. Your Uncle Harry had a good two-handed set shot, you know. You’d be hard pressed to find a better point guard anywhere in Harlem, better than Cousy too if you ask me but them white boys wouldn’t play us. I should have stayed with it, stayed close to Harry but it was easier to get caught up with everything that was going on. I’d hang out in the poolroom behind the Apollo during intermission and all the performers would be in there. ‘Cause, you know, they’d sell watermelon and crab cakes, man, those crab cakes were good. Slappy White was always there in the poolroom. Do you know who Slappy White is? Bill Robinson would park his shinny Rolls Royce right outside. How about him? Do you know who Bill Robinson is? Mr. Bojangles? He wore black face ok guess not. Pearl Bailey would always be in there too, She married that drummer I always forget his name.”

His eyes were far away packed deep with nostalgia back on his Harlem streets.

If it Wasn't for The Bronx ...

Under the ever watchful eyes of new murals of Christopher Rios I've seen my peoples use EBT cards for mint balls on they way to the Methadone program/while Garcia y Vega remains my personal Melrose corner store devotion/sometimes it's like walking past the Vivero when 2nd floor neighbor stays having the hallway smelling like ham hocks, lima beans & Monkey ass/which keeps the mood sometimes shitty like the sidewalks on Stratford/the wrong look might get you stuck like a wanted poster on Soundview & Morrison/they say I'm a classic like Mill Brook & Mitchell rooftops or tenement hallways on 135th & St. Ann's/got a spit game championship caliber 161st & River Ave/Ok/but why is Kurtis Blow's walk a fame block like a semi dead end/Rock Steady & Dr. Ruth on the same block/Hmmm/they stay fucking Hip Hop/get it/I'm reminded how hood my hood is every time I'm startled by a white resident/Boro certified like the Bx 41, 15, 21, 4 & the 5 trains/graffiti covered landscapes inspire my youngest to catch upski's all over our crib's wall/you'd think I lived on Beat Street/Hip Hop DNA like Cedar Park & Sedgwick Ave/deep memory like the old Mcombs ball courts where pops blew buddah bless in my stroller's face/you can still catch me in the hood like Calino & Barnes living 3 blocks from my father's sister & not knowing till the funeral/spitting back to back 4's like it's a Red Sox's wrap around series/tune in/catch me at the Armory in Piper's Pit with the championship belt across my left shoulder talking maaaad shit ...

Between us ...

You're light at the end of a tunnel/clear outta Heaven's sky you appeared as a gift/and you've heard these words back in our world but whenever I write, spit or spray on page our Love evolves/every smile is an intricate, elaborate cavern of laughs packed deep with nutrients/like, when my feet were mad cold cuz a nigga needed to eat/shit, I love you in a space where there is no place or time/Donny Hathaway blasting out the speakers of my heart zone coasting down the soulquarian expressway/this is most definitely the way a man should carry on/too tall too tough us two/back against the wall blowing smoke at the world us two/till we click up wit some down ass riders who be like/word me too/I call you Love because you are/the social network allows me to wish you Happy Birthday on FB, Txt & Twitter from my Blackberry to yours/our bodies twisted in bed cuz we got that Computer Love …

CT, NJ, Harlem, Q-Boro, LES, BX ...

Figured out I went the wrong route but now I'm back/alive on arrival/which simply means my pen game is hella mean/every time I spit a round I drop a pound leaving my metaphysical frame hella lean/that kind of shit makes me a Lion in the hood/with enough Grace to extend Love to the Lambs of the hood/converting raw materials into verbal gems/dumping ammunition like Popeye chewing bullets after a can of spinach/a peak into my imagination is like a Soul Asylum/Pop's shot dope, Mom's carried scriptures in a flask/thank God I got off at the Gateway/hood holocaust survivor/too many years & countin'/but me no slack a minute till this dark path of flat pockets is finished/ain't shit to me I bear my soul on page/in gladiator mode soon to release snap shots of the story on stage/could give a thousand explanations but truth be told I simply stayed way too long/in the title trace the trajectory of all the places I've lived/easy to see I was born to be free/my life is a mosaic of East Coast hardships dipped in luxury/not yet attained super stardom & real nigga quotes/story of my life in 22 bars/God Damn I'm dope ...

Pain ...

Smokin’ weed helped me take away the pain, So I’m hopeless, Rollin’ down the freeway swevin’, Don’t worry I’m about to crash up on the curb, Cause my vision is blurry, maybe if they tried to understand me …
2Pac

“Toney, please! Enough already, I heard you.” Her eyes rolled to the rhythm of my father’s voice, “You know, Jean, it really bothers me that I can never finish making my point. What, do you know everything? No one can tell you anything? I’m just trying to be on the same page …” With a wave of her hand, “And I said I heard you”, she turned her full attention towards me, “Hello, Donte, don’t mind your father. He’s in one of his moods.” “And your mother is impossible!” I couldn’t let them trap me back in their War of the Roses tractor beam “Dad said you guys wanna talk to me about something?” He took the cue, pulled a chair close to the bed and cut to the chase, “Yeah son, we think it’s better if you leave town for a while. Your brother and sister are still at home, the people you were in with might come looking for you and we can’t risk you bringing that type of danger into our home.” I hadn’t lived at my parent’s house in a minute so his start was mad fishy. “So we feel that you could use this time wisely if you were inside a structured environment. Redemptive Living would be a good place.” The beads of sweat started from the bridge of my nose again, “You wanna send me to the farm? I ain’t feeling being sent away, especially over there to that place. Plus I got it covered I already talked with Mom-Mom, I’m moving out to Camden.” My father’s face was as calm as I’d ever seen it and he spoke in an assured tone he rarely got to use with my mother around. “Look Donte, you don’t have as many options as you think”, it was a minor miracle she was still quiet. “We spoke with your Grandparents and they agree that under the circumstances you would better benefit from getting cleaned up first and then we think school is the best option for you but only after you graduate the program.”

My mother could hold her tongue no longer, “And the Lord has already showed you to me, Donte speaking His words of truth. Your father refuses to heed the calling so the Lord’s gonna pass over him and hand the mantle to you, baby. All you gotta do is grab it.” He knew she had killed his momentum, “Jean, is all of that really necessary?” My father’s face lost all the peace of the previous moment and they were at it again. I had almost forgot what it was like to be around them. They argued constantly and put each other down like two little kids out to prove the other is stupid. The block wasn’t even close to an option anymore, my parents had cock blocked the Camden move and it was obvious they not only disliked each other but their relationship was worse than ever. Redemptive Living didn’t feel like such a bad move, “How long am I gone for?” My dad stopped mid-argument, “It’s a twelve month process. If you’re serious I could take you up when you get out of here.” Twelve months seemed way too long to be trapped in Bible rehab and I wanted to angle for more time to think this all the way through. Like maybe things weren’t so bad that I needed to go out like this. My father sensed my hesitation. “You never know what a new start like this might bring your way. You’ve pretty much made a mess of things over here, and I don’t see many friends checking up on you. You might not get another chance. You probably don’t survive the next episode. The decision is yours but you really only have one choice.”