OF SCARS AND SCABS

          Not long ago I watched a boy that had to be no older than 5 attempt to ride a bike. The ordeal was pretty brutal if I must say so myself, but it was also an amazing display of perseverance. I can't tell you where his father was (or if he had one for that matter) and his mother was obviously far too occupied with her love life to chase him up the street. So here he was, not yet old enough to cross the street and teaching himself to ride a two wheeler. Sure I started to help him, but decided against it. See... He was one of the neighborhood kids and I'd seen him run up and down the block alone for the past year or so prior to this day. I understood his life would be one in which most of his learning would be done in solitude. I simply lit a cigarette, put on my headphones, opened my notebook, and watched him from the lawn. Sure I would help him if it was needed, but I would grant him his independence as long as it was safe to do so.

           His start was a rough one. He was obviously nervous as he kicked himself to a slow coast. The first attempt was cut short by an utter lack of patience as he struggled to place his feet on the pedals. BAM!!! His left elbow as well as his left knee would pay the price for his miscalculation. He briefly nursed his fresh wounds and was back at it. After a few more tries (each one yielding a slightly better result) his right hand absorbed the full impact of yet another fall. He brushed off the debris, examined his wound, wiped the blood on his dingy white t-shirt and climbed back on the bike. This time he placed his bet on the slight incline of a neighboring driveway. Almost certain of a bad outcome, I dropped my notebook and Ipod and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Upon take-off his face instantly filled with regret. It was obvious he wasn't prepared for the added speed of the downhill slope, yet he was completely focused as he steadied his wobble and placed his feet on the pedals. Realizing he was heading for the street, I jogged toward him in vain because I was absolutely positive I wouldn't catch him in time.  "Hey!" I yelled to him, hoping he would be startled enough to place his feet on the ground. He kept his eyes straight, for he knew as well as I that it was a now or never situation. "Hey Lil Cuzz!" I yelled again. He began pedaling. My heart sank as he made a b-line for the street which I was in no position to interfere with. "Ayyyyyyyyyy!" I yelled once again. This time he looked in my direction, leaned almost instinctively, turned, and pedaled up the sidewalk. He smiled from ear to ear as he blew past me. Even though I had only seen him in passing up to this point, I was probably as proud as he was. He was riding his first bike, and he'd taught himself. Our moment ended abruptly when he reached the corner and took his hardest fall yet. He yelled in agony as his tiny body tangled in the bike frame. After a few seconds he struggled back to his feet, picked up his bike, and slowly walked it toward his house. His battered right knee peeked through a newly ripped hole in his jeans. As he limped by I could literally feel his sense of accomplishment. "You done little cuzz?" I asked. "Nah..." he replied "Imma let my knees and stuff get better, cause I can ride now. I just gotta learn to ride farther. Imma be back tomorrow." I smiled and silently nodded my approval. He slowly wheeled his bike to the end of the block and disappeared around the corner.
             
            It was funny to me. Not seeing him fall, but hearing this 5 year old exhibit a degree of common sense that his mother and countless other adults lost a long time ago. He now understood the ins and outs of riding a bike. He also understood that his scrapes and bruises were a price paid in the name of accomplishing his goal.  His most important lesson however, was the realization that it would be wise to allow his pain to subside and his wounds to heal before subjecting himself to more unnecessary injury only to learn a process which he had already grasped.  Yes... He was bruised, but far from broken... And he would be back tomorrow after some much needed rest on his quest to master his latest challenge.

           His mother on the other hand, lacked any inkling of common sense where her child had managed to excel. She was too occupied with fist fighting over boyfriend number "Lord knows how many" to fully understand why this process had continued most of her adult life. Meet a man, buy a dream, fall in love with the idea of being in love, only to once again find herself alone and more often than not, with less than she started with. It was a vicious cycle from which she had yet to emerge with the upper hand. With each completion of this tragic loop she sought to place blame. If it wasn't her kids that drove  him off, it was her family, or her weight, or she wasn't pretty enough, or he was just no damn good. Her blame placing however, never lasted more than a couple of weeks due to the fact that for every duffel-bag on the front porch which signaled one boyfriend's departure was another on the back porch signaling yet another man's arrival. And that was her life... Everything on Earth came second to pursuing the ghost of love which she had made the focus of her life, yet had never known and never would, until she could fully appreciate and understand the logic of her 5 year old son.

           Of course this scenario is all too familiar. If it's not you, it's someone close to you. The truth is... More than a few of us (women especially)  feel incomplete unless we have someone to be with. These feelings produce the urge to involve ourselves in new relationships almost immediately after ending old ones. And in a lot of cases we start new relationships while in the midst of current relationships only to transition once the current situation goes sour. All the while we feign happiness for those around us and even attempt to convince ourselves to no avail. This behavior often continues for years on end, (and in come cases life) and ultimately leaves us with a bitter taste as well as an unfilled void after the failed relationships.  There's always something missing which we often assume is love. Where we've actually failed is often not the relationship, but healing.

         And this is where the 5 year old's logic should have but often fails to kick in. We've all been hurt at some point in life, and emotional scars run far deeper than those of the physical nature. Those of us who know no better are doomed to spend life running from the idea of being alone long enough to face our first heartbreak and allow our emotional wounds to fully heal. Whereas the little boy acknowledged his pain, accepted his lesson, and left bruised only to ride another day. We as adults make a habit of ignoring our hurt and making the same mistakes until we find ourselves broken and attempting to pick up the pieces.  All the while piling scar upon scar on our already damaged hearts. Our favorite question tends to be "where did I go wrong", and our next course of action is attempting to re-evaluate the failed relationship for answers which we more than likely will never find because the initial hurt has usually taken place many relationships ago. The sooner we understand this and actually take the time we need to heal, the better our chances of breaking the painful cycle. Sometimes... When when its all said and done... All we really need to do is get off the bike, let our knees get better, and ride tomorrow. So we can, as the 5 year old said "Learn to ride further..."

                        AND THAT'S JUST THE WAY I SEE IT....

THE BUILD A BOO WORKSHOP

          
           One of my biggest epiphanies in life didn't come in the form of a horrific accident, a life altering event, or some near death experience. It came in a children's toy store. Yeah... I know right???... But that's how it came. See... 8 years ago, my ex fiancee and I took a trip to San Francisco to dine-out and do some shopping. Since she was a rather eccentric character (Which, might I add, made her adorable)  these regular outings usually took some manner of spontaneous twist. This trip would prove no different, Today's surprise... The Build A Bear Workshop. A store in which, for a not-so-small fee, you could build a stuffed toy from scratch. Now although I usually wouldn't go along with these activities initially,  after some persuasion, I found them to be, for the most part, enjoyable. And on this day, I left that store with far more than a mere stuffed animal.

           The atmosphere in the store was almost unnaturally jovial. Bustling with the restless energy of mall store-goody fueled kids who all but flipped off of the walls in their sugar-coated frenzy. Nervous parents whose time here would be more of a high-speed pursuit than a pleasant experience quiet barked commands at them. I looked around and realized that, not only was I the only male in the store, but she and I were the only adults who had not accompanied children. I laughed to myself and scanned the store. There was a countless assortment of bins containing all manner of loose teddy-bear parts. Skins, outfits, and everything in between lined the walls of the room. We chose our skin (a small honey-blond grizzly cub) and went to work. Somewhere between the stuffing gun and the shoe station my brain went into its typical overdrive. Bear with me here... (no pun intended... okay... maybe it was)...

           In a perfect world, this store wouldn't be a Build A Bear, But a Build A "Boo" Workshop. And these bins would be filled with physical attributes, character traits, and, mannerisms of what we perceive to be the perfect mate. We would go from station to station selecting bits and pieces until we had assembled our perfect  "Boo". Eyes, skin color, body-type, occupation, education, household strengths, even emotional vulnerabilities which would make this Boo all our own. Once we'd finished, we would stand back marvel at our creation. Then we would fall in love and live happily ever after... Which is sheer and utter Bullshit... In actuality... What we would do, is take this perfect Boo home, fuck it, feed it, show it off to our friends, and discard it, for no reason other than to head back to the workshop at our earliest convenience in an attempt to build a more perfect Boo.   So at the end of the day... This perfect place would only serve to augment the emotional discontentment which a lot of us have mistaken for our search for love.

         In reality...   The Build A Boo Workshop, though not a physically tangible place, actually exists within the majority of us whether or not we like to admit it. Nearly all of us have at some point in life, attached ourselves to another person physically, mentally, or emotionally based not on the person as a whole, but certain characteristics which that person possessed. Before long, in worst cases, some of us actually accumulate a large number of "friends" with different purposes. She can cook, this one has the brains, the sex is good with her, but this one's pretty, and so on, and so forth until we manage to acquire each of our favorite traits in a number of different people which would comprise our ideal mate. However... This method of "Boo Building" comes with a catch. Spare parts... See.. The fact is... These people are just that... PEOPLE. Not parts. Which means we take on whole human beings only to cater to certain parts we like, and are faced with the inconvenience of having to see past the rest of them. This is the emotional equivalent of investing in a car because it has a cd player. Once the novelty of the cd player has run its course there is still a whole car to be disposed of. And this is the way "Boo Building" works. There is rarely any amount of consistency so the team is ever changing, increasing, and decreasing, because as with the car we'll often grow bored with a person's perks and realize the prize is not worth the initial investment. The difference is... Cars don't have feelings. People do... And if they've invested any substantial emotion into the matter, the cut off point  is usually harder on them than us. Of course they'll get over it eventually. We'll find a replacement. and the "Boo Building" cycle continues. All the while we're completely ignorant to the emotional toll of spreading ourselves so thin by trying to cater to multiple partners takes on us.

            By the time we were adding the final touches on our over-priced stuffed animal I had another realization. My ex looked up at me and smiled. Her face was completely Innocent and devoid of any deceit. And although she was 19 years old, her eyes still sparkled behind her glasses with the brilliance of a child that had not yet been exposed to the evils of the world. "We're about done babe?" she asked with a slight hint of excitement.  I half smiled, and quietly replied  "Yeah we are.". I wasn't just referring to the bear. The thing is... We had known each other since high school and she was one of the sweetest people I'd known thus far. Yes I loved her, yet at that moment I realized that I too was guilty of "Boo Building" myself. I had been holding on not to her, but a time when life was so much simpler. I was in love with her Innocent nature, but not her as a complete person. I realized how selfish it would've been to continue allowing her to love me with every bit of her heart and soul if I couldn't return such love. It was at that moment I decided to break the engagement. Sure I felt bad, but a broken engagement was far less painful than an inevitable failed marriage. I knew I wasn't ready, but more importantly, I knew she deserved better. We enjoyed the remainder of our date as well as a few more, but we broke up shortly after. To this day I have no doubts that it was for the best.

        Realistically... There's technically no crime in "Boo Building"... It's something that we've nearly all done at some point in life. After all, we all want what we want whether it's a complete person or simply something about them. The real issue lies in being sure that all parties involved are not only informed of the situation but emotionally equipped to deal with it. You could work that good ol' magic (Lying through your fukkin teeth) until further notice. But we all know that doesn't usually end too well right? So in the end... Honesty is always the best policy where these matters are concerned. And while you're being honest with everyone else make sure your being honest with yourself. Because its highly possible that while you're building boos you're filling your share of space in their spare parts bins.
       
                   

                                     AND THAT'S JUST THE WAY I SEE IT........
            

JARVIS....

          
           "What's good wit' ol' John Amos...? HAAAAA! Muthafukka!!!!" His laughter was contagious, and my attempt to resist it was completely foiled as he choked on a mouthful of Black & Mild smoke, tears streamed down his round face. That was Jarv's way of, once again, making fun of my wide, flat nose. Even though this had always been a touchy subject for me, I couldn't help but laugh. Jarvis was a clown, always laughing, always up to something, irritating as shit most of the time, but overall, one of the coolest cats u could meet. You couldn't help but love him. I almost threatened to leave him at our job since I was usually his ride home, but tonight he had brought his Bottom Bitch out, a '68 Buick Skylark GS which was his pride and joy. This only meant one thing... Freeway race. These races were pretty typical on Friday Nights when he, I, and a handful of our coworkers would tear up the 880 freeway full throttle for the roughly 12 mile distance between West Winton in Hayward and the 98th ave exit in Oakland. Although my '96 Cutlass Supreme was obviously no match for his muscle car, I'd actually managed to steal a few wins with a little luck an a lot of Super-Dave esque lane-jumping.  Tonight however, Jarvis would once again take the race due to light traffic. And when his Bitch got any stretch of open road beneath her, the rest of us could only compete for 2nd place. "FUUUUKK!" I Slammed my fist against the steering wheel. I was pissed, not so much about losing as i was in just knowing that the next hour would be spent hearing Jarvis beat his weekly bragging rights to death. I exited the freeway and followed him to the front of my house. He opened the door. "Bounce in lil' nigga (He was only 3mos older than me, but still called me that because of my 5'10" 150lb frame) you already we to the store. It's cat-off hour" I hopped in his car, and we were off.

             Cat-off hour was the time we spent unwinding night each after the 1:30pm to 10:30pm shift at our warehouse job which we worked together. Sometimes we went to local bars for drinks, sometimes we headed to friends houses, but mostly we'd buy two half-pints of Hennessy, park, talk, share stories, and give each other advice on the situations which took place in our mutually hectic lives. Sometimes this time would last an hour, and sometimes we would talk into the early hours of the morning.  Of all the nights this ritual took place, this night in particular stuck with me because of something Jarvis said to me. While he played the newly released Shawty-Lo cd through his ridiculously loud sound system, I freestyled over the first 3 songs without missing a beat, (or even stopping to wait for tracks to change for that matter) and he bobbed his head, coercing me to go harder with each bar. Suddenly Jarv turned the music down, "Hold up.... Hold up...Shut the fuck up Lil' Nigga!". "What the fuck man!?!?" I half screamed, irritated with the fact that he had broken my concentration during one of my craziest sessions up to that point. He looked at me, took a swig from his bottle, turned the music off, and said "You ain't got no business punchin' that clock at that punk ass job Lil Nigga. You put shit into words in ways that muuahfukkas can't even think of. You bigger than this shit cuzz. Everybody ain't got the choice you got. Real shit Lil Nigga". It might have been the first time in all the years I knew him that he was completely serious about anything. I wasn't sure how to take it so I just replied "Cut the music on wit yo goat mouthed ass" and resumed rapping with him egging me on. And that was that.

            In the months following that night Jarvis and I had all sorts of hilarious adventures . Including the night my car was towed by the police because we had open alcohol containers and he talked the officers into giving our bottles back since they were already towing me. The time he gave me a half ass tune-up because his chubby ass hands couldn't fit behind my side mounted engine to reach my other 3 spark plugs. The all out wars we waged with our coworkers in the warehouse, our weapons of choice being 5lb bags of cheese cubes which he could throw with nearly lethal precision. The day he called my cell phone, disguised his voice and and said he was a detective with the police department and that my car had been involved in an armed robbery (It carried on through the whole shift and he and a few others that were in on it had almost convinced me to cut my hair).  And countless drunken "cat-off" sessions after work with friends, family women, and anyone else that was lucky enough to witness the comedic spectacle that was our friendship. We were pretty much inseparable 5 days a week for a year.  Sure we had our fights (and they were huge) but they were more often than not, forgotten by quitting time. He was more than someone I simply worked with, he was a friend which I learned as well as taught many crucial life lessons.

             The last time we saw one another, I was mad at him behind some shit so insignificant I can't even remember at the moment.  It was the day I left the job for the last time. We had been feuding childishly for a week or two and neither one of us had been adult enough to swallow our pride and admit wrong. There was a lot I wanted to say. A lot I wanted to thank him for. Teaching me how to install my own music in my car, (which was one of his favorite past times) sharing his life experiences with me, but most of all, letting me know on that one night in his Skylark, that he had, did, and would always believe in me no matter what. However, I said nothing. I just nodded farewell. A nod which he smirked and silently returned.

           For the next 2 months I went on with life. Stopping from time to time just long enough to consider calling Jarv to see if he was up to grabbing some drinks or hitting up a club, but for whatever reason I never quite got around to it. "Hey... I'll do it tomorrow or next week maybe." was always how the thought ended. One morning after a phone call I had received, I slid into my shoes, grabbed my keys, and raced to the store to pick up the day's edition of the news paper. I stood in the parking lot and anxiously flipped through the pages.... 1 DEAD, 1 WOUNDED IN WEST OAKLAND SHOOTING... The headline was unreal to me. It must have been a mistake. The short article stated that 26yr old Jarvis Hodges had been killed when the car which he was a passenger in was caught in a hail of bullets from an assault rifle, in what appeared to be case of mistaken identity. I stood in utter and complete disbelief as I took in the rest of the article which spoke of the incident and an investigation yet failed to state anything of any real substance regarding the life of this young man, my friend, who had been taken far too soon.

          They didn't say Jarvis was a father of a one year old son that meant the world to him. A son who later that day would only further break my heart by asking for his Daddy when I walked into his mother's house because Jarvis and we spent so much time together he was sure his father was right behind me. They didn't mention his 8 year old sister on whom he spent a large portion of his hard earned money spoiling with whatever she wanted that he could afford. They didn't mention his mother who not only lost her only son, but her best friend. There was no mention of the countless friends whose hearts he had touched is his short time on this planet all of which had never known him to bring anything but joy and laughter to the lives of those which he came in contact with. No... There was no mention of any aspect of his life other than being yet another nigga in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fighting back tears of anger, frustration, guilt, and regret, I went into the store and purchased a pint of Hennessy. I twisted off the cap, took a long swallow, and poured the bottle out in the parking lot. My last drink with one of the best friends I was sure I would ever have in life.

           I attended his funeral the next week. The only one I'd attended since I lost my mother 7 years prior. It was an emotional service. A far cry from the fashion shows/ drinkless functions that most young funerals have become in Oakland these days. During the viewing of the body I could hear his mother's cries. A cry unique from any other because there is no earthly pain worse than that of a mother cursed with burying her child. I stood over the open casket numb with the realization that I would never again hear his laugh, a laugh that only he had which invoked laughter within who were in earshot. I spent the next few seconds trying to wrap my mind around the fact that it was actually his body lying before me. I waited for tears that would never come, they had long ago dried up with the losses of so many friends before him. I studied his face briefly, it looked peaceful and even held a trace of the signature grin which he was known and loved for by so many. Then it was goodbye for us. I kissed my two fingers, touched his cold forehead with them, adjusted the lapels on his suit, and walked out of the funeral home. Once outside, I dialed his number and his voice broke in after a short musical interlude by Shawty-Lo..."Ay it's Jarv... Leave it...". I told him everything I wish i would have before that day, said  "See u in a minute Cuzz" and sent the message. Hoping he would get some sort of reception upstairs and hear it.

            I don't have to tell you guys the meaning of this story but I will anyway. Each Black Man killed is equivalent to a number of people because he leaves a different footprint on each life he touches. This is just my story regarding Jarv. I'm sure there are hundreds of people with thousands more stories to tell. And this is the case with each of us. Fathers, Brothers, Sons. Cousins, Husbands, Friends. We must learn to see all these things in our Brothers before we see one another as targets. You may be shooting one person... But you're drastically affecting countless lives in the process.... It stops only when we say it does.....

           RIP Jarvis Hodges
                        You still owe me half a tuneup Nigga!! I still got the spark plugs on my dresser...
                                                              You'll Be Missed

            AND THAT'S JUST THE WAY I SEE IT......

VISITING DAY....

As I'm speaking through this receiver...
I wanna shatter the glass...
And offer my open arms...
To a man with a shattered past...
He's broken and battered... Ask...
Why he's living his life so fast....
He'll tell you that he was raised....
In the gutter like he was trash....

His life... A tragic movie...
Without a supporting cast...
Exhausted... Tired of running...
He's always coming in last...
His triumphs don't match his tragedies...
Seems like he's automatically...
Disregarded by friends...
And written off by his family...

Maybe it was the drugs...
That amplified his insanity...
No mercy from the judge..
Strike 3 for assault and battery...
His babymomma's gone...
She left him all by himself...
Grew tired of waiting for him...
Got married to someone else...

Now his only consolation...
Is counting the days and weeks...
Penitentiary tatts...
And memories of the streets...
His commissary is low...
It's turned him into a thief...
He's jacking niggas for food...
But fuck it he's gotta eat...

He's a victim of a system...
That bred him to be a beast...
Facing his inner demons...
Is killing his inner peace...
His patience is growing weak...
From facing his daily beefs...
Plus he thinks his celly's plotting...
To murder him in his sleep...

He's weary and losing focus...
Driven by raw emotions...
Waiting on his parole...
At the moment it seem hopeless...
Crying out for help...
Hoping someone in heaven hears...
He's got 3 children on the outs...
He ain't seen in eleven years...

His son's a teenager...
His baby's in junior high...
His oldest is seventeen...
When he saw her last she was five....
All he has is his pride...
Cause his faith has withered and died...
He's tossing calendars daily...
His life is passing him by...

          There's really no need for a breakdown or analysis here. The message is plain as day. There is a crime which is far more brutal than murder of the body. Therefore I am hereby charging the justice system with the  unjust killing of millions Black Souls annually....

                  Free my brothers, cousins, friends, and fellow ghetto soldiers... Regardless to your charges I love each and every one of you with all my heart and soul... "A single act of injustice anywhere... Threatens justice EVERYWHERE" ~Martin Luther King Jr.~

                  AND THAT'S JUST THE WAY I SEE IT.......
      

B.E.T.... BLACK ENSLAVEMENT TELEVISION

              "I say!!! I say!!! If Good Ol' Mistuh Whitefolks hear bout what we's dunn did dis time.... Weeee's liable to be in a whoooole heap of trouble!!!!!!" The ridiculously erratic organ music kicked in signaling the start of what would be a display of sheer Coonery at its best and most degrading. For the next 2 minutes, the two men onscreen kicked their legs, knocked their knees, and tap danced their way into Niggerdom. Their faces were painted black, their clothing, tattered and torn, and their old worn straw-hats flopped lifelessly with every clumsy movement. Their already full lips were poked out and smeared with bright lipstick sloppily applied to magnify their size. This was the first time the handful of young men I sat in the room with had been exposed to the Menstrel show (at least in its most blatant form.) and they didn't like what they saw. One of them shot me an irritated look. "Nigga.... You really finna sit here and watch this shit??" I looked at him from the corner of my eye, smirked and nodded toward the t.v set. Another one laughed and said. "Maaaan... This nigga Ant always fuckin' wit some other ass shit.". I just kept watching, as did they. For the next 20 minutes we watched Black Men shove their faces in watermelons, do splits, fall into washbins steal chickens and participate in all sorts of other mindless fuckery. No one spoke a word, lauged, or so much as breathed loudly. I scanned the room and watched looks of  utter disgust creep across their faces. I smiled and sank into the couch to silently wallow in the delicious satisfaction of once again getting my point across.

            What none of my friends understood, was the fact that I had intentionally tuned in to the program only seconds before they entered the room. I wanted them to see it. I needed them to share my embarrassment and see for themselves what they had only hours before referred to as my "Hating" during a discussion that took place on a corner.  I had opened their eyes without saying a word. And though they didn't admit it, I had added yet another "W" to my record where our "on the block" debates were concerned. I was sure that they were, at that point, tired or admitting defeat at my hands, (and I didn't want to take from such a powerful lesson by gloating) so I left them to their thoughts. And judging from their faces, they had some serious thinking to do. And here comes the pain people.

          In the early days of motion picture based entertainment, Blacks had a specific role in American society and culture... NIGGERS... No matter what amount of education or gainful employment we had procured within our lifetimes, at the end of the day that's what we were considered by White America to be.  For this reason, any role we landed in the budding film industry was just that. The Nigger.  However our black wasn't quite black enough, our lips weren't quite big enough, and our antics weren't quite "niggerish" enough. We were made to paint our faces pitch black and our lips scarlet red for the purpose of amplifying our "blackness" or "nigger" features. We were then instructed to display completely foolish and morally oblivious behavior for not only America's entertainment, but as a fond recollection of a time not long before when were, (though not ignorant as human beings) completely ignorant to the ways and laws of the land and therefore, regarded to be brainless savages.  Each film was a testament to to our immeasurable simplicity as people. Each tap of a shoe, yet another kick to the heart of Black manhood. Each broken sentence, a resounding testimony of our extreme illiteracy. America adored the harmless incompetence of the images we portrayed. And popular figures such as Mr Bojangles were the nation's favorite stringless puppets.

           Fast-forward roughly a century, turn on a t.v, switch to BET, and witness the great distance which we've come as Black people. Upon closer inspection... Has that distance really been that great? Sure, our faces are no longer slathered in lipstick and black shoe polish, but our "amplified niggerishness" is still very prevalent today. Slave-like dialect spoken over catchy instrumentals being and heralded as "hit" music. Chains, watches, and bracelets  being paraded across the screen resembling Noose and Shackle ensembles more than jewelry. Self-destructive and immorally suggestive lyrics praising unadulterated "Coonery". Men of great intelligence and unparalleled talent reduced to playing the part of common hoodlums although it's a life that few of them have actually experienced. Yes... This is the Minstrel show at it's most potent. In the early days of black exploitation, "Niggers" danced their jigs and went home to families that knew and respected the fact that they were not actually the men which they portrayed at work. These days "Niggas" dance their jigs, go home, and often welcome controversy, arrests, and even incarceration, in their quest to prove that they are "Real Niggas". They aren't allowed to learn lessons and seldom acknowledge consequences in these matters. For to let go of the street life and admit that there is no longer a need to engage in "hood" habits would basically challenge their credibility as "Real Niggas" and ultimately render them useless in the eyes of their puppeteers.

            It is a common practice for rappers to exhibit a "Do what i please" attitude in the media. In reality, no album, song, or music video reaches mainstream America without corporate America's stamp of approval. More often than not, upon their inception into mainstream media, rappers images are worked and reworked so they'll fall into a specific criteria which usually involves being as "Black" as possible. The so-called "Real Nigga" is actually nothing more than America's latest model of it's"Tap dancing monkeys" of yesteryear. Popular culture is still the same now as it was then, it has only been revamped to make the humiliation of Blacks more subtle and acceptable with the changing times. This was the the basis of the discussion which took place on a street corner in Oakland that day. And it was understood without a reasonable doubt with the viewing of a long forgotten and buried piece of black history. My friends left that room with a new view of the so-called black image in American entertainment .  A view which was made evident when i switched the channel to BET and Soulja Boy bounced and bobbed around the screen spewing loud, obnoxious,  meaningless drawl and waving his watch in the camera. One of the young men took the remote from my hand "Man... I'd rather watch the niggas that ain't have a choice do this shit.... Fuck him and this channel bruh..." With that he turned back to the Minstrel show and we watched the rest of it in silence... Point Proven...

          This is not to say that all rap music is without substance or a positive message. But for the most part, the image often portrayed by rappers is one that has been put into place with the intention of glorifying ignorance. It's a known fact that White America is responsible for as much as 70% of rap albums purchased annually. We're still a-tap-tap-tapping away in our Coon dancing shoes as far as they're concerned. Hopefully... One day,,, Maybe-just maybe,,, We'll wash our faces clean for the first and last time...

                            B.E.T...... WHO IS IT REALLY ENTERTAINING???

                   
                          AND THAT'S JUST THE WAY I SEE IT..........
            
            

          

          

CHANGE GONE COME

        I still remember sitting in my 6th grade English class and watching Spike Lee's Malcolm X for Black History month with every bit of pride my 5ft nearly malnourished body could hold. As I watched Denzel Washington speak to crowds of paid extras dressed as spectators whose admiration was based solely on the small paycheck they would receive that week I found myself captivated. Now although my overly mature mind had already learned to clearly distinguish the fact that it was all a re-enactment, (an excellent one mind you, but still a re-enactment nonetheless) my over active imagination placed my face on his body. Yes... I was Malcolm... And I reached deep within those masses of oppressed brothers and sisters and invoked a sense of pride and reason to fight that had long ago been beat, choked, whipped, and chewed out of them. And I gave them hope, strength, and a voice with which to say "No More! This is where we fight back!" I was there, in the midst of the struggle, and i felt I belonged there. I was lost within the experience, a classic case of life, imitating art, imitating life.  For 2 hours I'd left that classroom in East Oakland and walked into a ballroom in Harlem and made my presence known and feared. For 2 hours I was the pride of black America. For 2 hours I made a difference. Then it happened.

        For me, the defining moment of the of the movie came in the form of a perfect arrangement of melodic strings, subtle yet powerful bass, and crying horns, accompanied by the soulful vocals of Sam Cooke in a song call "A change is gonna come". The song moved me to tears where I sat. I closed my eyes, lowered my head and cried quietly for reasons I could not yet identify and with an anger I would not fully understand until I'd left school that day. After Sam's last notes and a final whimpering of those strings and horns, I watched in horror as Malcolm, Denzel, and Myself were gunned down by men that had once sworn to give their very lives for us. I was devastated, and although I'd heard the story told plenty of times, I was nowhere near prepared for what I saw on that screen. Soon after, the bell rang, snatching me back to reality with bone-crushing speed.
         
         After collecting myself, I left class and headed home with Sam's opening words echoing in my head. "I was born by a river... In a little tent... Ooooh and just like the river I've been running... ever since..." See... Sam's river was my neighborhood dope spot, his little tent, my run-down Housing Authority Apartment. And the same way he'd ran. I knew I would have to run. I'd have to run from poverty. I'd have to run from persecution at the hands of an unjust system. A system that took my older brother from me, the only man I had to look to for protection and guidance.  And I would have to run from death, not only at the hands of Police, but fellow Black Men who, due to a long and tedious process of being stripped of every ounce of self worth they possessed, felt they had nothing left to lose but life itself which held no value to them anyway. Suddenly I realized that the change Sam Cooke had promised me only minutes ago in class, had come and gone decades before my conception and I had been yet another seed cultivated in this chaos which is merely a shadow of what the Black community once was.  For me Oakland had revealed It's true identity. A decaying stretch of a highway that started at the penitentiary and ended at the cemetery. At the tender age of 12 I had already grown all too accustomed to losing friends and relatives to a game which was structured and set into play for no purpose other than us losing. And I asked myself, God, and any other spirit that could possibly hear, a question. "Is this really  what our leaders fought and died for?"  My question was almost instantly answered by a handful of  semi-automatic gunshots stealing any chance of ever witnessing manhood from a 15year old boy on the next block. And with that, I accepted the bitter truth and walked the rest of the way home.

           That was 16 years ago. And in those 16 years I've seen enough drugs, crime, and senseless murder to shake America's crime rate. I've lost enough friends to fill a graveyard, so many even. that I stopped attending funerals years ago because my immunity to death feels disrespectful when I attend them. I've even smelled the Reaper's icy breath on a few occasions myself and barely escaped his grasp for reasons that are beyond me at this point. This is far from the place I'd like to hand down to my babies. Not speaking of Oakland as a city, but in its current condition it's completely unsuitable in my eyes. I can't remember the last time I saw little girls play double-dutch on the sidewalk. Or little boys play touch football in the street. On my block I'm haunted by childhood ghosts. The restless remains of the last days that it was safe to be a child and play outside. We've been selfish. So selfish that we've snatched childhood from the hands of the precious beings that we hold a mortal responsibility to nurture and protect. What chances do they have in a place where 25 is considered "old" and 17 is the new prime of life? What spineless breed of cowards have we been to allow this to happen. What type of men are we that we take pride in shooting each other down daily, yet a single Patrol Car has the power to clear as many as 50 of us from a street with the sounding of a single horn? We openly speak up for blocks, cliques, and turfs, yet we silently stand back and watch the miseducation of our seeds as if blind. Its tragic... We're tragic. Regardless to individual efforts, it takes a village, and collectively we're failing miserably.

         It's that time y'all. Time to give our future leaders a chance to breathe long enough to lead. A chance to make things happen we failed at years ago. It doesn't start with standing against someone else. It starts with standing together. We're losing, not just to them, but to ourselves. And that's far from the legacy that so many others stood, fought, and died to entrust to us. We're dying in record numbers every day. Let's try living for something for a change.  Its not impossible, just improbable. And as we all know... Probability can easily be reversed with a little action..... Let's give our future warriors a fighting chance......

               "There's been times that I thought,,,,
                 I couldn't last for long...
                 But now I think I'm able.... To carry on...  \
                 It's been a long... Long time coming...
                 But I know... Change gone come....
                 Yes it will....
                                             ~Sam Cooke~

               AND THAT'S JUST THE WAY I SEE IT.....

           

THE FLINTSTONE PHONE COMPLEX

            Somewhere in a place called Anyhood, USA, Jason pulls into a gas station, shifts his focus to a familiar vehicle, observes its occupants, and utters the words "This bitch got me fucked up...".  The car belongs to Nisha "his work" and she's sitting in it with B, "some sucka'", just laughing and smiling away as if she's having the time of her life. Now I don't have to tell you that this is a huge "Nigga Moment" in the making. Without thinking Jason, (working with feelings he either never knew he had, or couldn't admit having thus far) runs to the car, snatches the door open, pulls Nisha out and begins to "act an ass". At this point B. is placed in an all too familiar and explosive situation. His manhood is on trial at the moment, and his next move is detrimental to his reputation as well as his situation with Nisha. Though this is his first time meeting Jason, he's already all too familiar with him. After all it was his shoulder which offered comfort to Nisha after the 3am phone calls from other women, the weeks on end with no contact, the unpaid loans, a long list of cancelled dates, and everything else she had put up with from Jason. Plus he's digging Nisha tough and has made it his goal to not repeat Jason's mistakes. Sure he's a second-stringer at the moment, but he's jockeying for a starting spot. With that understood.... Should He...? A: pull off his shirt and take shit to the streets? B: Attempt to calmly and rationally diffuse the situation? or C: Say "That shit's between y'all" and remain in the car seeing as how it was Nisha's choice as a woman to continue her dealings with Jason though she constantly states her discontent in the relationship (Or lack there of)? The answer is completely dependent on your life experiences, character, and personal views where respect is concerned. But before u lock your response in, it's important to understand that we've all been in Jason or B's shoes at some point in time. Believe it or not it we played these roles long before adulthood, adolescence, or even our first kiss in life. It's actually a character trait I've coined as the Flintstone Phone Complex. And here's how it works...

         Nearly all of us attended the Kindergarten around the age of 4 or 5 years old. And for the majority of us, it was or our first interaction with such a large number of peers and different personalities. Since this was such a huge culture-shock for our little minds we subconsciously developed extremely territorial habits which we usually exhibited during the highlight of any Kindergartner's day which was Playtime.
       
         Now... From day one our teachers read as a story and turned us loose to play within the confines of our classroom. We were instructed to choose our favorite toy, (My favorite being the Flintstone Phone.. Hence the name of the complex) and play amongst ourselves or with each other for a predetermined amount of time. We'd run to the toy of choice. swoop it up, and basque in the glory of once more being in sole control of it. Yes we'd always spend a few minutes playing with our favorite toy, but due to our extremely short attention spans, monotony soon set in, and once again we were bored with the same old thing. At this point we would sit the toy down and wander the room playing with other toys, wreaking havoc, or attempting to muscle "favorite toys" from other children. All the while our toy sat in the same spot untouched. We'd look back at it from time to time.  As the favorite toy it still held it's fair share of our attention, yet for the most part, it was relatively unimportant at the moment because it would be there when we returned for it.

           Suddenly our routine was interrupted and our little worlds were shaken to the core. Out of nowhere, another child whose favorite toy sat untouched on the other side of the room decided to place their pixi-stick-powder-polluted mitts on our toy. HELL UP IN HARLEM!!!! Of course we saw the little bandit coming from a mile away, but our initial thought was... "My toy's fine... There's a hundred toys over there for him to choose from...". We were wrong again. And the fight was officially on. We'd run over and cause the biggest scene our 40lb juice box-fueled bodies could muster. So what if we ignored it, so what if we didn't appreciate it, so what if our attention was on important matters at the time... IT WAS OUR TOY!!! And we refused to give it up without an all out war. We'd kick, scratch, bite, and scream until the teacher arrived to offer the deciding judgement in the matter. This was a daily cycle for a lot of us. Sometimes we lost and the other child was rewarded with a toy which they would more than likely ignore within the next few minutes. More often than not though, we won based on the fact that it was associated with us and had it been silently understood by our teachers as well as classmates, that it was our favorite toy. With the victory came the sweet opportunity to show negligence yet another day.

            Sadly... Due to the high rate at which this Flintstone Phone scenario occured during our critically developmental years, it branded us as children and has scarred a lot of us as adults (men especially) so much so that we often can't have successful relationships because of it. Like that toy, we expect our mate to be there when we return. We go on about life with the notion that they have nothing better to do with themselves or their time than to patiently await our arrival. This frame of mind usually (though rarely intentionally) breeds neglectful and inattentive habits where the relationship is concerned. We often don't realize our lack of attention or affection towards a person of interest until we are faced with the reality that it can, and almost always will, come from other sources. What worsens the situation, is the fact that our negligent actions will only make affection and attention from a third party all the sweeter for an under appreciated mate. Of course we'll fight for them (if they matter) when we're faced with with the danger of losing them. If we're lucky, we'll win. If not we hold the lion's share of blame in the wake of a crushing defeat.

             So whether you're playing Jason's, B's, or Nisha's role in your own situation. Make sure that you're not allowing a childhood complex be the determining factor in your adult emotional life.... Step it up... Because...   When it's all said and done.... The hardest shoes to fill... Are those that are currently being worn properly.

       Who's your "FLINTSTONE PHONE"???? .....Playtime's over....

            AND THAT'S JUST THE WAY I SEE IT.........