Chocolate Covered Strawberries

I'm all over this!

Reflectively Pensive During the Fall

It's fall-a season that carries a lot of meaning for me. When I was a kid, fall was when we returned to school, which was never a happy time for me. Quite frankly, as I child I only liked the summer-you could toss the rest of the year in the trash. Oh wait, and Christmas. As an adult, I had to teach myself to enjoy the entire year and all the pleasantries the four seasons offer.

I remember when I learned to fully embrace fall. I'd just got out of a very turbulent relationship and my newly found freedom brought new and exciting experiences. A new love interest-a new job-exposure to many different cultural activities, I was flying high. The change in temperature was a warm welcome. I found pleasure in layering my clothing, stepping out into the cool night air, and allowing myself to be dazzled by all my new surroundings.

Well once again it's fall and it's a pensive time for me. A lot of new things occurring in my life right now. Some, if I allow them, can make me very depressed but I've been consciously navigating my way through. If I find myself getting down, I don't panic, I just go with the feeling and I allow it to have its time. I think that's the only way we move on-instead of burying our emotions, let them run their course. I also know how to "medicate" those feelings with music.

It seems every time Maxwell comes out with a new CD, I've just ended a relationship. Somehow he always helps me navigate through. So suffice it to say I've been listening to a lot of Maxwell lately. In fact, his very first release, Maxwell's Urban Hang Suite was released when I was going through a major break up. I picked it up and 'Til the Cops Come Knockin' and Reunion helped me put things into perspective. Instead of spending the entire time wallowing in sadness, I began having a few 'Til the Cops Come Knockin' episodes of my own. From what I hear his latest, BLACKsummers'night, has two more releases scheduled: blackSUMMERS'night and blacksummers'NIGHT, I think I'll stay single until he's done. Oct. 16 he'll be at the Hollywood Bowl and I'll be there to check god out.

Well, enjoy the fall everyone. Embrace the changes nature brings. Here in California we're lucky enough not to be fully assaulted by inclimate weather so we should allow it to act as a prop or backdrop in the motion picture of our lives. I have quite a fondness for the fall. The cool air reminds me of loving and being loved; of a hand in hand walk with someone special; of concerts and plays and warm coats. I implore you all to find something special about this time of the year and make it your own.

TPOKW?

*Side Note-I took this photo yesterday on a jetty in Seal Beach at sunset. California has some very beautiful sunsets.

Glenn Beck and The Fema Camps

Immediately after the election of President Barack Obama, Fox 'News' host Glenn Beck began ranting and raving about Fema death camps. Surely Obama couldn't have erected these death camps in the short time he was in office, therefore the death camps must have existed prior to Obama's election to office and Beck must have known about them. The only real objection Beck has is not their existence thereof, but that a democrat (and an African-American one at that) is now in control of the government who would be responsible for filling said camps.

The Lipstick Lesbian and the Dirty Dance.

Last night I was supposed to go out on a date-but I canceled and opted to go see my friend's reggae band play...alone. Why, you ask? Well the woman I was supposed to go out on a date with was supposed to confirm by a certain time but failed to do so. At the last minute she called as though everything was fine. I told her it was kite flying season, gave her the best location to go fly one, and headed out to hear the reggae band.

I arrive at the venue and take a seat next to what I perceive to be 2 guys and a 2 girls. I don't think much of it, just a couple of couple's out to hear some good reggae music. As the evening progresses, the two guys go out on the balcony to smoke, and one is hanging all over the other's ass. I give them the side-eye, but hey, to each his reach right?

Later that evening, one of the 'guys' comes up to my table and introduces 'himself', his name is Rena. Don't know too many guys named Rena. This is about the time I realize Rena isn't a 'guy'. We chat about the band, she tells me they've been at the venue drinking since 6pm (it was 11:30pm) so she was pretty wasted. I tell her the band plays at the Sandpiper on Thursdays, she should check them out. She asks me to write the name down on a napkin and I say, "Sure." Rena comes back with a pen and a napkin and I scribble the name of the club, and some directions along with a map and hand her the napkin. Wait, did the club just see a 'dude' get my phone number? That's EXACTLY what I would have thought had I witnessed such an event-a dude picking up on another dude. I let it go.

Later, Rena, who's now become my favorite stalker fan, comes up and says, "My girlfriend wants to dance with you. Go dance with her." I sit, stunned. The word 'girlfriend' is reverberating around inside my head. After a few beers, I'm not the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer so I'm sitting there processing this information....slowly: Now let's see, she looks like dude and dude's have girlfriends...processing... BUT she's not a dude and she has a girlfriend....processing...OH!!....LESBIANS!! Ok then, why does the lipstick lesbian wanna dance with me? This all transpired over the course of about 5 seconds. Rena can no longer wait, she grabs me by the arm and drags me over to her girlfriend, who smiles a drunken I could sure use some dick right now smile and we're off to the dance floor.

The lipstick lesbian (LL) immediately begins the dirty dance. I'm most certainly not feeling this at all. I keep looking over at Rena who pretends to be in deep conversation with whom I'm hoping is a real guy because this evening is turning out to be too bizarre for this old man. I try to create some distance, but LL insists upon sowing her heterosexual oats tonight and I'm the chosen penis. I continue to create distance because #1 she's drunk and #2 I don't want to go mano a mano with Rena over this nonsense. Not that I couldn't take her-one punch and she's on her back counting light fixtures on the ceiling-but who wants things to come to that?

Eventually Rena comes out and begins dancing with the 2 of us...WEIRD!!! I turn my back to them and dancing alone is a blonde woman who'd told me earlier she liked my hair-so I begin dancing with her. This goes on for about a song or two when all of a sudden LL jumps in between the two of us and begins the dirty dance again. Now, I'm really uncomfortable. I'm being made a public spectacle of by a lipstick lesbian who is making it obvious she wants to do the black snake moan. I'm in a quandary, what am I to do? Finally, the band plays a slow reggae song and I make the excuse that I have to go to the bathroom and politely excuse myself. When I come out of the restroom, they're gone and I breathe a sigh of relief. Had they not left, I might have been propositioned and I have to tell you, vomiting wouldn't have been off the list of possibilities. Not that I found them disgusting, but the mere thought that I might have been propositioned to fill some void in a lesbian relationship bothers me.

In many ways I felt sorry for Rena. I know she asked me to dance with her girlfriend to make her happy and I'm sure there's no limit to what she might have allowed to transpire in order to please her. I didn't feel a kinship or camaraderie of any kind with her, I just felt, she being the stud of the two, had to indulge a lot from her girlfriend to keep her. And all the dirty dancing in public with a real man...that seemed like a power play on behalf of LL. It's as though she was saying, "See, at any given moment I can replace you with an original."

Sad.

TPOKW?

And Chris Brown Got How Many Years of Probation?

This is just ridiculous.

How I Survived the Weaponizing of My Children (and What Died in the Process)

I love my kids-all of them. But I don't love them as much as I should; the way a father is supposed to love his children. I can't. I learned that years ago. Who's that scratching their head? I can hear the fingernails raking over the scalp. "What's that you say? You don't love your kids?" No, that's not what I said. What I said is I don't love them as much as I should. But make no mistake, it was a conscious effort on my part-a decision made out of necessity.

Love is a very, very, powerful emotion. It drives people to do some very unacceptable things. It can also motivate people to do very positive things as well-but that's not the focus of this blog entry. In the 80's, my son and I were separated for almost 6 years. His mother took him and disappeared. I've written about it in previous blogs and many of you might have read about it, so you know the story. During the first year of his absence I drowned my pain in alcohol. I don't remember very much during that first year, but I do remember a pain so intense, I wanted to, and probably would have done harm to his mother. Her saving grace was I didn't have a clue where she was. I was close to the brink of insanity and there's no telling what I might have done had I gotten a hold of her. After the first year, I found things to distract me but there was still a burning rage deep inside me. Years later, I decided that I had to put a lid on the love I have for my children. Their mothers could always weaponize that love and use it against me-and boy did they.

I had to make a choice, a very difficult choice. Either I allow the love I have for my children to be used against me in such a way that I could do harmful damage to someone and lose my freedom, or I control the depths of that love. This might be the first time some of you are hearing anything similar to this, but I'm certain there are more men out there who've experienced this same transformation. Imagine being faced with that dilemma-no one said life was easy.

Women who weaponize children and use them against their exes are the worst terrorist of them all. Worse than the 9-11 terrorists? Yes. Allow me to explain: often this type of terrorism goes unreported and in some cases is even sanctioned by local government. The damage is far reaching. It creates a riff between the paternal parent and the children. Eventually he has to let go. He has to put some emotional distance between himself and his children. Perhaps there are alternatives, but I don't know what they are. In my case, I had no way of knowing my son's mother would disappear with him so I was completely unprepared.
Certainly this behavior isn't against the law-it flies below the radar. In fact when the mother of my 2 daughters did the exact same thing (even after knowing my son's mom had pulled this stunt on me), the police department refused to get involved.

We live in a society where men aren't supposed to show their emotions, so many do as I did and suffer in silence or self-medicate themselves with alcohol and other mind/emotion altering substances. Some lash out, but the majority just try to deal with the pain alone. I know that many of the decisions I made after my son was removed from my life were decisions to try and eliminate the pain. It's like being on fire and grabbing anything within reach to try and extinguish it. I got with the wrong woman, made two more children out of wedlock, and just sunk into an even deeper hole. I became the perpetrator to my own victim. Self-destruction wasn't my intent but it was definitely my destination.

The real question now that I've said all of that is just how much do I love my children? Okay, I'll admit the first paragraph was seasoned with a little sensationalism-I do love my children with all of my heart. But there is a room that exists within my emotions that has a door that I open, enter, and close behind me. I become emotionally unavailable to all who attempt to reach me. Behind this door, I feel absolutely nothing (that's not true, I feel safe). I could watch someone die and feel no sympathy for that person-I literally shut down all of my emotions and become numb. I developed this place out of necessity-I had to find a way not to care, otherwise I would behave in an irrational manner that would have surely led to my incarceration.

I don't think fathers should be forced into creating such rooms. They have a profound affect on the children. My daughters all think I'm an emotionless man. I normally stay in the middle. Not getting too angry, not showing much happiness-almost robot-like. Sure, I tell them I love them all the time, but I think they think it's just something dad says because everyone else does.

I've lived in this country practically all my life, and I've had to deal with a myriad of enemies. I've had to deal with employers who were against me; a judicial system that categorizes me by color first; had to struggle for survival every day as an enlisted person in the United States Air Force-and that is no exaggeration. The racism I witnessed and experienced in the Air Force was unbelievably brutal in that the military justice system requires less burden of proof than civilian courts. It's a lot easier to charge and convict a member of the military under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) than it is your average citizen. It was emotionally easier and in some instances, like a chess game, for me to deal with the military racists. They repeatedly attacked, and I successfully defended-every single time. But having to deal with people who are supposed to have a modicum of compassion for you attacking you in places they know you're most vulnerable is far worse. It should be considered a crime.

These women knew that I loved my children unlike I ever loved anything else on the earth-and they weaponized that love and used it against me. And for what? Because I exercised my right to freedom and decided I couldn't be with them anymore? One I left because she was an alcoholic with a tendency to be extremely violent and reckless when drunk. The other I left because she believed a man was someone you tormented, attacked, schemed against. In her own words she once told me, "Men don't feel pain like women-it doesn't hurt you all as much." It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that eventually you're going to have to put some distance between that person and you.

My children and I all have, what I consider, a working relationship. We express love for one another, enjoy spending time together, and experience a genuine warmth towards one another. I smile deep inside and feel so fortunate that I survived those early years and to have come out on the other end still possessing the ability to feel for them-but I know that I keep one hand on that doorknob and at the first sign of trouble, I'm ducking behind that door. I wish it didn't have to be that way, and perhaps one day I'll feel comfortable enough to board up that room, never to enter again and experience the freedom associated with never having to worry about them being used against me again. Wow, this is probably the first time I've thought about it consciously, and what an emotional mess I must be. Many women I've dated say I sometimes become unreachable-and I know that I've used that door with the women in my life as well. And it makes perfect sense to me, but I'm sure they have no idea why all of a sudden a wall is erected and they are on the opposite side of it. I don't know if words are enough to explain it all to them.

Anyway, that's my story and it's sticking to me. If I could find a way to shake it, I'd be telling you an entirely different one. But as it stands, that's the only one I've got to tell.

TPOKW?

Addendum
In writing this entry, I just realized in the process of shutting down emotionally, I killed my own passion-passion for love, for art, for life. There had to be an innocent bystander. My passion became a casualty of the war. I guess I've learned the hard way that we are shaped by our environment and we should choose our environments wisely.

Hemp-It's Time.

In 1990, Hugh Downs of ABC's 20/20, did this report on hemp. Take a listen, this information may shock you.

Faking Orgasms

Apparently Missy Elliot and someone by the name of K Michelle (I have no idea who she is) have a song out about faking orgasms-you can check the video below. I've but one thing to say about this (yeah, when have I only had one thing to say about anything?), if you're a woman faking an orgasm, you're only cheating yourself. You're not cheating me-I got mine. Now don't get me wrong, I believe that a man should take care of the woman's sexual needs first, and then go for his, but if your attitude about sex is foul from the beginning, or your initial introduction to sex was not by choice, or was the result of sheer and utter coercion, it might be hard for you to understand the merits of sex.

Furthermore, SOME women have a tendency to bring other issues into the bedroom-which is a complete bastardization of the sexual act in and of itself. Relationship problems should never make their way into the bedroom (unless of course the relationship problem is in the bedroom). I know of women I've dated who knew not to mix the two. They may have been angry about something I said, did, or wouldn't do, but when we hit the sheets and sex was on the menu, they put those issues aside-not away, but aside. They always resurfaced later-but always at a time much more appropriate. These women were 90% of the time orgasmic. Bringing your relationship problems into the bedroom is like going to Disneyland and refusing to ride the rides because Shrek 3 sucked. Uh, hello! Two separate issues!

As many of you already may know, Missy Elliot has been reported to be a lesbian so I don't expect much from her. But from what I understand she's had relationships with guys. In her 1997 release, The Rain, Missy states I break up with him before he dump me. This lyric speaks volumes. From the onset she predicts the relationship will end negatively, so how invested in its success can she be if she's prepared to beat him to the eject the reject button?

I think songs like this send the wrong message to young women. Listening to this style of rhetoric will definitely have a negative effect on how they view sex and interface with the men they become sexually involved with. I'll leave you with this story: many years ago I was in a relationship with a young lady. She would fake orgasms and after I came, she would laugh and reveal that she didn't come. This happened a couple of times until one day I sat her down and explained, "Honey, this isn't a competition. What you're perceiving as victory is really self-defeat. Sex is an act of exchanging pleasure-if you want to play games with it, just know that I can do this without you. Why would you deny yourself the pleasure this act brings? You might as well go watch TV." Afterwards, we began having some extremely amazing sex-and one day, years later, she told me it was me who taught her how to feel like a woman. Not a (self) pat on the back, just a pat on the fact.

Now listen....






Side note-Years ago I watched portions of Missy Elliot's reality TV show (as much as I could stomach) and got the impression she fancies herself a mogul. And I think she's used the casting couch with women a couple of times (though I have no proof to substantiate this belief). In in fact she has, I believe it is because a lot of women believe that this is what powerful men do, and to be equally as powerful, I must assert myself accordingly. I will concede that a lot of men in powerful positions misuse their power. I for one find it extremely loathing and contemptible. Develop a personality and go find a woman who doesn't have to be coerced into a sexual relationship with you. Men who behave in this manner are the lowest life form in my opinion, especially when they stand in the way of someone's hopes and aspirations. A woman's years toiling away in playhouses and college productions shouldn't be discredited by some pig who will only hire those who'll blow him. We the public are often denied the pleasure of true talent because the seasoned actress who worked hard to perfect her craft refuses to degrade herself for a part in a movie. It's a practice I wish I had the power to end.

®

OK, This Is Funny!

I'm sure the world has seen the footage of Kanye West's brash interruption of Taylor Swift at the VMA Awards the other night. Rumor has it that Barrack Obama has unofficially called KW a 'jackass'...I concur.

Someone spoofed Kanye and Barrack and I thought this was hilarious so I'm sharing it with those of you who follow me.

Enjoy!

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Tired

Last night while relaxing at a bar I saw the footage of what appeared to be an outburst by Serena Williams during her match at the U.S. Open in Flushing Meadows, New York. This morning I awake to find that, because of a foot fault call made by a line judge, Serena became angry and was ultimately eliminated from the match, an elimination that was quite a costly one.

Some of the comments made by rank and file Americans on sites like AOL.com and youtube are quite disturbing.


jakegorospe1980 said: pure criminal.. just a classic ghetto bad ass attitude.. the sort of thing that puts majority of black amerficans straight to jail. they dont think, they just act naturally like a criminal.


hateyou79 said: She is just mad that a white girl beat that monkey ass. Fuck that ugly ass nigger. Tennis is a white persons sport. Go play basketball or something.

While Car3radio eloquently opined: Just a IGNORANY "APE"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I guess they've all forgotten John McEnroe's vicious outbursts.

I read these comments and wonder why I'm still in this country. Why many of us are still here. When will we learn that we'll never be accepted as citizens. We fight in wars we don't start, with people who've done nothing to us, for people who hate us. Like Muhammad Ali once said, "No Viet Cong ever called me Nigger." We're patriotic. We pay taxes and many of us, despite what is depicted by the media, do our best to be law abiding citizens.

The message is loud in clear to me, as it was to Marvelous Marvin Hagler many years ago. Many of you may remember after Marvin was defeated by Sugar Ray Leonard, he felt that because he was from the streets and Leonard was the All-American Olympic Gold medal winner, he was unfairly denied the victory. Marvin immediately left the sport of boxing and the country and hasn't lived here since. He moved to Italy, started acting and last I heard was a very happy man.

I was watching a documentary the other day about a woman from England whose son was murdered by a woman he was dating. What stuck with me about the story was the fact that as a young woman she had planned to go to different countries across the globe to work. Her first stop was Australia, then she came to America, after which she planned moving on to South America. What was so profound to me was this woman never felt as though she wouldn't be welcome globally. I feel unwelcome in neighborhoods, restaurants, shopping malls etc. RIGHT HERE IN WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO BE MY OWN COUNTRY! I began to wonder what it would be like to feel as though you are welcome every where you go. I'm sure she would be shocked if someone treated her as though she wasn't welcome-I'm surprised when I'm welcomed.

This type of silent but deadly mental pressure is taking its toll on me and I can no longer ignore it. When in the military during my tour of duty in Spain, I sometimes felt the uneasy stares from Spanish nationals, but I expected it from them, I was a foreigner in their country. But I was also able to travel many places alone where white G.I.'s could not go without being attacked. I don't know if it was a fear they had of me, or if it was because they understood our history as Americans better than most of us do. Suffice it to say, I felt more welcome in that country than I ever did here in this one.

African Americans have been fighting and dying for this country since its inception. We've been pioneers in medicine, technology, literature, art, sports, education and it all pretty much goes unnoticed. Many Americans (white and black) have no idea that Charles Drew researched in the field of blood transfusions, developing improved techniques for blood storage, and applied his expert knowledge in developing large-scale blood banks early in World War II, saving thousands of lives of the Allied forces, only to die in a car accident because he wasn't allowed access in a local whites only hospital. And then there's Garrett Morgan who originated a respiratory protective hood (similar to the modern gas masks), invented a hair-straightening preparation, and patented a type of traffic signal. He is renowned for a heroic rescue in which he used his hood to save workers trapped in a tunnel system filled with fumes.

I could go on about the many African-Americans inventors whose inventions improved and or saved the lives of many U.S. citizens only to have their inventions stolen, or their names and contributions omitted frm the pages of history. And let's not forget that many of our ancestors labored and toiled in this country and gave it a great financial foundation-a foundation that has provided many a U.S. citizen a comfortable lifestyle-while we are denied the right to be treated equally even to this day. Immigrants come to this country and are more welcome than we are. And they come knowing exactly who's the lowest on the social totem pole.

I was tired when I was in junior high school so you can probably imagine how exhausted I am now. I can read the writing on the wall-we're just not going to be accepted. We'll always be considered second class citizens no matter what station in life we achieve. If you don't believe me look at how they've treated President Obama. I can't speak for the rest of those who share my skin pigmentation and who have also shared my experience here in this country, but this second class citizen is done. If I'm treated as a second class citizen in another country it's to be expected-it's justified, I would be a foreigner. But here, in a country where I've served in the military, paid my taxes like everyone else, abided by the laws and tried to conduct myself as a model citizen, I can't take it any longer. I have to find a way out.

During the civil rights struggles of the 60's, after Rosa Parks was arrested for not giving her seat to a white man...(a white man...come on), a bus boycott was organized in Montgomery Alabama. Blacks came together and created carpools to ferry one another back and forth. It wasn't long before the city of Montgomery began to miss the financial contributions of its black citizenry. It became evident to many white males that their jobs were in jeopardy and they began trying to disrupt the carpools and force blacks to use the bus system. But black people in Montgomery were strong. I want you to notice that I didn't write we were strong. Those black people did their part and fought their fight. The rest of us have to do ours. We can't sit back and ride the coat tails of people on the front line and claim their victories. And they shouldn't have to drag the rest of us along-we all need to do our part.

Eventually the Jim Crow laws that mandated blacks stand when whites boarded buses were rescinded and the black citizens returned to using the bus system-which in my opinion was a terrible mistake. We should have never gone back. We should have allowed the public system to fail. That's always been our problem-we always give up the fight once we are given that which we should have had all along. I may not claim their victories but I will most certainly claim their defeats. We should have pooled our money together started our own busing system and never looked back. We should have stayed in our own neighborhoods, frequented our own restaurants, shopped at our own stores and kept our money in our communities which would have created jobs for our people-but we're too busy trying to be a part of a system that will NEVER accept us as equals.

I know that there are whites here who see us as citizens. But many of them refuse to stand against the system-and in some ways I don't blame them. It's not their fight, it's ours. And if we don't do anything about it, why should they? I don't advocate we go toe-to-toe with this system, that would be the equivalent of me climbing into the boxing ring with Mike Tyson in his hey-day. If blacks are going to remain in this country we should take a page from our history and silently disappear (like we did from those Montgomery buses). This disappearance might be welcomed by many white Americans...at first. But when they begin to miss the $750 billion dollars that we spend annually, someone is going to wonder what happened. When businesses begin to close and people begin to get laid off, the impact will be felt. I say we should disappear, never to return and the money we generate and disseminate into this economy should be spent amongst ourselves. The Jews, the Chinese, the Indians (native and Asian), all support their own little enclaves. Why just the other day I saw a sign on the side of the freeway that read Filipinotown.

What I do know is that I a man on an island. I don't think we as a people will ever open our eyes long enough to understand what we need to do to better our situation here in this country, and as I mentioned before, I'm tired. I'm 46 and I'm tired. Tired of having to make deliberate movements when I'm pulled over by the police so I'm not shot for reaching for a weapon that I don't own. Tired of ignoring the prying eyes that follow me around the department stores. Tired of ignoring the fact that I've been paid less than whites doing the exact same job I was doing, (I was once paid less than a worker I was supervising). Tired of being the poster boy for crime in this country. Tired of seeing my image being negatively portrayed in the media. Tired of white women clutching their purses or locking their car doors when I walk by. Tired of calling about the availability for an apartment and when I show up being told that they have none available. Tired of being afraid to go to a doctor because of what was done to black men and women during the Tuskegee experiment. Tired of watching black men just like me crumble under the pressures that I experience everyday and knowing that each day it's a struggle for me to put on that happy face and go out into a world that I know hates to see me coming. Tired of black women joining the ranks of those who wish me ill-will and further damaging me. Tired, tired, tired. I know people who read this are going to say I sound like a victim-spend a lifetime in my shoes and then talk to me. I know some women are going to read this say you're a weak man and my response to that is if that was true, I'd have been dead a long time ago.

Serena, sadly you'll never be nothing but a nigger in the eyes of most Americans...and I really don't know what a nigger is. But what ever it is, that's who they say we are and me personally, I'm tired of others defining me, or having to redefine myself every time I interface with Americans. I have many things in this life to be thankful for-but I want to feel like the British woman who, at the very core of her being, knows she's welcome anywhere she goes in the world. I want to be able walk into a public establishment and have it feel like Cheers, where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. I don't know of any place like that here. So I have to find a way to leave America and find some place like that somewhere else.

Signed,

Just Plain Tired.

:-(

A Prediction

It won't be long, but mark my word, sometime in the near future whites will declare themselves a minority class in America. You'll then see how a system designed to benefit a repressed class of minorities is really supposed work.

You can say you read it first here.

TPOKW?

The Perils of Barack Obama

Man, I like Barack Obama. I really do. I think he's an intelligent human being. But as president, I have to say he has absolutely no power. Last night while giving a speech on Capitol Hill, Republican Joe Wilson's accusatory outburst demonstrated the respect Americans have for the man. For reasons I don't agree with, people feared Dubya. When Joe Wilson (no relation to the aforementioned Republican congressman) reported that Iraq had no weapons of mass destruction and went against the Bush administration's position, his wife was outed as a CIA spy. Now I don't agree with what I considered then, and consider to this day, an act of treason, but publicly no one stood up to Bush and his war hawks. I don't believe anyone should be controlled by fear, but the highest office in the United States deserves respect, regardless of who occupies the office and rude, accusatory outbursts on the House floor while the president gives a speech demonstrates a lack of respect for the institution of government.

Everything Obama does is subjected to the highest form of scrutiny. Policies designed to improve the lives of American citizens are labeled socialist. There's no question the source of America's uneasiness lies in the color of Obama's skin. America has a negative image of the black male in their minds and having one, even though he doesn't have the blood of former slaves coursing through his veins, occupying the highest office in the land is unbearable.

Here's a secret I think many white people know, but many black people don't. Most white people understand that there is a caste system in this nation. It has always existed and extends as far back as America's association with indentured servants. Many immigrants, both black and white, came to this country as indentured servants. But the indentured servants began to outnumber the ruling class and something had to be done to separate them. White indentured servants were assigned overseer duties and ruled over the darker servants. And while blacks in this country walk around thinking we're all equal, non-ruling whites know that the system grants them privilege and know better than to bite the hand that feeds them. Theoretically, Barack Obama poses a direct threat to that privilege. Whites fear he'll redistribute the wealth (read-transfer it from whites to blacks and minorities).

If you doubt historically there are/were systems in this country that favored whites, google discrimination in housing, hiring, etc. and do the research for yourself. Discrimination in housing, justice, employment, education, and access to health care are all examples of a system designed by whites for whites.

Barack Obama strikes fear in the hearts of those Americans who understand that they have benefited from a system that, through policies of discrimination, slowed the overall development of minorities in this country, and they fear a reversal of fortune. But let's be real-what is it that they really fear? Is it the fear of competing with an opponent on a level playing field? Could this nation as a whole and whites in particular have benefited so greatly if it not for the contribution made by slaves and the restrictive and regressive institutional policies of Jim Crow that afforded whites unfettered access to higher institutes of learning, jobs, land ownership, etc.? This is a question many white Americans should ask themselves. Blacks faced roadblocks every direction they turned. Those who managed to acquire wealth always ran the risk of being lynched, burned out, arrested on trumped up charges and incarcerated indefinitely. On July 30, 2008 America took it upon herself to officially apologize for slavery and the subsequent Jim Crow policies. Each white American should, as a part of their atonement, let black Americans know that they truly recognize and appreciate the involuntary sacrifices of our ancestors. It would go a long way in healing this nation.

The rank and file Blacks of this nation expect absolutely nothing from Barack Obama-politically, socially, economically, or otherwise (in fact, blacks didn't take his candidacy serious until he won a major race in the primaries indicating support from whites). We know that it would be political suicide for him to direct as little as $1 of tax payer proceeds to programs benefiting the black community. You think he's labeled a racist now? Let white Americans dream Obama's helping the black community with their taxpayer dollars and he'll be a lame duck before his first year in office is completed.

I admire the fact that Obama stands fast in the face of a lot of necessary opposition-and let me explain why I say necessary opposition. This country's political system was designed so that citizens and lawmakers would have a tough row to hoe enacting laws and instituting policy. In my estimation the system is once again working in the manner it was designed. The question of the day is why is it now functioning properly? I'll answer that-because white Americans fear Barack Obama and it is out of this fear they are paying attention to his every move,(something we should have been doing all along). Had we been this attentive during the Clinton and Bush administrations, we probably wouldn't be faced with the current *economic crisis, and we wouldn't be fighting two wars, the cost of which will take us a couple of generations to repay. Obama has caused the nation to once again pay attention to politics and policy. Sure, we may be out of touch with the proper political decorum, but Americans have once again focused their attention on Washington and I hope we maintain that focus for generations to come.

History will most likely be kind to Obama. As a leader, he's only as effective as the people he leads and if Americans continue to scream SOCIALIST every time he proposes a




*During the Clinton administration restrictions governing Wall Street were lifted triggering the sub prime mortgage crisis and the destructive era of predatory lending and credit default swaps.

Think Lincoln Freed The Slaves?

I have to admit this was another Iron Eyes Cody moment for me. Please watch and prepare to toss another useless piece of propaganda brought to you by our education system.

The (Sub)Urban Explorer

I've lived in this neighborhood for-I just realized it's been 3 years this month! Wow, time flies whether you're having fun or not. I completely missed my move-in anniversary, I guess I'll have to drink to my 3rd year here. Anyway, Saturday I said some unexpected time so I hopped on my human-powered, two-wheel, environmentally-friendly mode of alternative transportation and headed out to chart new territory. I have to set the scene for you: I love overcast days and Saturday happened to be one such day. By nature I'm a melancholy cat, and usually hang dead-center, so when the sun dips behind the clouds, it balances me. I ventured west of the main drag in my city and discovered one of the nicest middle-class neighborhoods one could cycle through. The houses were surprisingly modern and custom. No two were alike. Some were obviously multi-million dollar homes. The tree-lined streets provided a nice canopy and I cycled through amazed at how I'd lived so close and not venture to this part of town.

The street seemed never to end. I rode until I found myself near the 405 fwy and one of my favorite live music spots. The sun was still relaxing behind the clouds and the coolness of the day splashed across my face. Discovering something exciting right in your own city can be a rewarding experience. I had completely avoided the west side. I mostly jogged on the east side near the military installation-a very sad and impoverished area. Who knew such lavish accommodations existed on just the other side of the boulevard?

Today I waited for the sun to set and mounted my bike and retraced my path. The trip wasn't as impressive but it was nice to see people out jogging, walking their dogs, and families cycling in the bike lane. Surprisingly, everyone was friendly; they all smiled and waived as we passed one another, which was unexpected seeing as how I was a stranger in their midst. Tomorrow I plan on venturing down some of the other streets and perhaps even spending some time in the park. I even discovered a public library at the mid-point in my journey which I'm sure I'll spend some time in real soon.

TPOKW?

As God As My Witness....

If I caught a mother of my child doing something like this, there isn't a court in the land that could save her. This is child abuse, pure and simple. Now I understand why black women perm, and glue/weave extensions in their hair. As a child, if I had to endure this type of pyscho-traumatic abuse daily, I'd have a negative outlook on my hair as well.

Constables on Patrol

You've got to ask yourself who's minding the store. It seems like someone sent out an edict and cops have just tossed civil rights and Constitutional protection out the window. Here are just a couple examples. And ya'll wondered why Harvard Professor Henry Gates got a little upset.

Marijuana, the Planted Plant




Not in the Rear End

...and the Academy Award Goes to....

I'll let you decide. I've got one word to describe the nature of some women-duplicitous. When Chris Brown, (in what I considered an act of retaliation), attacked Rihanna, women around the world echoed in unison the following, He should have just walked away! Perhaps, but who am I to say? In the following clips, I really believe these women should have just walked away.

Women have been portrayed as sugar and spice and everything nice for quite some time now, but I think evidence is beginning to emerge that reveals a side of women once solely attributed to men. This post isn't an attempt to vilify women, only amplify the true nature of human beings, having nothing to do with gender.

And the nominees are...

The Rebar Widow



Deadly Dippolito



Granny Hire Your Gun



Thou Shalt Kill...NOT!!

Post your favorite in the comment section of this blog.

Merry Marrying!

TPOKW?

Cory Booker for President!

This is the black man who ALL black me should pattern themselves after. Hey, I know he avoids double-negatives, sagging pants, and the bottles of Cristal, but he is we should strive to be. If you get a chance, check out Street Fight, a film documenting his unsuccessful mayoral bid in the city of Newark, New Jersey. Four years later he returned to defeat the corrupt incumbent Sharpe James. Mayor Booker moved into one of the worse housing projects in Newark, Brick Towers, and lived there for 8 years. A former suburbanite, and graduate of Stanford and Yale school of law, Mayor Booker lived amongst the people whom he has now been helping as mayor.

Folks say Mayor Booker wasn't black enough. I hope we stop that nonsense talk. As Mayor, Cory has reduced the crime rate in Newark by 70%-that's not a typo people, 70%. He struck a deal with local businesses asking that they hire ex-cons if the city trained them and gave them the basic skills to become employable. He is truly one of the best of us and we should all strive to be more like him.

This is What I'm Talking About

This movie is about the corporate take over of the Walmarts of the world.

Anytown, USA

Last month I took a trip to North Carolina for a graduation party for my two daughters. One graduated from Baylor with a bachelors in health sciences-the other graduated from high school and will be attending Auburn in the fall. I am very proud of the both them.

During my visit, I noticed that I could literally close my eyes, board a plan in the U.S., land somewhere else in the U.S. and there wouldn't be anything differentiating one location from the next. America has morphed into a geographical homogeneous cliche of itself. Wal-mart, McDonalds, Jack-in-the Box, Target, Home Depot-everywhere you go, there they are. I remember taking a trip to the island of Maui in 2005 and I couldn't contain my excitement; vacationing on a tropical island paradise. The plane landed, we disembarked, picked up our luggage and the rental only to drive out the airport and right in front of us was a Home Depot, a Wal-mart and my eyes glazed over at that point. Somehow I don't recall seeing a bright-orange Home Depot sign in my fantasy of this tropical paradise.

Why have we allowed the oligarchs to circumvent the artists? Why has consumerism trumped environmentalism, or the preservation of the world's natural beauty? Hawaiians never needed a damn Home Depot. If they did, they would have built one themselves. Home Depot decided it needed Hawaii, and firmly planted itself in the way of my tropical island paradise.

There was a time you could travel to any place in the U.S. and that place would have a personality of it's own. The architecture, the local culture, even the language was geographically unique. Now, everywhere you go you bump into the manufactured M-TV culture that is neither unique nor interesting.

Starbucks (another eyesore on the geographical landscape) was kind enough to install a kiosk in the North Carolina hotel I was staying in and one morning I decided I needed a pick-me-up. I stood in a very short line, and when my early 30's Caucasian barista asked me what I wanted, I answered, "Grande Soy Mocha please." She then looked up at the ubiquitous flat-screen on the wall where John Legend was performing in New York's Central Park and began speaking to me in a vernacular unfitting North Carolina. I looked deep into this woman's mouth (to the point where I could see her tonsils) and wondered to myself if she'd swallowed a sista' from M-TV's hip-hop show 106th and Park. Her dialect was perfect-for someone aptly name Shaniqua. I remember feeling a little sad. I didn't want to hear her speaking that way. And trust me, it wasn't an affectation, that was her normal, everyday way of speaking. What happened to the southern drawl? I know, I know, it often sounds slow and backwoods, but I know better. Southerners aren't anymore intellectually challenged than the rest of the nation.

It bothers me to see the United States converted into this television culture that is instructed to wear the same clothes, speak the same dialect, shop at the same discount centers, all the while refusing to rage against the suppression of artistic and individual expression. Trust me, a tribal tattoo isn't an expression of individuality if EVERYONE has one. Nor is multiple piercings, colored hair, or the dreaded tattooed sleeve. In my opinion these people aren't trying hard enough. Dying your hair purple is easy-it's far from counter-culture. If you're sitting on your couch in front of cable TV watching The Hills, with purple hair or a tattooed forearm, or a tongue, belly, or clit-hood ring, you're not an individual. You're just a poor imitation of someone who once was a member of a counter-culture but has since moved on.

In her high school days my girlfriend made her own clothes. Bored with the unofficial 'uniform' all other high school kids wore, she designed her own fashion. Was she ridiculed? Yes, she was. Did it pay off in the end? Yes, it did. She ended up being a noted and Academy Award nominated costume designer. And all of those high school kids who looked at her as though she was an alien from another planet, well they're still walking around wearing someone else's uniform.

This country gave the world jazz, blues, rock, rhythm and blues, rap, hip-hop. As controversial a figure as he might have been, we gave birth to Michael Jackson-a global figure who inspired the world up to and beyond the day of his death. Why are we settling for the cookie-cutter imaginings of those void of imagination? What happened to the rebel spirit that raged against the status quo and made a counter-culture art form born on the streets of New York a world-wide phenom? Rap and hip-hop records can be found in almost every language on the planet.

I hope we don't lose our spirit to be free; free from Blockbuster Video, and Home Depot and Starbucks coffee. I hope that we celebrate the individual that lives in all of us and continue to design from our imagination and not from some prefabricated snap-in-place, void of creativity, mind prison. I hope that one day we realize that in order to be one self, one has to listen to one self-not the homogenized corporate radio with the same play list of artist whether you're in Hollywood California or Hollywood Florida. I hope we pull our children away from the i-Carly's and the Hannah Montana's of the world and give them the space they need to develop their own voices without Disney whispering some subliminal message lowering their self-esteem. And if one day we do decide to speak with one voice in this country, I hope it is a voice of our own design. Not one crafted by profit motivated oligarchs who couldn't care less about us, the planet or the future of our children.

TPOKW?

Sick In America

Bill Moyers is one of the few old-school journalists who asks tough questions and get the answers that most Americans need to hear. It might explain why he's no longer a mainstream journalist and is found on PBS. Watch both youtube interviews, or go to pbs.org and watch the entire 36 minute interview with former CIGNA health insurance exec Wendell Potter. Potter recently left CIGNA and is speaking out on the health care industry's grip on the lawmakers of this nation. He speaks candidly about the industry's attempt to discredit film maker Michael Moore's documentary Sicko.

Partially through the interview, Moyers plays devil's advocate and asks Potter what is wrong with a company making a profit and, although accurate, Potter's answer excluded a crucial component of the problem with health care in America. What insurance providers are doing is the equivalent to selling tickets to patrons to see a play and then canceling the performance and refusing to return the cost of the ticket to the patrons. Or more accurately selling you an automobile and when you come to pick it up neither giving you the automobile nor a refund. There isn't a business on the planet other than health care insurers who can blatantly get away with such criminal behavior. And both the chambers of congress, and possibly even the executive office of government might be in the hands of these merchants of death. I agree there isn't anything wrong with a company turning a profit, it' just that people shouldn't have to die in order for them to do so. I believe it is possible for health *(un)insurers to make a profit without harming people-it's just that they've gotten extremely indolent and would prefer to rob people instead of figuring out ways to earn a profit in a highly competitive market.

It has always been my contention that certain industries cannot afford to be privatized. In an environment where company's must struggle to survive, there is no place other health (un)insurers could have arrived than where they are today. The relationship between Wall Street and health insurers is equivalent to the relationship between a Las Vegas bookie and a fixed NCAA basketball game and conglomerates shouldn't be allowed to profit from the intentional mismanagement of a health care system. The same RICO laws utilized to bring down the likes of John Gotti and Sammy 'The Bull' Gravano should be used to break the stranglehold health care insurers have on congress.



*I call them (un)insurers because in my estimation you pay them a lot of money over the years, only to have them uninsure you once you get sick. It ultimately boils down to you paying them huge premiums for them to tell you when you get sick you're uninsured. You can opt out of being insured and know that for free.

TPOKW?

Central Free Methodist

As some of you may know, I was an overactive child. The word 'bad' was bantered around a lot, but that simply was a matter of opinion. Because of my overactive behavior, at the age of 10 I was sent to live with an aunt in Shreveport Louisiana; the idea being that she could straighten me out. The States of Louisiana and California are as similar as milk and mud and I bristled at the cultural differences.

I was enrolled at a private Christian school, Central Free Methodist, but was to soon learn that, although it might have been central (to what I don't know), there was nothing free about my new academic institution. I quickly learned that teachers in the south were actually able to beat you like they were your slave masters. I remember receiving one such beating, coming home and telling my aunt only to receive a second beating, (if someone can find justice in this, by all means please point it out to me).

Ms. Wiley
My teacher, the bloated Ms. Wiley, was an ugly, overweight, viciously angry, manless black woman. She spent at least a quarter of the school day napping, and the rest either beating us, or devising brutal ways to administer her punishment. There were several methods she would use:

1. A tree limb (known as a switch) that would be used either on our bottoms, or the palms of our hands.
2. Wooden or plastic rulers, which were turned sideways so that the sharpest, densest, portion struck the palm and you would feel the impact to the bone.
3. Belts which would also be applied to either your bottom or the palm.
4. Wooden boards that were applied the same as above.

Wiley was evil incarnate but she wasn't alone. All of the teachers beat their students and I was often told that I was lucky to have her as a teacher-Reverend Thompson was worse. It was nothing to see students, male or female, with welts on all parts of their bodies. Hands, arms, legs, and even faces were all open for touches, and I seemed to be the only one outraged by this. The rest of the students humbly bowed their heads and took it. There was student in our class named Bruce Wilson who, as a small child, had been hit by a car. Bruce obviously had a mental impairment-he walked with a limp and, because of a nervous condition, would eat the palms of his hands. His palms were always moist and covered with uneven layers of skin. For a while, Wiley beat Bruce's hands and sometimes they would bleed. She eventually switched to putting Bruce over her lap and whipping his ass. There was no end to this woman's brutality. There were students in our class who rarely received beatings-but rest assured a day didn't pass without someone being on the vicious end of Wiley's rage.

The Beat Club
There was a particular group, of which I was a member, that got beat more often than others. It wasn't so much that I was misbehaving, out of fear I quickly curtailed my mischievousness, but I was later in life able to speculate Wiley disliked me because I was from California. Perhaps California was a place she dreamed of visiting, but found it economically impossible. I might have reminded her of her own misfortune so beating me for the slightest offense may have been the way she comforted herself. She would often say to me in the vilest of tones, "This ain't California."

Denise Brown sat at the front of the class and was also a member of the Beat Club. She was a small, honey-colored girl with a sweet face, but an extremely mean disposition. Denise spent most of her time with the boys and could hold her own in a physical altercation if necessary-she had our respect. One day something possessed her to put a tack on Wiley's chair. The entire class watched, but out of fear or solidarity, said nothing. When Wiley sat down, she immediately popped up and yelled, "Oh Lawd!", then searched her blubberous fat ass for the offending object. My crew and I knew better than to laugh, but knew during recess we would celebrate and laud Denise with much praise if she survived what was surely to be a vicious beating. Wiley searched the faces of us students and asked who was responsible-no one spoke. When the recess bell rang, Wiley dismissed the class, with the exception of the usual suspects. John Dixon, Antonio Carter, Denise Brown, Otis Ray Washington, and I were held back.

As we sat silently in fear, Wiley explained that she was going to beat us all until someone either ratted or confessed-I was to be first. Otis and I had been friends since my first day of school and we'd made a pact to never cry no matter how badly we were beaten. I stood up from my desk, looked over at Otis for moral support, and walked to the front of the class to receive my undeserved punishment. Wiley's weapon of choice for this occasion was the switch. She grabbed my hand and said, "I know it was you, wasn't it?" I replied, "No ma'am." WHAP! Wiley brought the switch down hard on the palm of my hand. I stood still, occasionally flinching at the searing pain that tore through my body. I stared directly into her eyes-a blatant act of defiance. WHAP! The switch was brought down again, and again. The pain was unbearable, but my desire to show no weakness forced me to stand firmly planted. Finally, she was done and I returned to my seat and Otis was called forward, then John, Antonio, and finally Denise. The cycle continued until finally, Denise confessed.

I thought that we would be released, but Wiley had a different plan. She called us four boys to the front of the class and made us stand in a semi-circle with she and Denise at center stage. She then grabbed Denise, pulled up her dress, pulled down her panties, and whipped Denise's naked ass right in front of us-Christianity can be a strange religion. We all stood petrified, refusing to believe what we were witnessing. After she finished, with the exception of Denise, we were all dismissed-she offered no apology. Out of fear, none of us ever spoke about the incident.

Brian Chisolm
Brian Chisolm came to our school mid year. Brian was big for 11 and built solid. He was about the same height as Wiley, but she clearly outweighed him. Brian was a cheerful kid who liked to do magic tricks and during recess, there was always a crowd of students around him being entertained by his slight of hand. Wiley immediately disliked him and couldn't wait to beat him. Brian had seen the rest of us receive beatings but had something entirely different in mind. The day finally came when Wiley felt she had a flimsy enough excuse to indoctrinate Brian. Brian stood trembling before her at the front of the class, (we were always beat at the front of the class). He began crying and pleading, I recall thinking at the time how pointless pleading was. Wiley commenced to giving him the beating of his life. After a few strokes, Brian lost it. He grabbed an empty desk, threw it across the room, and went on a terror. He screamed at the top of his lungs and behaved like a mad man. We members of the Beat Club looked at one another in amazement-none of us had ever thought to do this before. Wiley immediately stopped as Brian ran around the room like a Tasmanian devil. A student was quickly dispatched for help and Reverend Thompson came to the room to subdue Brian.

Afterward, we discussed the incident amongst ourselves and eventually we began to fear Brian. No one surrounded him during recess to watch his magic anymore-we believed he was crazy. One day, Wiley decided to test the waters again, and Brian was summonsed to the front of the class. He immediately began winding up-Wiley tried to take control of the situation, but Brian quickly grabbed the upper hand. Wiley struck him once, and what was once fear turned to rage! Brian grunted like a wild animal and tore through the room tossing occupied desks aside like they were empty cardboard boxes. One of the classroom rules was you didn't leave the room without permission-to do so would result in a beating. My desk was right by the door, and Brian was making a bee-line for it. I sat petrified as he barreled toward me like a runaway freight train. He approached my desk, tossed it aside as well, burst through the door and disappeared. The classroom fell silent; it looked as though a tornado had torn through it.

Wiley absurdly screamed at me, "Why didn't you stop him? Go find him." To me, looking for Brian was worse than receiving a beating. Wiley's actions, although painful, were predictable. No one, including Wiley, knew what Brian was capable of, and I, of all people, was appointed to track this wild animal. I slowly stood and looked over at Otis, but he wouldn't look at me-no one would, I was a dead man walking. I looked at the classroom door and, in a strange twist of irony, feared what awaited me on the other side. Eventually, I pushed the door open and stepped out into daylight.

Central Free Methodist sat atop a hill on a very small plot of land. There were only a few places Brian could be. I entered the building that housed the chapel, cafeteria, principal's office, and teacher's lounge. The lounge door was normally open, but now it was closed. I kneeled down and peeked under and saw movement-all the teachers were in their classrooms, it had to be Brian. I went back to my classroom and told Wiley that he was in the teacher's lounge. She asked me what I said to him and I said, "Nothing." She then yelled at me and told me to go back and tell him to come back to class-man, that was the last thing I wanted to hear.

I took my time getting back to the lounge. It felt good to be out of class and for the first time since attending the school, I actually felt free. I wanted to just keep walking and never go back, but I knew that was impossible, so I accepted whatever fate Brian had in store for me and stepped inside the building. Again, I peeked underneath the door and could see Brian's shoes. I stood and slowly opened the door. Brian sat calmly in a chair doing one of his magic tricks. He looked up at me and smiled and at that very moment I realized, it was all an act! Brian would pretend to lose his mind and Wiley didn't know what the hell to do with him. I smiled back and said, "Miss Wiley wants you to come back to class." He stood up, and followed me. Neither of us said a word, but he knew I knew, and his secret was safe with me. Brian might not have been a genius, but he was definitely creative. He wasn't afraid to go against the grain and he taught me something that day.

Eventually, Brian was transfered to Reverend Thompson's class and from time to time I'd see him on the playground doing his magic tricks, but something was different about him. Reverend Thompson was known to be a brutal man and I'm sure Brian's antics were no longer effective. One day Brian's mother ended his misery and took him out of CFM. I was sad to see him leave, but I was happy that he'd escaped the hell we kids were forced to endure.


Kim and the Phone Call
One day a new girl came to our class. Her name was Kim Tyler and she was by far the cutest girl I'd ever seen. I immediately began flirting with her and before the day was over, I had her phone number. Later that evening, I called Kim, only to have her mother answer the phone and scold me for calling. I have to admit it was a rather bold and inappropriate move for a 10 year old, but I couldn't resist-not to mention the fact that, at the time, I didn't see any harm in it. I hung up the phone feeling a little uneasy, but didn't think much of it. The next day at school, I walked into the classroom and Kim wouldn't even look at me. Wiley was no where to be found, and the whole vibe felt weird. I took my seat and awaited Wiley's arrival like the rest of the students. Eventually, she opened the door and when she did, she looked right at me and summonsed me to the front of the room.

"Did you call Kim's house last night?" she yelled.

"Uh, yes ma'am." I replied, both frightened and embarrassed. Wiley went berserk. She yelled and beat me at the same time.

"She gave me her number!" I pleaded.

"I don't care! Don't you be calling any little girls in this classroom, you hear!" she replied as she beat me mercilessly.

"Yes ma'am." I uttered in between her vicious strokes.

After my beating, I walked pass Kim's desk gave her the evilest stare I could muster.

"I was so mad when he called me Ms. Wiley" she said. To me, this was treason, and at some point there would be a price she would have to pay.

Free at Last
I don't really know how much that year at CFM affected me, but I did become a lot wiser with how I conducted myself. What I do know is on that last day of school I saw my classmates behave in a manner I'd never seen before. The entire day was spent at a local park with a lake and boat rides. There was food and lots of fun. We all ran and happily played all day like children are supposed to. I have to admit the day was tinged with bit of sadness. I knew that most of these innocent kids, the majority of whom were really good kids and didn't deserve the treatment they received, would have to return to this hell the very next school year. I was going home, back to a place where teachers didn't have the right to physically abuse you, and in some ways I wished I could have rescued them and taken them all with me.

The day finally ended and we were loaded onto the bus and taken back to CFM, where parents awaited and kids anxiously milled around, excited about the beginning of summer break. Otis and I said our goodbyes-it was to be the last time I ever saw him. There was a sadness in his eyes, and I'm sure he saw it me as well. We'd been through a mental hell together, and like comrades in war, we'd survived. On my way home, I passed our classroom, Wiley stood in the door.

"Come here," she said. I followed her into the empty classroom as she walked to the front where we'd receive our beatings. On the floor was a cardboard box. Wiley reached into the box and pulled out a small marble paperweight. Atop it was a blue, metal plate with a stamp of my name, the school name, and the school year.

"What's this for?" I asked.

"Attendance. You only missed one day of school the entire year," she replied as she handed me the award.

Without saying anything, I turned and walked out of the classroom. I no longer felt the need to acknowledge her-her control over me no longer existed; there was nothing left to say. As I approached the long stairway that lead down the hill and off the school campus, I noticed two girls sitting on the sidewalk playing jacks. One of them was Kim Tyler. As I walked past her something overcame me and I exacted my revenge by stomping her hand with as much force as I could muster, and without missing a beat, I ran as fast as I could down the steps and on to the street-never looking back. And as the distance between Central Free Methodist and me grew greater, and the blood-curdling screams of Kim Tyler grew fainter, I was overcome with jubilation. Finally, I was free!

TPOKW?

KRS-One

I know many of you have probably seen this already, but it is well worth checking again!





TPOKW?

Cheated In the Game of Life

When does a man lose the urge to cheat? If someone would have asked me that question 10 years ago, I would have answered never. But lately I've pretty much lost the urge to even look at women (other than my own of course). The idea of breaking the ice with a stranger unnerves me. I have no interest in hearing the pointless stories that have been retold in bars and bedrooms and restaurants to the many men who endure them only hoping for what some consider the ultimate pay off-in the end, we mostly just want to fuck. But lately, I've have no interest in fucking strangers. No, lately I have no interest in the thought of fucking strangers.

It's never the fucking that ever matters, it's the thought of fucking that's the most interesting. The mere act, well, is sometimes better observed. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the act, but it means more on an ethereal level than I allow myself to admit. Reserved now best describes my position. But trust me, it's an acquired position-a path down which women have recklessly lead me. I would have opted to have ended up someplace else-but I'm here. I would like to have held onto those beliefs, you know the ones innocently believed at a time long ago. But those thoughts were unfairly tainted with wishful thinking and naivete. I look back on those early years and smile inside-how foolish was I? But I'm certain I'm not the only one. I'm sure many a man has found himself here and wondered how he allowed himself to become so deluded for so long.

I hear it in the voices of the young-and wonder if it would be fair to ruin what may otherwise be perceived as a happy ending. There is no happy ending-sorry. There's just a series of misadventures that continue until you either opt out on your own, or are relieved of duty by some unpredictable twist of fate. And in the rear view mirror, your past stares back at you and for a brief second you wonder if there's still a chance-a glimmer of hope for the future. Sure, you would have preferred a lifetime of bliss, but you'll settle for a decade, or half, or less. In the end we rise from the game table of life, count our blessings, and comfort ourselves with the handful of fond memories we walk away with. And we tell ourselves if we had the chance to do it all again, we wouldn't change a thing-but that's just what we tell ourselves knowing deep down inside we would change it all if someone would just give us the chance.

TPOKW?

Voices From Beyond

Someone very close to me sent me an email one day of a video. I watched the video, enjoyed it but delved deeper into the source. This brief explorative journey led me to TED. Now before you get all homophobic on me, let me explain...I am not a homosexual-TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design (www.ted.com). It was as though I'd stumbled into the minds of some of the most brilliant people on the planet. Some I'd heard of, but most I had not.

I don't mention it much, but I am an artist in my own right. It took me a long time to be able to first think those words, then say those words, and if my memory serves me correctly, this is the first time I've ever wrote those words in a public forum. Why? Because I rejected my artistry. Or better put, I tried to pimp my talent-but deep down inside, I knew I wasn't being true to myself, therefore it never really panned out. Yet, I continued to try to improve as a musician/songwriter/performer-and I still have a long way to go.

What does any of this have to do with TED? Well, this morning I checked my email and there was a video from TED featuring an author, Elizabeth Gilbert, whom I've never heard of. My normal reaction would be to click next, but I decided to honor her and listen to her presentation titled Burden of Genius. Ok, I have to confess something here-I had just finished watching a Southpark episode about rapper Kanye West who considers himself a genius. When I saw the title, it all kind of tied together in a bizarre kind of way. For those of you who have a spare 20 minutes, (which might encompass a great number of you in this jobless economy), take the time to glimpse into the mind of the creators of artistry and watch this video.

I have commentary that I would like to share with you which you may read now, but will make sense to you once you've watched the video.



Commentary
Elizabeth spoke of the origin of modern day genius and juxtaposed today's views with ancient Rome and Greece. I'm not going to offer my beliefs on those societies, but when she stated that during those periods people viewed creativity as voices from the gods or daemons (which, incidentally is the archaic spelling for the word demon), I could immediately relate. I've had fellow musicians ascribe the term genius to me and some of my work and I, in a masked fit of rage, reject the term. My experiences are entirely too limited, and my time in this physical body is too short for me to claim responsibility for that which passes through me. I don't know where the inspiration comes from but I do know it doesn't come from within me-it passes through me. Sometimes I capture it and record it, but most often I don't. I know firsthand the fear that it may never pass through me again-but then again, I'm aware of the fact that if I listen-really sit still and listen, they always speak to me.

There have been religious frauds who over time try to cast out demons. Why? In my most humble opinion, they don't want you talking directly to God, or the gods, or whatever divine spirit that may guide you-they just want you listening to them. I am not a religious person. I used to say I was agnostic, an ancient Greek term that supposedly means you are without knowledge of the existence of a God-but lately I'm beginning to reject the term. Not so much because I've found God, but more so because I really never lost God. And when say God, I don't mean a white-haired bearded dude who, for some odd reason, has been frozen as an old man for....ever, but God as in knowledge. I'm not going to try to explain it all here-it would require a more in-depth analysis, but my life mentor, who incidentally was the one who broke my ties with formal religious dogma, came to me one day and said that he could prove God's existence. When I asked him how, he simply said, "Everything man did not create, God did." As my younger bretheren would say, Marinate on that for a minute.

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Waxing Philosophically and Dealing From the Bottom of the Deck (or what you write when you have nothing to say)

I can't quite remember the exact time or date I realized I was a man. Manhood was never something I felt I needed to seek-I figured it would find me when it was time. I do, however, remember when I realized no matter what, you couldn't take manhood away from me. I was thinking about doctors, lawyers, politicians-(you know, important men). I found myself feeling a little uneasy because I was none of the above. And then a voice came to me and said, They are no more a man than you are.

I guess what I realized is we shouldn't necessarily judge man by his achievements (said so eloquently by the world's greatest underachiever). I sometimes have to ask myself if it's just the concept of sour grapes I grasp to make myself feel better, but I know deep down inside that's not the case. Man is man-be he butcher or baker or candlestick maker. There was a time when a man was cool if he was the milk man, or a garbage man, or a shoe salesman. People actually used to support families with those careers. Now we mock the garbage man or a shoe salesman-and milk men, as far as I know, don't even exist anymore.

Achievement can be a tricky thing. For instance, you can ascend to the highest office in this country, and still fuck it up (I'm not pointing fingers or naming names...I'm just sayin'). I bet some of those presidents, at some point in their lives, wished they were just some average Joe (the plumber) that no one knew or gave two shits about. Which, in some ways, probably explains why I wallow joyously in my mediocrity-I don't need to climb to the mountain top to know that eventually I'll wish I was back at the bottom.

I was at the grocery store today and was having a conversation with the lady behind the deli counter about working from home (which I will begin doing as soon as I pack up all my shit and stop showing up at the office). She asked me if I thought it would make me lazy-my reply was, "Are you kidding-you don't get any lazier than me. After this comes death." I often mislead people in my attempts at humor and their gullibility is usually tied directly to their IQ, (suffice it to say the lady behind the deli counter really believes I'm lazy, which is fine by me).

I guess you can say I'm a closet overachiever. I love to push myself, but not too far and certainly not in front of a crowd. I hate when people say things like, "Oh, he's so talented at that." No I'm not-you could do it too if you weren't so wrapped up in meaningless activities (I'll have to remember that one the next time I say someone's talented). I guess I don't care for the attention and it's been that way as far back as I can remember. When I was about 4 years old I would always get compliments from the church ladies about my eyelashes. It was the most embarrassing part of the day for me (even more so than walking in front a room full of people putting money in a collection plate I had other plans for. It used to piss me off because my mom would hand me the dollar and I'd have it just long enough to walk up and put it in the plate-why couldn't she just do it herself, after all, she was usually right behind me with hers). But I digress-back to the church ladies. I got so tired of them with their cheek-pinching and their compliments one day I went home right after church, marched right into the bathroom, and cut my eyelashes off. My mom was livid! Needless to say, they grew back and the church ladies resumed their annoying behavior.

It took me a while to settle into the man that I am-and for now I'm comfortable. I've always done things my way-even when it appears I'm doing it someone else's. I make sure I inject a little bit of me in everything I do-it's the human equivalent to pissing on a fire hydrant. My female companions are usually unique in some way; toe-the-line types and I usually don't last long. I know I won't always be who I am now, but I when I look back, I'll understand who I was and hopefully that will explain who I'll become. One day I'll be an old man whose plumbing may or may not work; who may desire the young ladies but will be so repulsed by the difference between us the desire will seem ridiculous; whose accomplishments, although personal, may go unnoticed-but that's okay, I'm an audience of one and I really only need to please me.

Mike Tyson, (that philosophically intellectual pugilist), once said in an interview, "The only thing that matters in life is that dash on your tombstone-the one between the day you were born and the day you died and what you did in between". I thought that was pretty profound coming from a guy who gets hit in the head for a living. But it's true, that is all that matters. And sometimes it matters to others, but mostly it should matter to the person whose name tops the tombstone-and to those who loved them.

I don't know what they will say about me when I'm dead or how my loved ones will judge me. I guess I used to try to live my life in a way that allowed me to write my own eulogy, but what fun would that be? Why should those in attendance at my funeral be bored with my myopic view of myself? No, I think those who knew me should have their say-be it good, bad, or indifferent. And I hope that I've surrounded myself by those who'll be bold enough to give an honest account of who I was and what I stood for. For what it's worth, I did the best with the hand I was dealt. Life deals us all 5 cards from the deck. It matters not the face value of those cards-what matters most is how you play them. Winning hands come in all sorts of configurations. Ask yourself this question: could a pair beat a 3 of a kind? And the answer would be, it happens all the time.

TPOKW?

The Last Time We Were Together....

Was in the 60's. When I say we, I'm referring to black men and women. If my memory serves me correctly, it was the 70's that drove a wedge between us (Women's Rights Movement). We were hit even harder in the 80's with the introduction of crack cocaine to our community. In the 90's black women gained their independence and excelled in the work place and began to look down on black men for not excelling at an equally rapid pace, driving an even greater wedge between the genders. Now, just about a decade into the new millennium, the rift that separates us seem insurmountable.

Nothing could be more of a testimony to how far we've gotten away from one another than the latest debacle between Chris Brown and R&B singer Rihanna. Women believe that Brown crossed the line when he allegedly attacked Rihanna. Detractors say that Rihanna, who has spoken in the past about striking her younger brother in the face with a bottle, attacked Brown first. Some women believe that, even if Rihanna struck first, Brown should have just walked away.

For those of you who choose to ignore nature and her purpose, there is a reason why men are physically stronger than women-because typically we are slower to anger and under normal circumstances we use physical violence as a last resort. Women have much shorter fuses and are more emotional. I have theory as to why this is.

The Prince's Gender Theory
Throughout nature the female of most specie are responsible for the care of offspring. Our offspring are our future for without them we cease to exist. Nature, being the wise designer she is, knows that whoever is responsible for the protection of the offspring has to be someone who will act first and think later-enter the female. Females are emotional and they have no problem expressing their emotions. If they are upset, they may cry openly. If they are happy, they express their happiness. If they are angry, hell hath no fury. Nature needs an emotional guardian. Encroach upon the young of any female animal and, regardless of the size difference, that animal will attack. It's an emotional response. She doesn't take time to contemplate the danger involved and sometimes she loses her life defending her young. Male animals are a more analytical-a trait nature cannot afford when it comes to defending the young. Let's say there is a male in charge of the young and a predator encroaches. The male is going to size up that predator and contemplate whether or not he can defeat him. Secondly, he will begin to calculate the distance between he and the predator and whether or not he is close enough to truly be considered a threat. Lastly, he will consider ways he can salvage the situation without actually having to fight physically. A female would have already engaged the predator by now-and most likely sent him or her on their way.

With that said, men-real men, are relatively hesitant to use violence. If this wasn't the case, you would see far more violence perpetrated by men against women. Domestic abuse occurs, I'm not trying to say that it doesn't. But I think that domestic violence, just like immigration, is a political hot button and is sometimes used to manipulate the public. Women have also falsely reported domestic violence. I once dated a woman who was upset because she saw me sitting between two female coworkers at a bar. When I came home, she barricaded the front door of our apartment. I, knowing we never locked our 2nd floor patio door, climbed up on the balcony and let myself in. She then attempted to push me out, but I just walked past her, undressed and went to bed. Moments later, there was a police officer shining a flashlight and a handgun in my face telling me to get dressed. This woman told the officers that I came home and attacked her. The officers separated the two of us and began questioning us. It wasn't long before the officer questioning my ex walked over to his partner and said, "She's changed her story 3 times already. She's lying." I was asked to leave my own apartment and stay the night someplace else-I went to my mother's house for the night and the very next day while this woman was away, moved out of the apartment. Had she been a better liar, I would have most likely been arrested for domestic assault, and worse yet, convicted.

How did we end up this way? Why is it that men find it necessary to violently abuse women or vice versa? Why is it women defend or excuse their own irrational behavior? I have a theory.

The Prince's Theory of Gender Separation
As I mentioned earlier, women are emotional creatures and spend very little time analyzing situations. If it feels bad to them, they're done with it. If it feels good, even though they know it's not right for them, they'll go for it. That's not to say men aren't the same way, they too will do things they know that is not good for them. The difference being, men calculate the amount of damage they may have to endure and weigh the consequences. When I was a child and embarked upon an adventure in mischief, my excuse was already prepared and I determined if the risk was worth the reward. Even as an adult male, the few times I made the decision to cheat in a relationship, I asked myself if it was worth the risk of losing that relationship-it was never a spur of the moment decision. Often I would contemplate for weeks, sometimes months. I always wanted to give the person an opportunity to turn things around before I committed to straying because once that cat was out of the bag, he's extremely reluctant to return.

Back to my theory. During the women's rights movement, women fought for equality. Equal pay, equal access to jobs, and freedom from domestic duties. I can't prove this, but I believe that the women's rights movement was a lesbian movement and heterosexual women were emotionally co-opted. I believe that lesbians hid behind heterosexual women for their own gains. Now that lesbians have the access they desired, heterosexual women find themselves out in the cold, separated from their male counterparts trying to figure out how this occurred. Some 40 years later, if you ask the average woman about equal access to jobs, what you'll find is many of them long for the days when they were domestic engineers-not having to answer to over-bearing bosses, fighting hour-long commutes, and paying ridiculous monthly fees to day care centers. They were the masters of their homes and most ran a pretty organized and tight ship. Men weren't the ones who threw women out of their roles as domestic engineers-they heard the cry from women who had no use for a husband and joined up to become their own (and their family's) worst enemy. Heterosexual women now view men as oppressors, violent abusers, rapists, etc. (lesbian speak), and to their credit, there are men in all of those categories. But for the most part, the majority of men simply want a wife, a nice home, and a family they can be proud of. Lesbians managed to highlight and amplify the worst of men to drive home their point, and women, being the emotional creatures that they are, fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

Women must now find a way to lose those negative images of men. Sure, some of us abuse, rape, oppress-but the majority of us don't. And if we're going to judge one another by the behaviors of the worse, it would be just as easy for men to start with their long laundry list of negative female attributes. But that would cause nothing but more gender separation. For every Scott Peterson or O.J. Simpson (whose guilt I still question), there are a thousand Denzel Washingtons, Bill Cosbys, Barack Obamas, or John Does who don't murder, rape or abuse their mates-and they deserve the spotlight more so than the abusers.

I know many of you will denounce my theories and call me insane, but take some time to do a bit of research and see if there is any validity to my belief. One thing we can all agree on is the moment women left the home and began trading their labor for money to buy things they didn't really need, our children became the target of advertisers, and once there was a time they looked to their parents for guidance, they now take their cues from corporate sponsored product salesmen.

TPOKW?