de promised land

you laugh too loud
you smoke too much
& wit’ yo nasty walk & such
you can fuhget about de promised land
you’ll nevuh reach de promised land

yo’ head is hard
yo’ temper’s quick
yo’ dirty jokes just make me sick
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t gone see de promised land

“what I do makes me happy,
& this you’d begrudge?
when did God die & make you my judge?
all I’ve done, all I have
was done by my hand,
right now I’m in the promised land
I am in the promised land.”

you talk too much
yo’ words are brash
& yo’ deeds ill-thought & rash
you can fuhget about de promised land
you’ll never make it to de promised land

you foreswore yo’ father
you neglect yo’ mother
you deny yo’ sistah & brotha
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t wanted de promised land

“how I live
is my own affair.
for your words
I have no care,
cause I’m livin’ in the promised land
I’m already in the promised land.”

you drink too much
& you smoke weed
fo’ others’ thoughts you have no need
you can fuhget about de promised land
you ain’t fit fo’ de promised land

yo’ only concern is
yo’ wants, yo’ goals
& you pursue both at the cost of your soul
you can fuhget about de promised land
you don’t belong in de promised land

“if narrow-minded people
like you can get in,
then I’m better off
with what you call sin.
I’ll make my own promised land,
I’ll make my own promised land.”

copyright © 2007 KPMCL

it's probably just coincigenocidal

In light of the acquittal of the police officers who murdered an unarmed Amadou Diallo, I offer “coincigenocidal”. Their acquittal is the proof that African-Americans are systematically being wiped off of the face of the earth . . . legally.

In light of the acquittal of the police officers who murdered an unarmed Sean Bell, I offer “coincigenocidal”. Their acquittal is the proof that African-Americans are systematically being wiped off of the face of the earth . . . legally.

In honor of all of the unarmed African-Americans killed by police officers in cold-blood, those unarmed African-Americans who will never receive justice, I offer:

coincigenocidal

perhaps it’s me, but,
i don’t doubt that it’s not.
perhaps it’s silly,
but, then,
i’m just not the type,
to simply fall for the hype.
there’s more to this than meets my eye,
and, i’d say that i know the reason why,
but, it can also happen to the little guy,
as easily as
to anyone else.
to stay alive, to survive,
it’s expedient not to accuse,
for to do so can be suicidal.
therefore, all i can say is that things
are, perhaps, not as i thought.
it’s probably just coincigenocidal.

this is my
beloved ghetto,
it is my
peace within chaos, my home . . .
that diminishes
daily.
they say that our drug addiction is suicide,
as clearly no government practices homocide.
therefore, that means
that we
are the systematic geniuses,
thus, we
the chemical masterminds
that gave us this drug called crack,
taking lives that we’ll never get back.
but hey, . . . sometimes, i’m super suspicious.
it’s probably just coincigenocidal.

those were my
beloved leaders,
they were my
hopes of holding my own, my guides . . .
that quickly faded
away.
they say that we have a way of killing off our own,
or, that our leaders were killed by assassins acting alone.
malcolm
had courage,
and, he made the x change,
and, martin
would be the one
to soften that change,
and make it all click,
until one day we got jealous, and gunned malcolm down,
and, then, martin made speeches on the wrong side of town.
so . . . pardon my paranoia:
it’s probably just coincigenocidal.

copyright © 1997, 2008 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millennium, coincigenocidal, genocide, conspiracy theory, racism, Amadou Diallo, Sean Bell, unarmed, acquittal

Ace of Trump (the race card)

I was at a friend’s "Windows Live" space the other day and she had made a post about an eighteen-year-old Caucasian on trial for displaying nooses on his truck. The display was an attempt to intimidate protesters who were waiting for a bus to return them to their hometowns, after the Jena 6 protest. This friend’s post included the term “playing the race card”. Every time I see that phrase, I am all too ready to hop up on my soap-box in an effort to make the world understand that “playing the race card” has its place, and that it should not be frowned upon as much as it usually is. I suppose that it depends on the definition that is employed. My use is not the idea of turning an issue into a race issue, but pointing out the fact that racial discrimination is at the root of the problem being discussed. The purpose, in my case, is to enlighten those who have not had the misfortune to have been at the wrong end of discrimination, and to point out the fact that things are not as "honky dory" as is claimed by the very ones who haven't been at that wrong end. Why do I do this? I do it because, inevitably, the question always arises "Why must you always bring race into the equation?", and it is a question that never seems to go away.

I’m fifty-six (56) years old, and African-American. There are those of us (African-Americans) who are a lot older than I am who have seen a lot more discrimination in their time and probably more than I will have seen in my lifetime, when it’s all been said and done. They have, somehow, found peace with what has happened over the years, as goes discrimination. Their bitterness has not faded into obscurity, but, they are less likely to make a big deal of it than some others – such as myself. I live a marvelous life with the ability to do just about whatever I please, but, I find that discrimination is alive and well. I feel that although it is a bit more contained and subtle now, it still puts me on the defensive at every turn. Therefore, I am quick to “play the race card”.

Subtleness is a very effective tool. One way that its use has proven to be very effective is in advertising. Just about all advertising uses “subliminal messaging” to sell their products. It works very well. We are bombarded with the same message over and over, so much so that we tend to block out those ads, and that’s where the effectiveness takes hold. It is similar to learning a foreign language by listening to tapes in one’s sleep. We don’t realize that the sound is there and we hear them “subliminally”, and, as a result, learn the language without even trying. The subtlety of discrimination works in precisely the same manner.

Let me give you an example of that subtlety that few people even realize exists. I’m not sure if they are still around, but, there once was a product known as “the Invisible Band-Aid”. It was “invisible” because it was touted to be the same color as your skin. Sorry, but, it wasn’t the color of my skin. One might ask “How is that discriminatory?” It is discriminatory by way of non-inclusion. In other words, “if this product does not blend in with your skin tones, then, this product just isn’t for you”. That probably sounds trivial, but, I assure you that it is far from insignificant. I’ve had both the pleasure and displeasure of working in not only suburban areas, but, rural areas as well. During that time, discrimination showed its ugly face almost daily. I have been in a store, in need of assistance and on many occasions, I’ve been told that the employee was already busy with a customer. I’m very cognizant of the world around me and when I know that the Caucasian customer being helped came into the store after me, and I am the last to be waited on, that’s (not so)subtle discrimination at its best. I’ve witnessed that sort of subtlety all too often in suburban and rural areas, although it is quite prevalent in the city as well.

I am most apt to climb aboard my soap-box when I hear a Jewish person speak with such fervor about the Holocaust, and he or she remarks how dreadful it was. They often want Germany put on trial over and over until they feel that justice has been served. I believe deep in my heart that what happened to the Jewish nation was absolutely horrible. It is, by far, one of the worst atrocities that has ever taken place. I have no real problem with Jewish people bringing up the Holocaust. It should be remembered in an effort to see to it that nothing of the sort ever happens again (of course, in light of Rwanda and Darfur, this practice fails miserably).

I have a problem when I’m told to stop bringing up the subject of slavery in America, as “it happened a long time ago. Get over it and move on.” Just about everybody in this country, with the exception of the American Indians, has ancestors who came here from some other country. In each and every case, one can trace their heritage back to some village in another land, down to the great, great, great, great so forth and so on –grand-parents. I do not have that luxury and I never will. When my ancestors were brought here on slave ships, no records were kept. The best that I can do is to go back about three or four generations. Beyond that, I am at a loss. I know that my heritage is African, but, from which country, from which tribe, I am unable to say – and will never be able to say. Like the Holocaust (which is always capitalized as opposed to lowercase “slavery” – subtlety?), slavery was an unforgettable atrocity. So, forgive me if I continue to remind the world that slavery in America was such a devastating event.

This is one of my favorite subjects, and I could digress ad infinitum. Rather than do that, I’ll leave you with this sentiment. When I feel discriminated against, I will speak on it. If I witness discrimination, I will, if feasible, act upon it. No matter how long it gets to be, if slavery and the atrocity of it should come up in the course of conversation, then so be it. If that’s what is meant by “playing the race card”, then, I guess “slavery in America” is the ace of trump, and I’ll never have a problem tossing that card upon the table.

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance”.

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millennium, discrimination, playing the race card, subtlety, slavery, Holocaust, Darfur, Rwanda

Harlem Renaissance: Part 3 of 5

Claude McKay (1890-1948) was born in Jamaica to relatively prosperous parents. He was the youngest of his siblings and was taught by his brother, Uriah Theodore, who was a teacher. In 1907, McKay met Walter Jekyll, who would later become his close friend and patron. Jekyll encouraged him to write poetry in his native dialect, which did not thrill McKay. Jekyll was very instrumental in having two volumes of McKay’s poetry published: Songs of Jamaica, which detailed pheasant life, and Constab Ballads, which chronicled his short-lived career as a policeman (both 1912). At Jekyll’s urging, McKay ventured to America later that year.

Claude McKay attended Tuskegee Institute and Kansas State College, but farming was not in his blood. In 1914, he moved to New York. For the next five years, he held various jobs, including that as a waiter on the Pennsylvania Railroad. It was that experience which would later serve as the meat of his critically acclaimed novel Home To Harlem (1920). In 1919, McKay met Max Eastman. Eastman and his sister, Crystal, were co-owners of a radical journal entitled The Liberator. In July of 1919, one of McKay’s most recognized poems, If We Must Die, was published in The Liberator. McKay rose to instant stardom.

Sylvia Pankhurt, the British socialist, had McKay write for her, in England, for her magazine The Workers’ Dreadnought. He had become fascinated with and pulled into the world of Communism, followed by Socialism. In 1921, he returned to the U.S., and became the co-editor of The Liberator. Disagreements caused that venture to crumble after a very short time. In 1923, he returned to Europe, spending time in Paris and Berlin. While in Europe, he met Alain Locke, educator, philosopher, and the man who would later become known as the “mentor of the Harlem Renaissance”. The two worked together on a number of projects, but, McKay would become angered by Locke for publishing one of McKay’s poems, “White House” under a different title, “White Houses”, which had a severe impact on the dynamics of the title. Despite their differences, the relationship continued to flourish.

Claude McKay was outwardly unreceptive to both Marcus Garvey (and nationalism) and the NAACP. He and his associates fought for Black self-determination, but, went about achieving it within the context of social revolution. In 1928, his most famous novel was published, Home To Harlem, which depicted street life in Harlem. Despite its success, W.E.B. Dubois sharply criticized it as meeting the prurient demands of white readers and publishers looking for portrayals of black licentiousness. Dubois said that Home To Harlem “nauseated me and after the dirtier parts of its filth I feel distinctly like taking a bath”. Through the years, critics have come to dismiss that criticism. Among his other novels were Banjo (1930) and Banana Bottom (1933). He wrote two autobiographical pieces, A Long Way From Home (1937) and Harlem: Negro Metropolis (1940).

Claude McKay died in Chicago on May 22, 1948.

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance”.

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millennium, The Harlem Renaissance, Claude McKay, Max Eastman, W E B Dubois, Walter Jekyll, African-American Writers, expatriation, Sylvia Pankhurst, Marcus Garvey

The "Electability Factor" Fallacy

I was a bit disappointed that Sen. Hillary Clinton won the primaries in Pennsylvania, this past Tuesday. I found solace in the fact that it was not the blowout that the media had predicted. I found even more solace in the fact that my hometown, Philadelphia, gave an overwhelming show of approval for Sen. Barack Obama, by giving him nearly two-thirds of our vote. There were 158 delegates up for grabs in Tuesday’s election. Sen. Clinton pulled in at least 82 delegates and Sen. Obama gained at least 73. Sen. Obama holds his lead in total delegates at 1,723.5 to Sen. Clinton’s 1,592.5. A total of 2025 is needed to clinch the nomination, an amount that probably neither will attain before the Democratic National Convention (DNC). That means that the nomination, most likely, will be decided by the delegates at the DNC.

So, what’s next? There are two primaries coming shortly, those being North Carolina and Indiana. Sen. Obama is heavily favored in North Carolina; in Indiana, it’s been predicted that it will be a close race. Aside from the next two primaries, the biggest job is to convince the Super Delegates and the Democratic National committee that he or she is electable. There are two ideas afloat at the moment: the total popular vote count and either candidate’s “electability factor”, and they go hand in hand.

Sen. Clinton is determined to make the votes and delegates from Florida and Michigan count. Both states were disqualified when they moved up their primary dates after being warned of the consequences of doing so. Be that as it may, Ms Clinton is spouting victory in the overall amount of votes that she has received thus far. If Florida and Michigan were to be counted, that summation would be correct. Without those votes, Sen. Obama has a sizeable lead, as goes the popular vote. It should be noted that Chairman Howard Dean is slow to hear anything concerning the possibility of allowing those votes to be counted. By adding those votes, it gives Sen. Clinton a total of about 4.1 million votes and Sen. Obama 4.0 million. With the electoral college in place and fully operational, the popular vote holds no weight for either candidate receiving the nomination. Why, then, does she insist upon touting the grand total of popular votes? She is trying to justify the notion that she is more electable.

The biggest problem that I see at the moment is the dreaded media (big surprise there). They continue to load this story into their output without getting to what really matters. The primaries that have taken place and those that will take place shortly actually have no determining factor, by popular vote, as to who would be the more electable candidate. The primaries are between two Democrats. Electability speaks to the following notion: the ability to bring in more votes than the Republican Party’s candidate. Therefore, it may mean something only if they were facing a Republican, which does not happen in a primary race. That would determine which candidate is more electable. In the primaries, they are only up against each other. It neither addresses nor brings to any conclusion which candidate is more electable than the opposing Republican candidate. None of the media seems to be addressing that issue. Voters hear the totals, and figure that it makes sense without hearing the whole story. The key issue seems to be “electability”, which, due to its own meaning and the very definition of the word “primary”, becomes a non-entity.

One thing that we need do is to stop “Hillary Hatin’”. It’s merely politics as usual, or in this case, “parlor tricks” as usual. It’s the way that the politicians have been playing the game since for forever. It’s not a very good way to run a campaign, but, by now, we should all expect it. It is true that Sen. Clinton has left a bad taste in the mouths of a lot of people, and she brings the “hatin’” to her own doorstep all by her lonesome. There is a bigger picture to consider. As much as a multitude of us want to see Sen. Barack Obama progress to President Obama, there is the very distinct possibility that he may not get the nomination. It is what it is. That’s just a fact. In that very unlikely and unfavorable situation, one must ask oneself “Do I still want change, or do I want eight more years of George W. Bush?” View Ms Clinton from a distance and take the nonsense on the chin. If Sen. Barack Obama does not get the nomination, she may be our only hope (Lord help us). She may not be your choice, but, please – consider the alternative.

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance”.

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

Renaissance, New Millennium, Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, electability factor, primaries, Howard Dean, Philadelphia, alternative, fallacy

oh baby

I’ve a casual friend – actually a work colleague whom I’ll call Fay – who got married last year, becoming the stepmother to a 16-year-old girl I’ll call Cate. Last weekend, the 36-year-old Fay became a grandmother.

“So how’s the baby?” I asked, more for the sake of being polite than out of any real interest.

“He’s a lovely little thing,” she said. “And Cate seems quite happy – we actually managed to have a decent conversation for the first time in years.”

“Well, babies often bring a family together,” I mused.

“Maybe,” Fay replied, and an odd note of bitterness crept into her voice. “All I know is that I’m now a grandmother at 36. And all of a sudden, despite all the shit she’s put us through over the past year, despite the fact that yet another teenaged girl has given birth out of wedlock, everyone in the family now loves her and looks at her as quote-unquote ‘normal’, while they’re all looking at me and going, ‘Fay, when are you gonna have a baby?’ Never mind the fact that Nate and I don’t want kids – Cate is enough. But I’m viewed as some kind of freak because I don’t want to have a baby…why is that?”

I can well relate to how she feels. Eight weeks shy of my 50th birthday, I’ve never had a child, never been pregnant, and what’s more, I never wanted children. While my sisters and my childhood girlfriends played house with their Chatty Cathy and Betsy Wetsy dolls, I was writing poems and plays; when I played with dolls, it was with Barbie, and my fertile imagination had her travelling the world and enjoying exciting adventures that had nothing to do with children or cleaning and cooking for Ken. I made the decision at the tender age of nine that I would never have children, and while I have never regretted it, I will agree with Fay and say that society looks upon a woman who is childless as an aberration.

My parents – who were light years ahead of their time in sexual matters, or perhaps they merely remembered the passion of youth and so were more realistic in their thinking – explained procreation to my siblings and me at an early age and without embarrassment. When I was 13 my menstrual cycle began, and they repeated the talk, adding that now I could get pregnant, so any sexual curiosity on my part could have consequences which would last forever.

“I’m never havin’ kids,” I stated with all the loftiness a 13-year-old could muster. “I don’t want kids – I want to do other things.”

“That may be,” my mother shrugged. “But if you don’t want them, then you’ll need to abstain from sex, which is what I hope you’ll do, leastways til you’re old enough to handle it. But I suspect you won’t, so don’t leave it up to the boy to protect you – protect yourself. If you absolutely cannot wait, then come see me, and I’ll get you protected.”

So I went on the Pill at the age of 14, remaining on oral contraceptives until my doctor took me off them at the age of 36 because – as a smoker – my risks of stroke and/or heart attack had increased. From 36 until my liberating hysterectomy at the age of 43, I gritted my teeth and gratefully accepted a Depo Provera injection every three months.

In between the ages of 18 and 43, I had to listen to a variety of often intrusive and insulting remarks about my childless state, including:

only selfish people don’t want kids (has anyone told this to the millions of men who have never married or fathered children?)

God made women to have kids (and does God make the people who have kids abuse them?)

is there something wrong with your fallopian tubes? (no, and there’s nothing wrong with my birth control, either!)

God put you here to have kids (so God talks to you – what does your doctor say about this?)

are you gay? (this from men who were unable to believe that I could reach the age I have without producing at least one rug rat)

who’s gonna take care of you when you get old? (I personally can’t think of a worse reason to have children)

why don’t you adopt? (this from people who assume that I desperately want kids but a medical problem prevents me from having them)

Society treats people with children better. They’re given more time off when children are born or adopted or sick. In the UK, there are special parking places at stores and malls for families with kids, similar to the parking spaces reserved for the handicapped. Also in the UK, people with small children or infants are given preferential treatment on public transport the same way the handicapped and elderly are.

By contrast, society treats childless women as suspect. They assume that all women have maternal feelings, that all women yearn to create life. People in general assume that single and childless people are eager to view other’s snapshots of their children and grandchildren, or to have their working day interrupted by a co-worker who brings the newest addition to their family into the office. An assumption is made that childless single women are self-centered, soulless, emasculating creatures concerned only with their careers. And we’re certainly not deserving of time off, though we work as hard as our counterparts with families, and our taxes help to pay for the schools attended by the children of said counterparts.

Let’s look at some stats:

Currently, there are approximately 513,000 children in foster care in the United States. It's estimated that 114,000 are eligible for adoption.

There are just over 70,000 children and young people looked after on any given day in the UK, almost 50,000 (62.5 per cent) of whom live with 43,000 foster families.

Each week, child protective services agencies throughout the United States receive more than 50,000 reports of suspected child abuse or neglect.

An average of nearly four children die every day as a result of child abuse or neglect.

I could go on, but why bother? Clearly, some of these people who wanted children obviously didn’t want them enough to treat them well. If all the people who had children wanted them, then why is the foster care system straining at the seams – why do I have to look at that horrid commercial for the NSPCC (National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children)? Personally, I find it frightening that you need a license to drive a car, a license to hunt or fish, yet anyone can become a parent, even those people who should never become parents.

And for the record, I don’t hate kids. I have 10 nieces and nephews, 2 great-nieces and 3 great-nephews and am godmother to five children. And I love all these children dearly. I love them as much as I love myself, and I loved myself enough to realize my devotion to other things would detract from motherhood.

So the next time you decide to put down us childless single folks, don’t.

copyright © 2008 KPMCL

blues for the B-boys

stout Sheldon & slender Shelby
(aka “Hardcore” & “Sex Me”)
brothers in blood.
eclectic enigmas symbiotically connected
by the twin children of crack & crime
always doin’ or markin’ time.

& the baby of the bunch
mah nigga Big Bang
his pants always hang
below the crack of his ass
& his voice is strident, like breaking glass.

psychically frail Frederick (aka “Fat Al”)
frowns frightfully,
a front for his fearfulness at
being encircled by communal homicide
always eating, a slow-motion suicide.

from a loneliness that none will admit
they’ve allowed her admittance into their clique
they are both furious & curious:
cuz she can’t be described or classified as a
“bitch” “hoe” or “hood rat”
so they wonder how she escaped that.

& she knows she can’t reach them:
they are not seduced by the syllables of Shelley,
& they are bemused by her belief that
In education lies salvation,
although they all grudgingly agree that
“Etheridge Knight is aw-ight.”

so she subtly tries to teach them
(without seeming to do so)
transforming the essays of Malcolm into rap,
explaining the origins of the dap,
there are trips to the museum & the beach, where,
sadly, she discovers none of them can swim.

they would drown in such deep water
& she cannot tell them they are drowning on dry land
(not while Bang holds that nina in his hand)
so she hides her fears
endlessly plays Tupac’s So Many Tears,
& together they wait for The Man.

copyright © 2007 KPMCL

wasted membranes

i get high on crystal meth;
i get stoned, like a soul picnic,
wasted membranes,
you’re gone
and i’m left with twisted grey matter.

she’s my pusher,
wide open,
and ready for action.
she, her, they.
i know it’s you,
but do you trip like i do,
on the vapor trail?
get busy child, trip like i do.
i’m jaded, i’m faded, i made it
to a place
where darkness veils
when all else fails,
and darkness is the mask
that hides us all.

it’s been three days,
and now, i’m starting over.
there’s high and low
and crystal meth is high
and twisted matter is low.
and i know it’s you, but you
don’t trip like i do.
bound too long,
you know it’s hard, or do you?
you’re wild, sweet and cool,
wide open
and ready for action.

i get high on crystal meth;
i get stoned, like a soul picnic.
i end up with wasted membranes.
and, i know
you’re right,
but I’m left
with twisted grey matter.

This is blackstarr saying "Vive La Renaissance".

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millenium, wasted, crystal, grey, matter

Change: part 2

In 1969, from August 15th through August 18th, the first Woodstock concert took place in Bethel, New York. It was an historic event of magnanimous proportion. I wasn’t there. I was only 17 years old, and Mom said, quite calmly and simply “No”. She would have said “H*ll, no!”, but, she’s not a swearing woman. Years passed, and I became a father. On July 29, 1985, my son was born. I was there. On August 9, 1987, my daughter was born. I was there. On July 2, 2005, Live 8 took place with concerts all around the world, in an effort to convince the major powers of the world to drop or, at the very least, greatly reduce the debt of African nations. One such concert was held here in Philadelphia. I was there, along with my two children, witnessing history once again. Finally, on April 18, 2008, another historic event - another historic event of magnanimous proportion took place, and, again, it was right here in Philadelphia. Sen. Barack Obama spoke at a rally, at Independence Hall . . . and I was there!

“CHANGE!” Did you hear that?! Let me play it for you one more time. “CHANGE!” That’s the sound of nearly 40,000 people shouting “change” all in one huge, unanimous voice. That was the scene this past Friday when I witnessed the voice of the most charismatic person that I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear. There was the warmth of summer-like temperatures. Frisbees were tossed about as if we were back in Haight-Asbury, circa 1968, and there was the seemingly endless chant of “Obama, Obama, Obama!” Music was being piped into the microphones, and the crowd sang along and danced to the tunes that were familiar, but, soon, they grew tired of even the peppiest of tunes. There was but one thing that they had all gathered for – the appearance of Sen. Barack Obama.

We’ve all heard it before. We’ve all listened to it over and over and over. Yet, we never seem to tire of that charismatic voice saying that what this country needs is change. He reminded us that Sen. Hillary Clinton was not above playing the same old political games of kowtowing to big business, and business as usual. He reminded us that the name “John McCain” was just another way of saying “George W. Bush”. He reminded us that he was not willing to let the lobbyists maintain their headlock upon the will of the people. He said more than a mouthful. More than anything else, he reminded us, again, of what this country needs. Not for one second did we ever tire of his trademark call for change.

I missed Woodstock. I really wanted to be there. Four days of wanton freedom and it slipped through my fingers. I was fortunate enough to be present when my children were born, and I was there to witness history in the making, with my children in tow, by attending what could be called “the concert of the millennium”, Live 8. This past Friday, I witnessed history, once again, as I stood among the crowd of nearly 40,000 admirers, and listened with bated breath as the man say “Change”.

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance”.

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Millennium, Barack Obama, change, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, George W. Bush, Live 8, Woodstock

Change: part 1

No matter what accomplishments President Barack Obama should accumulate during his eight years in office, his claim to fame will be one simple word: change. There is a lot of talk about the folly of voting along party lines these days. As I always like to remind everyone, in a presidential election there are only two parties: Republican and Democratic. No matter who else runs, they are the only two that really count. When it’s all said and done, the winner will be either a Republican or a Democrat. It is what it is. That can change in the future if we make the right efforts at the local and state levels, priming a good, viable candidate for office, regardless of their party affiliation. For today, it is what it is – Republican or Democratic. Do you want change or do you want another eight years of no foreseeable way out of poverty for most of America? Do want change or do you want to continue to live in a country that does not care one iota about its citizens’ health? Do you want change or do you want our children, our future, to continue to receive a second-rate education? Do you want change or another few more years of American soldiers dying in yet another war that should not have been in the first place? Are you going to get out there and help us vote in a Democrat? Will you help us to vote in a Democrat who will bring about a change?

I am who I am. No matter what most other folks are into, I can only be me. I’m not into reality TV – not in the least. I’m not down with the touchy-feely philosophies that a lot of people feed into as of late. More importantly, I’m not as “politically correct” as most folks would have me to be. That having been said let me remind you that Barack Obama is a truly charismatic man, that he professes an affinity towards change, and that he claims to be against letting big corporation lobbyists maintain control. Perhaps all of that is true, but only time will tell. Those are all good reasons to cast your vote for Sen. Barack Obama. I will give you one more reason – one more valid reason - for my African-American brothers and sisters to help vote Sen. Barack Obama into office – one for which the “politically correct” folks will probably fry me. Sen. Barack Obama is someone with whom I can identify – he is an African-American. That alone is reason enough for me.

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, new millennium, change, Barack Obama, Democratic, Republican, party lines

u-n-i-t-y

I’m an inveterate collector. Books, CDs, DVDs, earrings, watches, wigs, handbags, shoes, photo frames....you get the picture (apologies for the pun). This forces me to clean my closets twice a year in a vain attempt to make room for those items I’ve ‘collected’ since the last cleaning.

While performing this bi-annual ritual I came upon a long-hidden box. This box made the journey with me six years ago when I moved from the US to the UK. It contained photographs, which I hid because it made me too homesick to look at them. I have long since conquered my homesickness, so I dragged the box down from its corner on the top shelf, and dumped the contents onto my bed.

There were Ma and Daddy. They often fought like cats and dogs, but they loved each other – they had each other’s back. A dog-eared picture of me with my siblings at a long-ago Fourth of July celebration...lined up in birth order, arms around each other, forever entwined. And a photo from a block party of me, my siblings, and the East 148th Street gang (from the days when ‘gang’ meant your friends as opposed to the people you ran around with killin’ other folks): John, Eleanor, Trish, Nina, Eric, David, Stevie, Leonard, Denise, Debbie, PeeWee, Gail, Junior, Donald, and the Jackson twins.

What struck me most about this picture was the way we looked like we belonged to each other. A stranger looking at this photo could see the ties that bound us to one another – our unity was a palpable presence that transcended the celluloid it was captured by.

There is a saying: “it takes a village to raise a child”. This was the creed which I, my family and everyone I grew up with lived by and adhered to. We looked out for one another. We took care of each other. When Mrs. Hawkins found me behind the garage smokin’ weed with her kids, she didn’t just whip them, she whipped me as well, then phoned my mother and told her, “I just found Katherine behind the garage smokin’ that funny shit with Edgar ‘n them ‘n I beat all their asses.” My mom would say “thank you Jean” – and when I got home, I got another whippin’. When Mrs. Barbara died suddenly and Mr. Barbara fell into a depression so profound he couldn’t even speak, everyone on the block took care of him: he was fed, his house was cleaned, his grass was cut, and the men of the neighbourhood held him when he cried.

Sadly, some where between the time of my childhood and the time I reached adulthood, that sense of unity disappeared in the black community. No longer did neighbours look out for one another. The extended family – indeed, the black family – crumbled and fell apart, decimated by the demons of divorce and drugs, crack and crime.

Beautiful black people - my people - we need to get that unity back. It’s not an impossible task; our history is filled with kings and queens, princes and poets, idealists and inventors. Our history resonates with the words of men and women who had high hopes and dreams for our collective future, people like Phyllis Wheatley, Frederick Douglass, James Baldwin, Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, Maya Angelou, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King.

Barack Obama is a man who sees the need not just for blacks to re-discover that unity, but for a nation to discover and embrace unity.

One of my Stateside friends sent me the email below:

Why is it that a black man can create a tiny piece called a filament (the electric light, Lewis Latimer) that allows people to see in the dark? Yet he is not seen as fit to lead a country to the light. Why is it that a black man can create an instrument (the clock, Benjamin Banneker) that all people use to tell time? Yet people don't think it is time for him to run a country. Why is it that a Black Man can design a place for the authorities to meet in (Washington DC, Pierre L'Enfant) and a place for the President to live in (the White House, Phillip Reid)? Yet he is not good enough to lead these meetings or live in this building himself. Why is it that a black man was brilliant enough to do the first open heart surgery (Dr. Daniel Hale Williams) and show the world how to get and preserve plasma (Dr. Charles Drew)? Yet he is not good enough to put a program in place where everyone can afford this surgery. Why is it that a black man was creative enough to design an instrument (the traffic light, Garrett Morgan) to bring multiple people and vehicles to a halt? Yet he is not seen as creative enough to design a plan to bring all this unnecessary and worthless fighting between countries to an end. Why is it that a black man could create the soles (for shoes, Jan Matzeliger) that people walk on everyday? Yet he is not seen as good enough to fill the shoes of a bad president. Why is it that a black man was smart enough and brave enough to teach himself (Fredrick Douglas & Thomas Fuller, both slaves) and others how to read, write and calculate math? Yet he is not seen as smart enough and bold enough to calculate a platform to be President to a country.

My Brothers and Sisters, what I am saying is let us not forget our past, which led us to our present and can definitely be the backbone to our future. We were good enough, smart enough, creative enough, and bold enough then, so let’s give Obama the chance to show that we are still these things and more. We all are as strong as our weakest link, so don't be that weak link that denies our people that chance to show we still can overcome.

To put it simply, it’s called UNITY.

Y’all know what you need to do.

copyright © 2008 KPMCL

Dark Army

just before the sun goes down
just before dark
with shades of black & brown
just before the sun sinks into its hole
come the voices of those that have no soul

voices of violence
from the past
voices of nightmares
determined to last
voices of terror
despairing in the dark
voices of insanity
at its most stark

just before the shadows fall
just before dark
when the ghosts come through the wall
just before the clouds bleed red
come the voices of the dead

copyright © 2008 KPMCL

What have you heard, lately?

My people are just destroying the English language, bit, by bit, by bit. Yes – my people: my Black people and my Caucasian people. I’m not so sure about my Hispanic and Asian people, because half the time I have no idea what they're saying. More on them later.

My Black people - wow! Usually, I am lambasting the younger generation for the way they speak. They kinda get a pass today. I’m not talking about “Ebonics”. Ebonics have flavor - wrong - but, they have flavor. My thoughts about language, today, span every generation.

My Black people do not use “Mayflower”. They have to do it themselves, so when they move, they go out and rent a “U-Haul-It” truck. Come on, people! If they have a letter or package that needs to be somewhere quickly, they use “Partial Post”. What? I remember my childhood and playtime after school. We would come down the steps at the front of the house, and after we hit the last one at the bottom, we were standing on the “palement”. O – M – G! Directly opposite was another “palement” and in between the two was a “skreet”. By summer’s end, inevitably, a ball has gotten away from our grips and fallen into the “zooey hole”. Of course, when we got back in the house we would wash our hands in the “zinc”. Goodness gracious! What always happens when my Black people have a few extra dollars in their pockets? We order some “swimps”. Yes- I’m talking about the little curled up seafood that has the head off and the tail still attached – swimps.

Like most of America, Pennsylvania, at one point, was inhabited by the American Indians. Their tribal names are in use today all over the state as County names, City names, and street names. In Philadelphia, you will find just about every one: Dauphin, Susquehanna, Chamonix (pronounced “sha moe knee”), Wissahickon (pronounced “wis a hickken”), and Schuylkill. Schuylkill (pronounced “skoo kill”) is not (to my knowledge) a tribal name, but, I had to throw that one in because of the spelling, and because it appears everywhere. Now, take a moment to review those names and look at those weird spellings. Which one do you think my Black people have the most trouble with? Believe it or not, as difficult as those words look, most people in Philadelphia have no trouble with their pronunciation. Instead, my Black people have a big problem with “Hunting Park Avenue”!! You see, “Hunting Park” obviously refers to a place where the Indians once hunted, and is often confused with another street named “Huntingdon Street”. Invariably, my Black people will say “Huntingdon Park Avenue” - every time! There IS no “Huntingdon Park Avenue”, people! It’s “Hunting Park Avenue”!! Get it right! Across town, there is an avenue by the name of “Haverford Avenue”. Again – invariably – my Black people will say “Halford Avenue”. What the humina humina? Please tell me how “Haverford” progressed over the years to “Halford”. But, hey, that’s my Black people and their own sense of language. Gotta love ‘em.

OK. Let’s move on to my other people – my Caucasian people. Our football team is “The Eagles”, but leave it to my people, my Caucasian people, to give it their own spin – “The Iggles”! Yes, that’s their very own personal pronunciation. We have a section in the city called “Kensington”, which is a poor, Caucasian, working class neighborhood. In South Philly, we have an Italian neighborhood. My Caucasian people from both neighborhoods have the distinct and erroneous manner of saying “I bet ya”. No – I’m not talking about making a wager. That’s their way of saying that they got there first. You know what I mean - the word that really should be “beat”, as in “I beat you”. What? “Bet” is not a replacement for “beat”! But, that’s my people, my Caucasian people. Gotta love ‘em, too.

I grew up with an Asian guy and an Hispanic guy. I guess with all of this “political correctness”, I should say “Puerto Rican” guy, as he hails from the island of Puerto Rico. Both he and the Asian friend have been in this country for at least thirty years or more, by now, but for the life of me, I still can’t understand a word they’re saying. Their accents are so thick that you can cut them with a knife. They may be using proper grammar and vocabulary, for all I know. Perhaps they are cussing me out for something that I agreed to a long time ago on which I never followed through. After all, all that I’ve ever done while in the midst of conversation with either of them was nod my head, as if to say “I understand”, when I really didn’t. It keeps the conversation moving and gets it over with. I still have no clue as to what words come forth from their mouths.

Well, there you have it. That’s my people. My Black people, my Caucasian people, my Asian people, and my, er . . . my Puerto Rican people. No matter how they choose to say the words . . . you gotta love ‘em.

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance”.

copyright © 2008 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, New Renaissance, Millennium, New Millennium, have you heard, Wissahickon, Chamonix, Dauphin, Susquehanna, Schuylkill, language, U Haul, Parcel Post, my people

The Harlem Renaissance: Part 2 of 5

One of the most well-known writers to come out of the Harlem Renaissance was Langston Hughes (1906-1967). His father disapproved of his choice of careers (writing), and suggested that he take up engineering. Hughes enrolled at Columbia University. Although he maintained a B+ average, he dropped out after a short time. In 1923, he took a stewardship aboard a freighter bound for Africa. He soon found himself in Italy. Shortly thereafter, he spent time in Washington, D.C, but by 1926, he returned to Harlem which he loved so much. Whether his time was in D.C. or in Harlem, he spent a great deal of time in cafes and clubs, listening to Jazz and Blues. It was those very places where much of his famed works were conceived, including “Weary Blues” (1926).

Normally, one writes, gets recognized, and then goes on to fame. At some point, one of his/her works becomes renown, usually a later work. Ironically, one of Langston Hughes’ most famous poems ever was his first published poem, “The Negro Speaks of Rivers”. My personal favorite, not just of Hughes, but of all time and of all poems is “I, Too, Sing America”, penned in 1925. Although he was an icon of the Harlem Renaissance period, he continued his writing well into the 60’s, up until his death in 1967. One such writing was “Harlem”, written in 1951. Most of us know the poem by the question posed in its first line “What happens to a dream deferred?” That very line went on to become the muse for Lorraine Hansberry’s play “A Raisin in the Sun”, which became the first Broadway play by an African-American female.

During his rise to fame, while in Harlem, he became friends with and partied with the likes of Zora Neale Hurston, Countee Cullen, and Carl Van Vechten. Two of his closest relationships were with Arna Bontemps and Jean Toomer. It was in 1926 when he met Zora Neale Hurston. After about a year of friendship, he accompanied her throughout the South on her famed quest for folklore. Although the two collaborated on the play “Mule Bone”, they had a falling-out and the play was neither published nor produced until 1991. Carl Van Vechten coaxed Hughes to align himself with Alfred A Knopf Publishing, who published “Weary Blues”. Many would say that there were other writers who were more prominent during the Harlem Renaissance than Langston Hughes, but, this writer would beg to differ. Nevertheless, his name invokes the ideal of “poet supreme”, and conjures up images of life in Harlem like no other. What makes him even more endeared to me is that although the years may be different, we share the same birthday, February 1st. Hughes finally attended Lincoln University, in Pennsylvania in 1929, where he received his bachelor degree.

Langston Hughes died of cancer on May 22, 1967. His home at 20 E. 127^th St, in Harlem, was declared a landmark.

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance”.

(more blackstarr at "the wordsmith's alley")

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

Langston Hughes, Harlem Renaissance, New Millennium, poetry, Renaissance, New Reanaissance, Millennium, New Millennium

Guest Contributor: Lavender Rain

The World In Black And White . . .

Racism is still alive and thriving - oh not blatantly as it once did, but quietly, humorously, and at times, it runs unobtrusively. Remarks, images and jokes that seem to be nothing to one group, affect another with an all too familiar, devastating sting that evokes deep feelings that don’t disappear or vanish with the turning of a cheek or a change of venue. Do we simply assume that they don’t get it and that we do, or have we merely decided that we bear no responsibility for our forefathers or for the history that we did not write?

I have not lived what many others have experienced; I did not grow up with a family heritage of fear and segregation, or unworthiness. I can only imagine how I might feel if my family roots were in slavery, fear-based in degradation and disposability. We take education and the joy of success for granted. However, not all have had those choices throughout the years. We can blame history and our forefathers. However, the legacy of demeaning others leaves scars lasting throughout ages, on many sides. Humanity does not heal as quickly as the wounds were inflicted. It takes generations to finally believe and trust again, and some will never surpass the wounds, and others continue to hate.

We live under the colorful umbrella of one race, the human race that comes in a variety of colors and ethnicities!

We all bleed red, we all break, and we all come from history, teachings, and concepts that differ, as do our defining moments. We all carry labels, accepted or not. However, we are not all racially profiled or looked at with disdain for simply being who we are. Not all of us have had to live those moments or had to carry the labels of responsibility for an entire group because of others' errors or simply because of our color or ethnicity.

We can rewrite the legacy we leave with caring, compassion and understanding, or we can remain stagnant and angry in this divide. All groups must work towards a common goal of understanding, losing attitudes deeply ingrained by either side or by different religious convictions. It starts with each one of us moving forward in truth and dropping labels. There are wonderful examples of change in each group. Listen and learn from them.

Barack Obama gave a wonderful speech on racism. The transcript can be found here. His understanding of multiculturalism and the scars of racism remind me of a great Canadian - the Late Right Honorable Pierre Elliott Trudeau. He made us believe in ourselves as Canadians and that we can be greater than we imagined if we believed in multiculturalism; and to find peace in all people, even if they are different. We all had the freedom and rights to express ourselves. We learned to dream not an impossible dream but an achievable dream, so in 1982 he signed into law The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms found here. It has been an example used around the world and something that many here have taken to heart - a mantra to live by.

We as individuals all have rights and freedoms to express ourselves. They include gender, color, creed or religion, and we can not discriminate against others. We must be accepting and tolerant of the diversity of others if we are to have a peaceful and “just society” for all.

History shows our errors. Our heroes teach us there is a better way for peace and respect for all. It is up to us to learn and seek change within ourselves, for ourselves and for humanity . . .

We must be the change we wish to see in the world – Mahatma Gandhi

copyright © 2008 BDE

lanerain@hotmail.com

Tranquility and Lavender Rain

multiculturalism, racism, responsibility, segregation, history, ethnicity, Canada, Barack Obama, Trudeau

Rwanda

While we’re getting set up, chew on this.

5/15/2007

Rwanda

Technorati tags:

No matter how long it's been, no matter how long it gets to be, one must never forget the Holocaust. For one-hundred - no - not that Holocaust. I am referring to the small east African nation of Rwanda. For one-hundred days, during 1994, approximately 800,000 Rwandans were slaughtered, butchered, if you will, by the majority ethnic group, the Hutus. Of the 800,000 killed, about 50,000 were moderate Hutus and Tutsi sympathizers. The remainder of the 800,000 were Tutsi. To understand the situation, I will provide a very short, very abridged history.

Prior to 1994, the ruling government, or occupying force, was Germany. They placed the Tutsis in a position of higher status than the Hutus because the Tutsis had more prominent European features. The Germans left and Belgium took over. The Belgians continued the separation of the Tutsis and Hutus by issuing national identity cards, which declared each citizens ethnic heritage. By the 1950's the Tutsis were seeking their independence, and the Belgians began to switch the high status to the Hutus, as they felt they were less civilized and easier to control. In 1959, ethnic clashes broke out, and the Belgians allowed the Hutus to burn down Tutsi houses with no interference. After two weeks, 300 were dead. Ironically, the majority of those arrested by the Belgians were Tutsi. This internal fighting continued until, finally, the Hutus were in total command. By 1961, the Belgians had allowed the Hutus to engineer a 'legal' coup, thus declaring their independence. Then, in July of 1973, Major-General Juv‚nal Habyarimana, a Hutu, took over governance in a bloodless coup. He asserted, falsely, that he would allow the Tutsis to remain in virtual peace, as long as they did not get involved with politics.

Fast-forward to April 6, 1994. General Habyarimana was returning to Rwanda, by plane, when the plane was shot down, killing everyone on board. No one person or group was blamed for the downing of the plane, but it is almost certain that it was the work of the Hutus, who were convinced that General Habyarimana was beginning to give in to international pressure. Others say that the Hutus were simply willing to sacrifice the general to incite the population. An hour after the plane was downed, roadblocks were set up, and the hunt was on for those whose names were on a pre-prepared list of moderate Hutus, slated for execution. At that point, the Hutus went after every Tutsi in the country, slaughtering them with automatic weapons, machetes and farm tools. The final outcome: 750,000 Tutsis dead and 50,000 Hutus. Rwandan Tutsi refugees (in Uganda) had formed the RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Front) back in 1985, and by now, had finally gathered up enough power to overcome the ruling Hutus in Rwanda by the end of the one-hundred days. By then, the damage was done.

Today, those acts have been condemned as pure and simple genocide. That term, genocide, only came into play after the Tutsi rebels had finally gained control, and put an end to the violence. During the time that the genocide was taking place, the international community was particularly careful not to call it 'genocide'. Some of the most blatant efforts to carry out such a denial were perpetrated by the United States. No politician, no part of the media, and no diplomats were to ever refer to the violence as 'genocide'. The senseless killings were referred to as 'acts of genocide' and 'ethnic in-fighting'. It was never to be referred to as 'genocide'. That would mean that, as a super power, the United States, or any other world power, would be obligated to step in. As it stands, Rwanda was left to all but perish. The UN Security Council voted unanimously to abandon Rwanda, finally pulling out the remainder of its peace-keeping troops.


In 1994, for one-hundred days, a wholesale slaughtering of human lives took place in the small east African nation of Rwanda, leaving 800,000 people dead. No one stepped in. No one even recognized it for what it was - genocide. No matter how long it has been, no matter how long it gets to be, one must never forget the Holocaust.

This is blackstarr saying “Vive La Renaissance”.

Blackstarr52@gmail.com

Rwanda, Hutus, Tutsi, rebels, 1994, Habyarimana, 80000, genocide, ethnic cleansing, murder rate, homicides, RPF, Uganda, holocaust, media manipulation, ethnic in-fighting, civil war

Oreo

I was going to post a poem, but after reading blackstarr’s insightful article on "Celebrities & Racism", I decided to take what he’d written a step further.

I am one of those so-called “mutts.” Like blackstarr, I grew up in ‘da hood’ and while I was never called a “mutt,” I was referred to frequently as “a mongrel”; in junior high I was nicknamed “Lite-Brite”. But most often I was referred to as “Oreo”.

My life has been defined by race since I can remember. My mother is white and West Indian; my father (now deceased) was black. My maternal grandmother was white, my maternal grandfather West Indian. My paternal grandparents were both black.

Given the fact that my father hated white people, it is amazing that he married my mother. I am sure lust played a part here, as my mother (now 72) was a stunningly beautiful woman in her youth. My parents married during a time when miscegenation was illegal in 16 states. Of my siblings - one brother and two sisters - I am the only one who took my mother's fair coloring. If you’ve seen Spike Lee's film School Daze, that pretty much sums up my life: people either liked me because I was light-skinned, or they reviled me for the same reason. Needless to say, this made life difficult on both sides of the fence I had to learn to straddle as the result of my parents' love for each other.

Despite my father’s hatred of Caucasians, he and my mother raised us to treat people the way we would want to be treated, regardless of their race, ethnicity, gender, disability, religious beliefs, socio-economic status or sexual proclivities. I took them at their word: my friends were white, black, Mexican, Italian, gay, Catholic, Jewish...a vast and diverse group that I took pride in being a part of; we referred to ourselves as “The Rainbow Tribe.” However, this was not seen as “cool” during the “say-it-loud-I’m-black-and-I’m-proud” era I came of age in. So I took a lot of ass-whuppin’s during the years I was held in thrall to public education.

My siblings - and the few black friends I had who remained loyal – did not understand why I felt the need to have friends outside my race. “What you wanna hang around dem honkies (or spics or wops or kikes or fags) for?” I was constantly asked. I was accused of trying to be ‘better’ than my peers. I was called “white girl” and “wannabe”.

No one was interested in my reason, which was simple: it was because they were different that I liked them. I have always had a curious nature, and I realized at an early age that I could learn from those who were different – we could learn from each other.

I grew old with the Rainbow Tribe. We got our asses whupped for and on behalf of each other. We attended each other’s weddings, bought presents at the births of each other’s children, commiserated with one another as some marriages hit those fabled rocks, and sometimes we cried together as our parents aged and began to die. Our lives may have traveled divergent paths, but the path that led to the heart of those friendships remains straight and steadfast, and our various colors has had nothing to do with it. Personally, I think the world would be much better off if we could leave color where it belongs: in a box of crayons.

Time for my Oreos and milk.

copyright © 2008 KPMCL


Oreos, mongrel, mutt, race, miscegenation, rainbow