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