may 19th

The Last Poets (left to right: abiodun oyewole, don babatunde eaton, umar bin hassan)

Today, on what would have been Malcolm X's 83rd birthday, we celebrate his legacy and two groups founded on his birth date. Today marks the 40th anniversary of the legendary Last Poets, and the sixth anniversary of the 3rd Eye Open Poetry Collective. Malcolm has been gone for years now, yet his influence continues to be reborn in voices that inspire us all. Malcolm X lives. One luv.

3rd Eye Open (lower right to left: hardCore, dj slo poke, miss reyonna, righteous knowledge allah, omari king wise, khalid el hakim, tiffanni)

happy mother's day

"A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie." - teneva jordan

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up from a very intense nightmare sweating and screaming. I must of eaten too late, something I rarely do. Anyway, in that moment when I woke up startled, I sounded like a five year old kid screaming out one of the world's most famous words. "Mommaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa." After I got my bearings, I quickly started smiling. I found it odd, here I am a 35 year old man, six foot two, 225 pounds; yet who do I scream for in a subconscious moment of terror? Momma.

Mom, momma, mi-ma, my dear, whatever you call your mother, she stays with you. She is the standard bearer. No one's touch is as welcoming, no one's voice is as comforting. You could eat the food of a well renowned chef and you'd still walk away thinking, "that was good, but not as good as momma's". The attributes by which a man search for a woman are derived directly from mom. The woman young girls want to be is typically the woman their mother is. And even with those who have had strained relationships with their mothers, the connection to the best of who their mother is is undeniable.

My favorite mom story happened one Christmas, I think I was ten years old. One of my Christmas gifts was a pair of navy blue corduroy pants. When I tried them on, they fit perfect in the waist, but were a little long. In my eyes, they looked like bell bottoms. My mom quickly calmed my uneasiness about the length, being the sewing machine whiz that she is, she promised to hem them up when she had time. Well, I guess she was one busy woman, cause when Christmas break ended, my pants still weren't hemmed. MInd you, this was January 1893, when Michael Jackson had people wearing pants borderline high water, so my sense of style was definitely a bit tainted. As I laid my clothes out to go to school, she ducked her head in my room. I had my brand new sweater laid out on the bed with a pair of my favorite old jeans. "You're a mess, don't wear them old jeans with your sweater, wear your new corduroys", she calmly said. I huffed and puffed, "but you ain't hem them yet, they look like bell bottoms". In typical black mother fashion she quickly snapped back, "you wearing them". And that was that. As I got dressed, I could hear the voices of the kids who were going to tease me all day long, and it saddened me. What did my little conniving butt do? I snuck out the side door of the house and put my jeans on the side of the house. As I walked out the door to walk to school, my parents drove by me and waved as they left for work. The minute the car turned the corner, I ran back to the side of the house and put my jeans on. What did I do with my good pants? Instead of taking them back inside, I proceeded to quickly stuff them in a bush. Yeah, a real Theodore Cleaver move, I know.

Anyway, I had a great day at school, I'm walking home, and suddenly I see my mother's car go driving by and she hits the horn. I froze. "Uh oh". Then I took off running, trying to get to the side of the house to put my corduroys back on. Too late, she had already seen me. As I got to the house, she was standing in the driveway fuming. She stared at my jeans and asked where were the pants that I had been told to wear. That's when I pointed to a bush on the side of the house. She looked very confused. Then I proceeded to dig inside a bush and pull out my brand new pants. Ohhhhhh, the ass whuppin that followed. Now I know you're wondering, out of all the beautiful moments I've had with my mother, why would I pick that one? Well, that moment was one of many defining moments when my mom said literally or with her actions, "I'm your momma, not your friend". See, people fall out and lose respect for friends all the time. Friends come and go. None of that is even an option with your momma. Your momma just is, whether you like it or not. Her presence is concrete, not plexiglass. So I'm glad she made the choice to be my momma and not my friend. I respect and love her for that.

Besides knowing when to be stern, she has also known when to show compassion, give guidance, show support, inspire, comfort, and share wisdom, all while showing unwavering love. By the way, I ended up having to wear those long ass pants the very next day. And yes, I was teased profusely. But believe me, the teasing in no way compared to the hurt and disappointment I felt by pissing off my momma.

The distance between child and parent never changes, no matter how old, educated, or rich you become. Mom is and always will be Mom. So on this day when we celebrate moms and motherhood, take a moment to show some love to the mother you have, reflect on the mom you had, or contemplate the kind of mom you or someone you love hopes to be. The future of the world lies in the hands of our children, and the strong, nurturing, deeply influential women that will bring them into this world. Thank you Moms. Happy Mother's Day. One luv.

the first family

"I don't know what the future may hold, but I know who holds the future." - ralph abernathy

With all the talk about the possibility of the first black president, I'm reminded and equally excited about the prospect of the First Family being black. The black community has never had that high profile black family we could point to as the model of success. Sure, we've had an endless list of individual heroes, with dysfunctional or very private family lives. We've even had power couples like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee, who endured over time, serving as heroes for black love. But we never really got to know their family. So when we begin to have the black family discussion, the list of black families we all know and love quickly grows anemic.

The most celebrated black families of all time weren't even real people, they were fictional characters. The black family discussion over the past twenty years always seems to start and end with the Evans family from the tv show "Goodtimes", and the Cosby family from the hit sitcom, "The Cosby Show". In the Evans household, the black family experience was framed by struggle, something we can all relate to, whereas the Cosby's blackness was framed by the realization of success, which we all aspire to achieve. No matter who you are or what your background is, chances are your black family experience, or notion of one, resides somewhere between the Evans/Cosby spectrum. For some reason, our real black families haven't achieved that universal black acceptance. The King family could have had that, but it's hard to celebrate a family we remember more for their loss, than what they represented to black America. The Jackson family probably comes closest. Few families have been as high profile and achieved the amount of success they have. However, no matter how many hits you give us, there's only so many nose jobs, LaToya Jackson tell all books, and Michael Jackson pedophile cases black folk can take before you quickly fall from hero status to freak show. Therefore, in 2008, the void for that high profile black family we all can celebrate still remains.

"...you can’t love yourself unless you know that somebody that looks like you has done something good." - ophelia devore-mitchell

I was extremely lucky as a kid. Not only did I have both parents, I was surrounded by people, aunts, uncles, and friends of the family, whose black family unit resembled mine. Father, mother, kids, all under one roof. I saw complete black families all the time, but I was the exception. The average black kid grows up without his father living in the home, and most of their friends find themselves in a similar predicament. Thanks to the resiliency of black women, many have grown up to thrive and prosper, despite not having their fathers around. However, when I talk to my friends who grew up without one of their parents, they always talk about longing for that part of the equation they missed in childhood. There are certain lessons about family and black love that you only get by seeing up close, as it plays out daily in front of you. Unfortunately, it's not being played out in front of enough of our kids. So as the black family unit continues to erode, so do the lessons of how to maintain one.

One truly can't measure the impact seeing a black First Family day in and day out would have on black America. My first grade teacher used to tell us we could be anything we wanted to be, "even the president of these United States of America". Did we believe her? Nah, not really. I was more inclined to believe I could be a great boxer, cause there was a picture of Ali on the wall. I could be a Supreme Court judge, cause there was a picture of Thurgood Marshall on the wall. I could be O.J. Simpson, Barbara Jordan, Richard Wright, or Dr. Charles Drew, cause I could see the face to match the accomplishment every single day on the wall at school. But no where did I see a Black president. The Obama family in the White House, would provide an entire generation with a living example of what they could be. And not just president. The mere image of this illustrious family on the White House lawn would provide kids with a different set of ideals. Not only can I be something, I can also have something (a family).

Besides seeing the First Family on the cover of Ebony magazine, we'd see them on the cover of ALL the magazines. Always beautiful, always looking strong, healthy, and happy, like all black families should. We'd get to see their electric smiles as they walked with their dog, waving at cameras, just before stepping onto a helicopter for a family get away at Cape Canaveral. MIchelle would take up causes, and we'd see her in commercials, showing empathy for the problems that plague the world. We'd see the kids running from a limo as they entered their schools, or in candid behind the scene photos in some kind of New York Times profile. We'd marvel at how quickly our young kids began to learn their kids names. We'd see our First Family side by side with the first families of other great nations. And in the midst of all that we saw, we'd begin to feel a certain sense of pride. Somewhere in our minds, there'd be a wall with a picture of the Obama family, and it'd mean something to us. It'd mean the black family had ambassadors, the most powerful in the world. And suddenly, their image would be just as influential if not more, than the image of the philandering entertainer on MTV cribs had ever been.

I'm sure the image of a black president would help to kill stereotypes about black men. And a black first lady will most likely improve the visibility of black women in corporate America, as well as in Hollywood. But the real opportunity is to inspire and sell a new generation on the importance of the black family. We can be excellent. We can be rich. And like my first grade teacher used to say, we can be anything we want to be. But no longer do we have to do it alone. Thanks to the Obama's, hopefully we'll be reminded, we can do it, as a family. One luv.

moment of silence

R.I.P. Milton "Milleon" Donelson

(local Detroit open mic poet, friend)

Some people in life were sent to make us stop for a second and take notice. They demand us to see the world differently, to look beyond, and within. They challenge us. They fill rooms with an energy that warms us in places long cold. They remind us, we don't need microphones to amplify our presence. Every day they teach us, real courage speaks eloquently, silently yet loud. Milleon Donelson was one of those people.

In the many years we crossed paths with him on the Detroit poetry scene, he always approached each day with a comedic grin. Whether he was vibrant and healthy, or slow and ailing, he smiled. He dared to dream, and constantly reminded us of the power of words. One moment he'd be waxing poetic about "cuties with big booties" the next he'd be sharing his concerns for the community. But he always spoke to you one way. Shoulders back, head high, chin raised. That's how we'll remember him, as the courageous soul that he was.

Our deepest condolences to the Donelson family.

Milleon, our friend, you will not be forgotten.

- 3rd Eye Open Poetry Collective

am i my brotha's keeper?

“I believe in the brotherhood of all men, but I don't believe in wasting brotherhood on anyone who doesn't want to practice it with me. Brotherhood is a two-way street.” - Malcolm X

One of my closest boys, my brotha, prides himself on keeping it real. Real for him is saying whatever, whenever, in whatever loud ghetto ass way he chooses to say it. His ability to disrupt the room with wild outrageous outbursts empowers him. It's his way of owning the room, and making sure the attention never drifts too far way from him. Amongst select company, or when we're kicking it around the crib, those antics are generally considered funny. We all know how he is, we accept it, we enjoy it.

Then there are other times. Say there's a huge get together at the house. Suddenly the range of people isn't just the fellas anymore. It's family members, elders, small children, religious folk, quiet people, loud people, those who cuss and drink, and those who look down on those who do. In this situation, my friend tends to polarize the room. The loud over the top loose lipped comments tend to not go over so well with the religious minded or the parents of small kids in the room. When they become agitated, I become agitated.

Enter me, the host, the guy who has to keep everyone in the room comfortable. In situations like this, my loyalty is to the collective, not the individual. So my first comment to my brotha is always very friendly. "You tripping son, chill out, you see all these kids around here". I laugh it off and go about my business. You tend to give your brotha the benefit of the doubt the first couple of times. But when people I enjoy, start grabbing their coats heading for the door, cause ONE brotha can't constrain himself, it's not time for them to go home. It's time for my BROTHA to go home. You see, part of being a brotha is about respecting your brotha enough to make sure he's successful, at any and everything he does. So although your personal mantra is to always "keep it real", at his party, you recognize the situation for what it is, and you show constraint. And if you're ever to visit your brotha's job, where he makes his money, instead of showing your ass, you show constraint. Because being a brotha isn't just about supporting me, it's about not sabotaging me. It's not a selfish act, it's selfless, and often requires sacrifice. It often requires the kind of sacrifice Reverend Jeremiah Wright just wasn't willing to make for Barack Obama.

"Yesterday I think he caricatured himself… That made me angry, but also made me sad." - sen. barack obama (speaking on rev. jeremiah wright's press conference)

According to people I know in Chicago, although Rev. Jeremiah Wright prayed for Sen. Barack Obama and his family upon him making the decision to run for president, he was not in Springfield when Barack made the announcement. Why? Supposedly, he was uninvited. Word is, Reverend Wright has felt slighted ever since. I can understand the kind of personal jolt of disappointment that comes with being asked NOT to be a part of something. But then, I also expect a man of Rev. Wright's experience, and knowledge of black history to understand the BIGGER picture. As an elder in the tradition, you can't discount his struggle or his right to speak his mind. He owes Barack Obama nothing. But he does owe the black collective everything, including the chance to seize the moment and in some way validate all those years of struggle. We aren't here to run for president, just to run this time. We're here to win, and there's a way you have to go about that.

As a black man, I understand that wanting Barack to win means he can't lead with the black issue. It means he has to frame race in an inclusive national conversation that doesn't alienate his huge pool of much needed white voters. It means Barack has to mean all things to all people, therefore, he can't JUST mean what we need him to mean to blacks. With that understanding comes the trust, that although Barack has to show duality, he won't lose sight of our issues. And although he can't speak out against America the way we can, he does understand where we're coming from, and is dedicated to doing something about it. Black people know and have accepted this paradox. We also know and understand that Rev. Wright has the right to speak out publicly, the way we do privately. But not at the expense of our brotha. And after all the turmoil the "chickens coming home to roost" comments caused, comments Sen. Obama denounced but seemed to give Rev. Wright the benefit of the doubt for, Wright's decision to go public for three days, can only be described with one word. Sabotage.

It would appear there is a huge ploy set in motion to keep the black community split, to keep our attention off REAL ISSUES, while we take sides as to which of our brothas we'll support. I refuse to choose. Rev. Wright is our brotha. I can even say I tend to agree with about 80% of the things he says. In the context of race, American has failed black people from its inception. And as blacks, we should never lose sight of this. And until America stops failing us, we should continue to speak out, lash out, and make sure America is held accountable. We also must keep our eyes on the prize.

Sen. Barack Obama is our brotha too. And never have we had a man who truly understands our culture, and our issues, so close to becoming the president. It's a once in a lifetime chance and we cannot afford to let this opportunity pass us by. Sen. Obama has infused energy into a new generation because he's not bringing the baggage of the civil rights era, so his message seems fresh, and isn't disregarded as antiquated. He's also not leading with the kind of militant rants that disenfranchise white voters. So he's embraced, even in places like Idaho. It appears Barack is a new species of black leader, one that has the support of a lot of different people, yet still needs the support of us.

Barack's campaign is far more diverse than any party I've ever thrown. And as the host, his loyalty is and should be to the collective, not the individual. It's crunch time, and the longer Rev. Wright hangs around, the more people we'll see grabbing their coats and heading for the door. So sorry Rev. Wright, my brotha, love you like a play cousin on my momma's side. But much like my boy who gets drunk and talks too much sh*t at the party, your ass has got to go too. One luv.

question 4 the day

"a riot is the language of the unheard" - MLK

SO WHY DIDN'T NYC RIOT?

for whom the bell tolls

(the late Sean Bell, pictured with family, was unarmed when shot 50 times by three NYPD cops, yet those three officers were acquitted of the shooting)

"O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do!" - william shakespeare

They've always done it. They did it at Jackson State. They did it to Deandre Brunston. They did it to Amidou Diallo. They did it to people whose names we will never know. And now they have done it to Sean Bell. THEY SHOT HIM. PUT ON ANOTHER BULLSHIT TRIAL. AND ACQUITTED ANOTHER GROUP OF OVER EARNEST POLICE OFFICERS. (Let's not even talk about those who call themselves prosecutors) This story is so familiar and so repetitive, it's damn near ordinary. The names even run together after awhile. Sean Bell? Don't you mean Ron Pettaway III? Oh, you mean Patrick M. Dorismond? It's deja vu to the ultimate extreme. The NYPD and the court system have failed us yet again. Yet, I'll be damned if it doesn't garner the same response from me each time. Hurt, frustration, infuriation.

What did Sean Bell really do that was so wrong? He went out the night before he was to be married. He went club and bar hopping. He got drunk. He started talking sh*t to some other drunk guy. And he left. That's an American birth right. Don't believe me? Go to any bar anywhere in the country tonight and you'll find thousands of Sean Bells. Matter of fact, go to any sporting event, any concert, any place where tons of people gather and you'll find a Sean Bell. Sean Bell, by his actions the night of his death, measured against American norms, was being ordinary. So why does this ordinary American's story end tragically at the hands of police, when so many others like him don't?

The crime element of these United States has been reduced to but one face, the face of the black male. My face. My father's face. My uncles'/cousins'/best friends' face. Put that face in a rural setting, or suburban setting and he MAY fall through the cracks. But put that face in an urban center, and he becomes the focus of police attention. Over zealous cops, some scared, some racist, some both, continue to shoot unarmed black men in this country at an extremely alarming rate. Not just that, but they are getting away with it in the name of James Crow Jr.'s so called preventative crime tactics. It doesn't take being play cousins with a rocket scientist to realize the plight at hand. But it might to understand why we aren't doing anything about it.

Nationally, black men aged 15-29 die at a higher rate than any other age group except men 85 years of age and older. Yet there is no outcry. No preventative measures are being taken by the government to decrease this staggering mortality rate. Sadder still, our own people don't even seem to care. Unfortunately, this is not one of those issues where you can just worry about raising your kids. You better be worrying about who is or isn't raising the next man's kids as well. Raising your young black son well is not good enough. Do that and he might almost grow up to be someone. Almost. It's not good enough to hope he'll learn to navigate his neighborhood well enough to become a man. It's not good enough to hope he'll find a good women to marry. Because even if he does all that, you still have to worry. You still have to worry that the night before he's to be married, the very men paid to protect him, won't be the one's gunning him down.

"we accept the reality of the world with which we're presented" - (from the movie The Truman Show)

I believe in the power of the written word and the spoken word. I also believe in the power of the fist, the rock, the match, and the gun. All their power is derived from us. Our bravery or lack there of, determines what can or can't be considered a weapon. Well collectively we may as well be weaponless, because we aren't fighting back. Hell, we ain't even making any noise. Voices ain't screaming. Pens ain't yelling. Rocks and fist ain't being thrown. And as many guns as we have plaguing our community, not one has been fired to bring attention to the situation at hand. Not only are we not bringing attention to the problems, we seem to have passively determined there is no solution. Maybe you've been too desensitized to care if black men die anymore. Maybe police unlawfully shooting people and getting away with it in court doesn't even ruffle your feathers anymore. Maybe you'd just rather live in your own quiet passive little word. Cool. Just remember, the stats don't lie. According to the stats, it's only a matter of time before a young black man in the prime of his life is killed in your family; at the hands of another black man, or police. And when it happens, and you're ready to scream, and you're ready to get angry, and you're ready for other people to stand up and be angry with you, I'll have but one response. What did you do when they killed Sean Bell and got away with it? One luv.