ARE WE REALLY SO DIFFERENT - Kuumba Kwanzaa 2007

Conversations for a while during Kwanzaa’s seven-day celebration has encompassed the principles that we all try to live by as we move into the next year (or as we express the next phase of our lives). Kwanzaa, derived from the Kiswahili phrase “matunda ya kwanza”, Kwanzaa means “first fruits of the harvest.” Kwanzaa’s purpose is a reaffirmation of peoples commitment to ourselves, our families, our community, and our fight for equality and justice. 

Those on the outside (and I am including those Black people unaware of or refuse to participate in Kwanzaa as well) see this celebration as a Black Holiday or a protest against Christmas due to its parallel preachings of Self-Determination and the fight for justice. Any mention of those needs will always place fear in the minds of those whom see these actions as anarchist and or challenging the American way of life but Kwanzaa is actually more inline with the spirit of Christmas than it is as practiced today. 

The whole experience of Kwanzaa is a re-booting of the spirit. By energizing the very core of the human condition. The holiday concentrates on; unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity and faith. This may sound like a massive laundry list of actions of accomplish within seven days or much more, within a year of one’s life but it can be accomplished and often is. I recently expressed that as people live out their lives with purpose, the forces that block our blessings can and often wear us down thus the seeds of apathy take root. Kwanzaa allows for those things needed to grow the fruits needed to nourish our body, our minds and our soul. It’s a holiday of focus, of thanks, commitment and love. 

So on this day of Kuumba (Creativity) I am going to focus on a creative solution to the disconnection of Blacks in America and Blacks in Africa. Big challenges to say the least since there are cultural tensions that neither side wants to address. I decided to actively work on and concentrate on a formula to address this a little later in the New Year of 2008 but for now I want to tell how I came to this idea of personally looking at this as a creative project. 

Two days ago I watched the National Geographic Channel’s show TABOO. Like all things National Geographic I find what other cultures and countries do a fascinating topic. Now I do not believe that National Geographic to be 100% fair and balanced, but for the most part, the reporting is accurate. On the day I watched there were several topics of taboo discussed; food, self-mutilation and coming of age rituals. The continents covered were Asia, Europe and Africa. When it came to Africa the country of focus was the West African coastal nation of Benin. There are groups of African people who practice a male coming of age ritual when the Men challenge each other by whipping each other to “test” their Manhood. The youth at the age just before adulthood are brought together in a ceremony for all to see and experience are stripped, made-up and displayed for their masculine beauty. At the center of the community its one man versus another man in an, "I whip you and you whip me competition". The whips are made of tree branches (the very same branched our mothers and fathers, grandparents and elders used on us when we were children) and made in such a way that they can cause the most pain and damage. The goal, to make the person inflected with the lash cry, scream or pass out due to the pain. To fail this test would bring shame to the family and not allowed to marry. For the women, it was a chance to see what eligible men would be available for marriage. 

 During the ritual I watched as man after man took turns whipping the other as they tried their best to break the other. They taunted each other, they laughed as the lashes cut deep into their ebon skin of the challenged. The other part of the ritual was to want the cuts to encourage the scarification. Each cut displayed the proof of survival, the journey of Manhood and most of all, the statement of being a Warrior. Ultimately the ritual was more about being both a Man and a Warrior. And as I looked in those faces going through this Mind Over Matter competition with the grand prize being a pick of any woman in the village for gratuitous sex, I could not dismiss that all of those faces looked exactly like mine. 

 National Geographic noted that this ritual had nothing to do with religion for based upon the culture you could assume that this particular group was part of an Islamic society; it did have more to do with the structure of cultural law dating back hundreds of years. Its bases was established for how men and women are to behave in this Benin society. Outside of the whipping, which I believe with that of the American use of the whip, this African practice may have also survived long enough to have influenced my ass beating in my youth, I said to myself, “… that could never be me, after that first strike, I’d scream like a girl, fuck those women.” As funny (or ignorant depending on your point of view) as that sound, I had to acknowledge that I was different than my Benin Brothers when it came to proving my Manhood, but had much more in common in many other ways. 

We "are" different than our African Brothers and Sisters but this difference when you look at the big picture is small. We might think that the differences are as large as the Atlantic Ocean is wide but it really isn’t. When it comes to culture, it is just a matter of language, limits and freedoms and knowledge about community. I see Black men with Omegas and Sigmas branded into their skin, Black men with tattoos that cover their whole arms, chests, necks and backs, I see Black men with piercings in their ears, eye brows, lips, nose and sexual organs, circumcisions, Mohawks, dreds, capped teeth, plastic surgery and I know that in Africa, many of our beatifications or ritualized practices in America would be equally taboo to them. To be honest, these actions are taboo even to our own people here in the United States. Yet, take away all the social stigmas and social differences, when you look at a worldview, family and economics, we have more in common almost identical commonalities which displaces any African ritual that we as Blacks in American are disconnected from. We often find that in our disconnect, it is often based in our lack of understanding of our core being as Black people which is why Kwanzaa is so significant in our healing. At its core unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity and faith is what facilitate that gap. 

How is that for insight on New Year’s Eve?

"Kuumba (Creativity) To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it."

AFRICAN SEASONS - Ujamaa: Kawanzaa 2007

Deep in tone.
Deep in voice.
He spoke in tongue
telling a quiet world to wake up.
African in nature,
he stepped up to me
and stared into my eyes.
Locked tight,
he focused.
He looked into my soul
and toyed with the idea of remaking me
into the image
of a man.
A man of African seasons.

From out of the tall grass
urged by the wind,
African chants,
rhythm and drums
pushed our bodies into full expression
orally conveying our tales of greatness.
With the blood of the spirit,
the sweat of the land,
and the richness in being,
our story was told for generations to see.
To dance.
To sing.
To know.

We held each others hands.
Held them high and gathered others
in our warm embrace.
The numbers grew,
from youngling to elder
it swelled in quixotic proportions.
We collected the words and wisdom of the ages.
It condensed
and rubbed together
creating heat.
It burned within me.
It burned within us all.
It was hot where we were,
At the center of the room.
The center of the world.
Much like the center of all creation,
where he made me into a man.
A man of African seasons.


African Seasons by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim


"Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics) To build and maintain our own stores, shops and other businesses and to profit from them together."

Breaking Niggaism At Its Roots - Ujima Kwanzaa 2007 and Beyond

Corporate executives hire Black people to create and cultivate Niggaism in media. This isn’t a theory or a speculation; it is in deed a fact. The Media not necessarily a Think Tank of individuals around a triangle type table with some King Arthur figure at its point, media in this case being; music, film, television, Internet and news. With many of these sources greatly consolidated into the hands of single individuals, the practice of “Niggaism” perpetuates and compromises the collectivity of quantity as oppose to the actual quality of Black culture. The practice of how many Black people will buy into to this is simple, sweet and a cheap commodity. Niggaism is a formula that people in America into the World has bought into, becoming the norm for which all others see Black people as being. We can see evidence of this in Music Video and Television Shows which centers on Black life, often in the form of comedies, local News reports where a daily dose of horrible crimes concentrate on Black Families and or Black on Black crimes, International News where the continent of Africa is a cesspool of death and disease and genocidal wars, or the traditional political and cultural debates between Black Leaders in America jocking for who shouts the loudest for the African-American cause.

You don't have committed Black adults who are in the position to dictate their images, their profits, or even their value to their communities or the world for that matter. So Blacks become subservient to the controls of an industry’s design without major influence to change or effectively challenge the status quo within the industry of Media. In essence, Blacks become bit players of a large chest board of media and capitalism. It isn't until Blacks have survived the pitfalls of the industry, if even, do they begin to understand the impact that they have globally. Lets refer to this as the Rapper Baby Daddy Effect. That is when a Rapper has children and discovers that he doesn’t want his child influenced by “HIS” art. Like all things generational, youth have no ears for elders and by the time they do, the damage is done. Chalk this up to good old fashion Marketing and Political manipulations.

That is why the old school of leaders, musicians, writers, speakers and politicians are still here and holding on to a psudo-sixties reality of People and community. Why that time period? This would be the official time when the Civil Rights movement slowed to a crawl and veered in a direction that seemed to chase the mythology of an American Dream and not the true reality that the Black presence in America is still in a state of economic slavery and there Masters are the benefactors of their ignorance and generational servitude. Too often you hear Black youth claim that the older generations don't teach and show or lead as examples but it is also equally said that the youth are selective learners and listeners. Especially if the words of what is right means to sacrifice money or fun, or being what is canonized as being the American Way of Life.

If “African-Americans” begin to think in terms of being Black as oppose to being African-American, we can begin to think globally and relate to other Black people around the world as oppose to just being American or just Niggas. That in turns would open up Black minds to see the connection between the individual to those of Africa, the Caribbean, South America and Asia. It will begin opening eyes to see that we have more in common with Latin peoples than Europeans. Latinos will then see that they are not a “race” but part of the evolution of Native Americans with cultural influences from their enslavement by Europe and forced to into servitude with their African Brothers and Sisters. That is where our commonality lies. It will also be the dismantling and break down of what is American and thus doing that, we re-write the very history that has been one-sided since the days of Columbus.

"Ujima (Collective Work and Responsibility) To build and maintain our community together and make our brother’s and sister’s problems our problems and to solve them together."

DUALITY OF CHOICE

“I only know Evil after the fact.”


These words, a powerful statement from any one person who speaks it freely and without restrain. Depending on the situation or circumstances, this statement can fall from the lips of you or I. Many civilizations from ancient to modern have varying beliefs for the concept of Evil, the importance of knowing and understanding it, knowing and understanding it as equal to the belief of God and the meaning of life. We know that all the perceptions of Man have meaning and or purpose but Evil is at the core of mankind’s existence, the left side of the human base and with Good hosting the right side keeping balance. We may call it the duality of the human spirit, the concept of choice, the conscious mind, the Ying and Yang, regardless of the noting, every human being on the planet knows Evil but not its purpose. At what point do we know when people are pursuing Evil, what are the beginning steps towards Evil? Is Evil a state of mind or a state of being? Is Evil genetic, a concept of a primal, splinted spirit of Man before words could describe emotions and desire? Evil as generic as detonating a cheaper and less potent manifestation of something more powerful than a heavenly Being, the falling not only from grace but away from the unknown to the known or vice versa? These questions all have perplexed Man from devout to methodical since the concept of intellectual thought was practiced. One thing is for sure, Evil does exist and as such, Man is responsible and compelled to understanding this specific part of his nature.

So why is it that Man only knows Evil after the fact?
 

The answer is simple. Evil is an extension of who he or/she is; Evil is a fraction of the being that which created it. For the religious, this could mean a holy deity and for the non-religious it is a product of man’s influence on the World from the inner-self upon the external World. Regardless, Evil is an extension of Man and places it as an action tied to emotions and or reactions from external circumstances outside his control. Some would even argue that Evil stems form Man’s lack of control of his external environment.

For the religious, Evil is an old fashion concept based upon what is known (i.e. The Devil). In the traditional or modern World, Evil is what one accepts, those influences that are both direct and indirect in degrees such as Man’s practice of slavery, politics or capitalism. Then there is evil (small “e”) that is created by Man and often is besieged in bias such as cults, prostitution and pornography, commercial rap to heavy metal music, television and film.

Regardless of how one defines Evil, like all things, you have to understand its origins, the point of its source which leads back to the day Man was created either by a convergence of random celestial events or by GOD. The moment Man was given the gift of choice and or evolved out of his DNA and began to practice it for survival. The how’s and why’s are as diverse as Man’s rebellion to his creator, an ancient virus or infection, the curse or act of selfishness or Man’s curiosity for wanting to know more than he should know. In the end, the concept of Evil, as perplexed as human nature, is his desire to get answers on a “need to know” bases and that in itself seemed to be Man’s first sin; his pursuit of “knowledge”.

Does man really want to know what Evil is?

This is the 1 trillion dollar question to which there is no straight answer. Man is afraid of knowing what Evil is yet it’s a mystery that compels him to know. Again, this is the duality of Man’s nature. It’s the mystery that gives Mankind its purpose for deep down, Man recognizes that to know Evil is the one final answer removed from knowing what GOD is. And this is the base premise of most religions; especially for Christians, Hebrews and Muslims, “Evil” the first real sin of Man. There are variation to the statement which can be found in Hebrew and Islamic text that, "Those whom study Evil are studied by Evil” rings deep as a path of personal destruction. Broadening the argument, if one pursues the path of understanding Evil, one eventually become Evil is a warning that grips Man in fear and yet he still wants to know. Again, this is the far extreme of knowing the rapture of his existence, the duality of his nature.

I choose to be Good or Evil on purpose?

Like choice, we argue that within our duality, Man can choose his Evil. His moral and physical evils we see and experience daily in varying degrees. Be it stealing, the actions of one’s sexual practices, the taking of life for self-defense or pleasure, the choice to live without spiritual guidance, running for political office or the actions of greed, it's within Man’s ability to choose that defines how he dances with the Devil or about the role that Evil may play in his life. The same can be said about his Goodness. This is why benign intentions are often the greatest of Evils or when Man’s “good intentions” cause Evil actions. We know throughout history Man’s good intentions have condemned many to servitude, slavery, disease, genocide and it has often pushed the very good into living in perpetual poverty and modern concentration camps. These are the “good intentions” of the healthy, limiting the rights of people whom suffer with disease and illness or just being from another tribe. The choice to support the capitalizing of basic needs and the support of those things deemed dangerous to one’s well being (weapons of mass and limited destruction, drugs and alcohol, prioritizing educational standards, racial arrogance, dictating family structures or expanding choice without moral and ethical attachments). Some would argue that the cousin of Evil is “The Good Intention”.

No longer is the face of Evil painted in a traditional portrait of Hiroshima, Hitler, Weapons of Mass Destruction, American Slavery, White Supremacy, Apartheid, Somalia, Katrina, or a tiny town in Louisiana named Jena, but in the subtle preaching of segregated religion, a smile at the next door neighbor, the needing to know what happens behind closed doors of the person across town, the silence one has during a crime, the lack of ambition to search for the truth or even in questioning authority are the small evils that play vastly among a society.

The roll of Evil is a character in Man's personal play in life.

In the contemporary, Evil is Man made. This is only confined by his individual actions of “good intentions” and unconscious acts of Group-think. Like sheep, Man follows the leader no matter his/her credentials, as long as the leader has Good Intentions and takes steps in a direction to be followed. Evil (Big E) has stopped becoming a theory of religious significance and became more of a seed of doubt in the human condition, often cultivated by those whom "Shepard" it in the form of fear.

Gay Rights, Affirmative Action, Race and Cultural Bias, Crime and the Prison System, Gun Control, Universal Health Care, Islam and Terrorism are now the roots of Evil that has besieged the Western World and America, and to be honest, I can only recall these terrors becoming apparent in the past few years. How did this evil replace the Devil of say, the Exorcists or Damien; the child Anti-Christ; that evil Omen kid? I think as we became more sophisticated in our understanding of the modern world we have accepted collectively that a “Devil” would have far less appeal in destroying our sense of Self but to imagine the loss of an American way of life would be a far greater Evil; God fearing at best. The very thought of having to live like the people we have exploited for an American way of life would require an Exorcists of great repute to get rid of.

I recently heard this statement and gave pause to it, “Freedom Requires Religion and Religion Requires Freedom”. A very influential Religious leader recently spoke it as it related to America’s role in the Middle East and how our political candidate’s religious positions mattered. I’ll have to say that I am still contemplating this quote deeply but for right now I can say that on the surface, as it relates to the notion of Evil, if “freedom” is anything like choice, and “religion” is that which can save Man from Evil, then how we choose our freedom will very much determine our Goodness since we are currently determining which religion can foster and grow that in our nation. Be it the varied Christian faiths, the Judean and Islamic faiths or the Agnostics, they all make bids to exists in a free society to ultimately influence that freedom in order to exist. And within the “good (God) intentions” of all of the above, what direction will they take Mankind.

As I stated earlier, Evil is an extension of who he/she is; evil is a fraction of the being that which created it, and as one with “good intentions” why can’t Man make a conscious choice to ask the real questions, "What is it that I want, and is it wrong to want it?” This is the true nature of Evil, The Need To HAVE. When you can get to the core truth from that and those that worship "Evil"; the genuine “choice” of Man, we can get to the “needs to have God intentions" and become that much closer to the final answer removed from knowing what GOD is thus the statement, "The Road to Hell is often paved by GOOD intentions".

THE DEEPER THE ROOTS, THE HIGHER THE TREE

A few days ago I had taken a trip out to Brooklyn, New York to see a friend of mine whom had done a favor for me. I remembered that is was the first coldest day of the year and I hated every minute I was out in it. Wind and residual rain made for a nasty winter day as it crept into every small exposed part of my body. It was one of those days where ignorant people on the street start to act like they got some sense because who wants to act a fool in the cold.

Waiting on the Atlantic Ave platform for the 2/3 trains I get a call from my partner in crime from Uptown needing a favor from me. Interestingly enough, I truly believe that part or my foundation for many of my closest friends is the fact that we are always there for each other. One needs a favor, the other needing information, another needing a loan and on those rough and lonely days a hug and a shoulder to cry on. We make sure we are available. It’s the foundation for anyone living in New York. I preach this all the time to the “transplants”; those people who move to New York thinking that they need in their transition to New York is a job and a place to share rent. It’s more than that, its having family. My friends are my family, closer than close, we look out for one another in the city that eats the lonely and lost for breakfast.

So as the train approaches I get this call on the cell phone and I’m asked if I could stop off on Canal Street to buy a bamboo steamer. My first response was, “Negro its cold as shyt out here, Hells No!” But then again, that’s what I would say to a stranger or a simple associate. This was my Boy so I said sure and as the people begin to board I mentally prepare myself to deal with the weather just a little while longer. The train doors close and I roar through the underground tunnels to China Town.

I get off just before my destination in order to hit the ATM for a little extra cash when I noticed, across from the bank, was a Starbucks. Now I am not a big fan of Starbucks but this particular evening, it was freezing and a cup of tea necessitated a compromise in principles. Once in the door, you can smell the generic corporate set up. The carbon copied, homogeneous and sterile adaptation of a coffee shop, superimposed with the scent of buy-buy-buy. This to all those in the know “IS” the formula for corporate success for Starbuck. Give them simplicity with style and make you feel not only special but urbane as well. The yuppies and sophisticates of the city on their Apple I Books, foreign tourist and coffee addicts all sat around in their “air of privilege” because here, everyone drinks five dollar cups of coffee with three and four words in the names. It’s all so foo-foo and I watched it all in amazement year after year. Funny as it seems, if you know anything about retail in relation to margin, you’d know that a cup of coffee, no matter who brews it or where the beans come from, the average cup costs about .60 cents. Oh well, its Starbucks and that is all you need to justify the madness and the 25-degree weather broke me down into submission.

As I wait in line for a simple cup of tea, which is the same tea that I can find at my local supermarket, I can’t help notice that A Charlie Brown Christmas is playing over the store speakers. Since I am not one to trumpet the Christmas Holiday I will say I do love this CD, mostly because I love the Peanuts and that Blockhead Charlie Brown. As I continue to wait for my commercially prepared cup of “herbal” tea I decide to step out of line and use the restroom. Of course there is a line a mile long. Coffee has a way of making a person drop pee. Standing patiently my eyes dance about the store, seeing the many holiday decorations and winter icons, I then switch my attentions to observe the people living out their lives in the far corners of the shop. In each case, my mind prods into all the possible stories of each person in the room. As a People Watcher, it’s a silent diversion we play in our quite mental sport of storytelling. If you could live in the mind of a People Watcher, the stories you’d experience. All the diverse dramas, the tragedies and the comedy available to us to create. I will go on record and tell you that most People Watchers mostly create comedy for the lives of the people whom we watch. I know it sounds bad and manic but it’s our world and it gets us through all the madness that’s called human nature everyday.

So while I dim in and out of my silent world of passive thought I overhear a family of three having conversations. It was one of those conversations you couldn’t avoid because they were LOUD. It was a three generation table; mother, daughter and grandmother. The conversation began with the grandmother working on New York Times crossword puzzle and asking the mother if she knew the answer to one of the questions, to which she didn’t have a clue. Now trying not to be in their business, I did know the answer but again, I am in “watch” mode so I kept quite. Then the daughter jump in and chimed out the answer, which had something to do this the R&B artist Beyonce. From there their conversation shifted to who was a Beyonce, to her latest music and videos to her being in movies. Ultimately I got out of that conversation since I am not all that interested in the state of contemporary R&B and definitely a Beyonce. As I moved closer to my goal, the bathroom, my eyes came upon a poster that took me to my higher state consciousness. OK it made me think. The poster, although was a statement on Starbucks corporate practices in relation to its employees and customers, it was the actual words that made me stop and think. The poster read: THE DEEPER THE ROOTS, THE HIGHER THE TREE.

For the first time since I can acknowledge the existence of Starbucks I was profoundly inspired about something it had and or served. It wasn’t so much the words but the timing; it made me think about family, friends, community and GOD. For a brief moment, time stopped and I let the words sink in and plant the seeds that I needed to come back to and grow a meaning from.

I walked out of Starbucks into the cold thinking about some of my past writings about how what we do in the present has significant meaning to those that will come after us and how important it is to capture a piece of the pass so we know were we are today. It’s a concept that is preached and taught over and over and although some take it to heart, most dwell on it rarely.

My father had past a few months back and one of the things I did was write a poem, which I read at his funeral. It was entitled, THE TREE STORY. The nature of generational knowledge, relationships, the emotion and responsibility we have as family and an elder Son’s tribute to his time spent on this Earth. The poem came from and was signed Brother, Sister, Son, and Daughter to Father. I think at that moment when I read the words, THE DEEPER THE ROOTS, THE HIGHER THE TREE it was a spiritual tribute and reminder that I can’t forget the work that must still be done. I am a firm believer that things in life do not happen out of chance and luck nor do I believe we aren’t given anything that we cannot handle.

For my community, we have placed and planted ourselves here in America, the United States, New York, the city and we need to cultivate our presence deeper into the soil that we live off of. The more I learn about my community the more I look for fertile grounds to plant those seeds and solidify my place here.

I my personal life I know I need to keep my friends close, making sure that those relationships cultivate and continue to grow stronger. I would never have come this far without them and I definitely would not have been inspired the way I was if I did not say “yes” to someone I love.

I love my soul. It was cultivated by deep roots planted by my mother, father and nurtured by the hand of God. I cannot ever forget that. At this point in my life I am still a tree of great strength and fortitude and yet I know I still have more to grow. So on that day my body, my mind and my soul made a conscious effort to dig deeper in order to grow higher and thus I write this thanking God for allowing me to wake that day, my family for nurturing me to this point in my life, my friends for being there and helping on my journey to read those words and my mind for staying clear and obstacle free to realize all of this.

What have I produced that day, what can I deliver to the world that can stand the tests of time for generation to reap confidence and maturity? I leave the following statement as and elder Son:

“You told me to Drive but you took my Car; so I Walked. You told me to build a House but you took my Tools; so I built a Hut. You told me to Eat but you took my Food; so I now Farm.” - Shazza Nakim

CARESSES OF THE FLAME

Eyes closed
the sounds of rushing air
and crisp snaps
bright red behind eyelids
and my face
warm.
Tension rushing from my arms
my shoulders
my back
my legs
and my mind wondering
as my eyes open to catch up.
Elongated shadows dance over me
the walls
the floors
the ceiling
the windows
as the smell of seasoned
smoked oak
and a keg of pine
charcoal in the night.
My dreams
moving
standing still
churning
and burning
reshaping reality
painted in fantasy.
The quickening
like the sounds of children
rushing through autumn leaves
kicking and stopping
in play.
Washed over by
gentleness
controlled and boxed in
my fire to
adore.
A piece of the sun
at midnight
during a full moon
in October
my heart lovingly beats to the crackle
of the flames
and my breath
sharing the air that fuels its flicker.
Ash
and orange and redden hue
turning wood black with gray coating
the evidence of the heated splendor of it all,
touching my soul in ways
beyond human recognition
fervent caresses of nature
a warmth of elemental satisfaction,
a tale of mythic proportions
that will be able to express
the limitless wonder of the flame.
A transcending into Valhalla.
The compassion of Vulcan.
A ballad of Ra.
The riding of the dragon’s
breast in passion.
My thoughts dancing with shadows
those playful apparitions of the unconscious mind
roaming throughout the world
fueled by the fire
until they all die of old age
and the smoke of daybreak.

Caresses of the Flame by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

Sweeny Todd, The New Face of Evil

There is a new face of Horror and its name is Todd. Sweeny Todd. Move over Freddy, to the back of the line Jason, Hannibal Lecter you have been out classed because Mr. Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street is open for business.

I just exited a screening of the movie musical, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street and I have not been this excited, musically fulfilled, visually amazed and satisfied with acting performances since the movie musical Chicago. But, here is the difference between then and now, the Johnny Depp factor, by far the best actor in the business and every industry awards ceremony need to pay homage to this thespian. The actors actor, he not only became the role of Benjamin Barker, a.k.a Sweeney Todd, a wrongly accused, victimized man of tragic and vicious circumstances which was the catalyst by which the kids of today would call, “A Bloody Mess”, he became part of the background and foreground of this frightening and macabre version of Victorian London filmed so well, one would think you were on a rollercoaster ride into Dante’s Inferno. The visual effects of Sweeny Todd touched by one of best, if not the darkest screen directors in the business, Tim Burton. The creative marriage between Johnny Depp and Tim Burton is to date on par with that of Martin Scorsese and Al Pacino or Leonardo DiCaprio, simply magic.

In the beginning of Todd we are touched by the thinly and timid vocals of Jamie Campbell a.k.a. Anthony Hope, within the name, its played dramatically against the lack of light that permeated the dark London landscape. He is soon over shadowed by the even darker Todd with only one thing on his mind, “Bloody Vengeance” thus marking the arrival of the new face of evil. And we all loved it.

Unlike past movie musicals there were no big choreographed dance scenes and booming vocals that stood out among all others, every voice, like every character, blended into the overall story and lifted ever so slightly enough brightness to cast longer shadows in the background which hid even deeper horrors for the audience to find out. And what we found out were that those things hiding in the shadows were all the things we secretly want to do, the immorality things we think about and covert in the recesses of out mind. Sweeny Todd allowed us all the release with sinister giggles that gave slight pause and played havoc with our conscious mind. Johnny Depp and Sweeny Todd was a master at helping the audience to go to that place with joy and glee. With the help of Helena Bonham Carter a.k.a Mrs. Lovett owner of Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Shop, a restaurant that would give any Health Department nightmares, partners with Todd in his dark descent into a Bloody Hell for vengeance for Alan Rickman’s character and the focus of Todd dark passions, Judge Turpin. Truly Depp channeled the misfortunes of the genius gone mad such Edgar Allen Poe, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Van Gogh, mix that with serial murder tendencies and you have the perfect Monster. The new face of Evil sits at the top of the list.

Now I did notice that there were three major actors that seemed were commandeered from another very popular film franchise, Harry Potter, but I did not mind the actors’ past relationship because you never want to fix what isn’t broken. Carter, Rickman and Timothy Spall who played Judge Turpin’s gentleman assistant; Beadle Bamford was a pleasant surprise and like puzzles, they were the pieces that completed the big picture .

In the triad of talent I could not escape the fact that they were all together in that other popular film and will all be needed again to reprise their characters when the young talent Ed Sanders a.k.a Toby, the youth who because of deadly circumstance executed by Todd becomes part of this sinister partnership with Mrs. Lovett caught mt attention. His bright youthfulness in the beginning soon become sucked grey yet his vocal talents and presence stand ladders above his age and is equal to the work invested overall to Todd. A first timer to a movie of this size and scope, Hollywood should seriously consider Ed Sanders for the lead on that other film that Carter, Rickman and Timothy Spall are attached to as a worthy replacement in the Potter series.

There were other standouts on Todd such as Sacha Baron Cohen a.k.a. Signor Adolfo Pirlli (we all know him from Borat), Jayne Wisener a.k.a. Johanna and Laura Michelle Kelly who played the duel characters of Lucy and the Beggar Woman play vivid and bright roles which kept the totality of Sweeny Todd from falling too deep into a black hole or sorrow but the true driver of this rollercoaster through Hell was Johnny Depp. We got on, we were all locked into place and we screamed, laughed and cried our way to the end and People, I want to ride this ride again.

CHEATING? WHAT CHEATING?

Anyone who knows me will tell you that Track and Field is my life. I not only followed the sport but I was active from grade school and summer festivals all the way to the pro-levels after college. I know the history of the sport back when athletes were all labeled amateurs didn't get paid and the ultimate prize was Gold Medals. I remember the glory days (and I am dating myself) when TRUE ATHLETES like Carl Lewis was King and his kingdom had names like Carl Baptiste, Antonio McKay, Said Aouita, Rodger Kingdom, Greg Foster, Edwin Moses, Evelyn Ashford, and Gwen Torrence. These names made up my list of heroes. Looking at their times, their photos, video tapes, any and everything Track and Field, I wanted to live in their shadows close enough to be second yet fast enough to be first before all others.

I use to collect anything and everything Track and Field. Newspapers and magazines, fliers and stats sheets from Penn Relays, IC4A’s and the NCAA Championships, National Championships, Pan-American Games, The Goodwill Games and even the Boston, New York, LA and Chicago Marathons. I can tell you the winners of practically every event of every major Championship from every country without pause or hesitation. I even put together my own track team of champions that traveled the country back in the day. Our war chant was the famed song by Luke "DoDo Brown" ... Don't Stop Get it Get it !!" As bad as that imagery was, it worked for pumping up the adrenalin for the big meets. I even ran with two championship teams in America and Internationally wearing Nike like a badge of honor with "DoDo Brown" setting the pace.

One of my most memorable times in my running career was when I trained in Russia in my new Red White and Blue Nike speed suit. There wasn't a day I was not asked if I was Carl Lewis. I would constantly be asked if I was "Carl Lewis" and if I can be challenged. After about 20 times of being asked, I just gave in and said "yes, I am Carl Lewis" and started signing his name on shirts and shoes. They never knew the difference.

My photo album is full of pictures I have taken with Track Champions from around the World. Some I knew personally, others in passing. Still there were many others I had bonded with because I admired them. Admiration due to the hard work and shared experiences of getting up at 4 AM and training until 7 AM, eating breakfast and then taking a nap until 1 PM. Getting up again to work on technique and running splits or jumping into sand and dirt pits (I was also a Long Jumper -- thus the confusion of being Carl Lewis) and then hitting the gym to soon have dinner at 7 PM and bed by 9 PM (five days a week) to be on a bus, or a train or a plane to be at a track meet on Thursday and then back on Sunday to begin the torture again. It was grueling, it was stressful, and it was fun because you formed a family that had extensions internationally. As much as people made fun of "our" sport (we were called the people who ran in underwear), we all knew deep down that there was a real respect for what we did. Regardless of the distance or the event; 50 meters to 26 miles, the long jump to the hammer throw, we represented the World and champions were made through the joy of victory or the agony of defeat.

Now I know, like all sports where (commercial) dollars can make a difference, the lure of cheating can be evident. Baseball has its cheaters as we are currently noting with the Mitchell Report on MLB, Football has theirs, WWE's Chris Benoit use of steroids which caused him to kill his family, Blood Doping in swimming, cycling and the triathlon, its all becomes common place as the stories become daily news.

In my early years as a runner I will tell you that I was no joke. You got on the track, you got smoked. Prideful enough to tell you just before you stepped in to your blocks. I also knew those athletes that would go from zero to overdrive in a matter a weeks. An improvement that would be questionable and often was but only in silence and or locker room whispers.

In Europe I was often asked if I was on "the juice" and if I wasn't, did I want to be. Coaches hinted if I needed to make "that next level", sometimes you need to take supplements to join the "elite team". But I am a traditionalist and I soon found out that my glory days for the wind at my face and the dust at my back were soon to be over. And it was when my superhuman speed no longer was considered "Super". I watched as my talent when from on pace to slow motion as my competition warped into a whole new level of acceleration. Like the laws of nature, my voice could not keep place with the speed of light and I became normal. The above average man; the recreational athlete. I went on to coaching, I wrote, I recruited, I moved on, and I soon become a spectator.

In the 1990's in my transition from active to inactive running status, I watched a young high school girl from California named Marion Jones working magic. She was a coach's dream, a spectator bliss, everything the sport needed. Marion Jones was the real deal. At her high school prime, she ran times surpassing the elite runners of the world and we all salivated for her debuted on the international scene. When she did, she had shown the world she was the real deal. Even when people said, "No way Marion Jones can run that fast".

I argued that she could because she had consistently shown the World. Her times where realistic. Why? Because Marion Jones was consistent with her running times in high school and college. As a coach I studied Marion Jones’ stats to look at the logical progression in her physical times. Nothing peaked suspicion. Even when Marion Jones' first husband, C.J. Hunter, was caught using drugs to enhance his abilities I defended my champion stating that she did not need to "juice". Why? Because she is a Champion. And when her second husband, Tim Montgomey was busted for steroids, I didn’t yell as loudly but I still stood in my Marion Jones corner because in Track circles, you do not say out loud what you have not seen or know first hand.

My running buddies often challenged my support for Marion Jones for not “juicing” but was quick to finger me for accusing Flo-Jo for her superhuman performances and times? I would tell them, "... she doesn't need them drugs, she is the real deal, built for running, had all the guts and ability, she don't need drugs to beat up on the World, Marion's times are realistic". Since 1997 until 2007 I would hold true to my defense.

On October 4, 2007, my heart was crushed. Marion Jones had announced that she used drugs during her bid for the 2000 Olympics. That news was like loosing a family or better yet, finding out your child was in the hospital because of a car accident due to a drug over-dose. My pride has fled and now my sorrow blanketed my soul for the sport. What Marion had done was kill the last hope that there was at least one clean runner out there. I had even given up on Michael Johnson a long time ago and now Marion Jones is on that same list.

Do I want an apology? I am not sure. I know I have the capacity to forgive but this is more than personal it is in defense of all the positive energy I gave to my champion. On the track, in practice, my prayers that GOD would bless her with great performances and to keep her safe and healthy. My phone rang with the news of, "I told you so", and I had to humble myself and accept it. I am hurt and I know I lost my friend with this news. Not Marion Jones ..... but Track and Field.

So here we are with baseball and its drug mess. MLB now has this list of cheaters and the Nation is scrambling to decide what to do with its heroes. Do we move on, do when take back the love as well as the millions of dollars we toted out to the BAD MEN WITH BATS? We now know that the cheating goes across all our sports now. Can we really call ourselves the BEST?

I recently watched a documentary on the life of Billy Jean-King, not only a pioneer to the WTA and Women's Tennis, but much like Muhammad Ali and Jackie Robinson, she changed the face of professional sports and the status of the amateur. What stood out in her life-story was the dedication Billy Jean-King had and the level of professionalism she exhibited. Billy Jean-King's nature was often criticized as being "hard", "cold" and unapproachable. Although she won a record number of titles, her response to why she was rigid and closed was simply that in America, no one wants to love a looser or even second place. If you aren't number one or a winner, "NO ONE CARES". And we all want that love from your country.

Add money, commercialism and fame to the equation as well as a big fat slice of suspended belief and you have what we call in America an era of Enhancement and Cheating. The Chinese have done it. The Germans have done it. The Soviets/Russians have done it. Every nation wanting that status of being NUMBER ONE has and is doing it. And America has been doing it as well and for years. My lack of shock and awe is, WHY ARE PEOPLE JUST CATCHING UP AND ACKNOWLEDGING IT NOW?

BLACK DANCE

Fast twitch
Romantic and wild.
Living spirit
and from another view
Dark.
Coffee black to light
sweet and silky
There are no blond strands here.
Brought or borrowed,
they are still shoes.
Colored leotards on skin tight crotches
Southern cups filled to capacity.
Bald men shining
and hair done up in rags.
Splits up the middle,
heads over heels,
it is the position to stand in,
the movement in the wind.
Rolling over hard wood floors
holding on to everyone like Negro Angels
Displaying Black excellence for a heart length in time


Black Dance by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

A POETRY PAUSE

I have a few things i'm working on and it seems the harder I work to get things from my mind onto paper, some other idea, fact, fiction, friction, false conviction try for equal time for my literary expression. Until I can get it out I will drop for you some of my favorite Spoken Work Poets.

I Hope You Enjoy

Saul Williams - Said he Gunshot

Arundhati Roy - Market for Ni$$as


MC Lyte - I Was Born


Stayceyann Chin

PACEMAKER

Caning
cut crimson.
Shattering
sharp strikes.
Wounding
wild women
of the streets
I strip all of them of their innocence.
Revealing
rotten rogues.
Trying
trails tripled.
Badly
because bold
little boys like me dipped fingers.
Into
innuendoes ill.
Places
peeling partly
apart legs for
wanton
wills wronged,
cultivating feminine genocide for love.



While on your back, you can only look upwards.


Pacemaker by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

THE BANQUET TABLE

At a meeting between brothers and sisters
A meal was placed before us.
A meal so savory and delectable that it made the mouth water.
Much like the juices that ran from the sides of beef
Garnished with vegetables;
Yams, greens , rice , cornbread with butter.
Fruit from all over the world painted our family table's center.
Silverware at each side of the plates before us,
Candles lighting the way to our stomach's delight,
-- Much like the presence of each family positioned around the table.
Water and nectar in chilled glasses filled to the brim.
With chunks of ice floating and bobbing at the top.
You can see the condensation dripping from the sides
Making liquid circles designating the place where glasses belong.
I can hear the stomachs of my brothers and sisters croaking like southern bullfrogs
Longing to be fed, longing to have their hunger fade.
Their eyes bugged and their teeth pressed.
Their fists clenched, and their breast raised.
The time to pounce was near but they all had to wait.
For Grace Had To Be Said.


Amen.


Both sides made their way for the food.
Mashed potatoes were everywhere.
Corn on the cob hit and rolled along the floor.
The meat was ripped apart like jackals fighting for carcass.
Rice that could feed millions was spread far and wide.
And the yams, so sweet, so divine, so nourishing, became bitter with jealousy and contentment
when a bite was taken.
Nectar was spilt over the table by elbows fighting for space
As tidal waves of juice splashed across the table.
My water was caught in the excitement, and I knew, I would be thirsty.
The vulture flying over head didn't even stop,
For there was nothing to stop for.
All was waste.
All was lost in the food frenzy.
Clothes stained with food,
Feet wet with the mixture of water and sticky nectar.
The table, a collage of food stuff and broken plates,
And the hard work of blood, sweat, and tears
Instituted for years in the kitchens of our mother's and father's,
Were cast to the wind never to return.
And we all just stood there.
Looking at each other, in the face, into each other's eyes,
With our stomachs belching and calling for nourishment.
Wondering what had happened.
Looking for fault and blame.
Looking and begging to be fed.


The Banquet by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

BLACK RESOLUTIONS

I had the fortunate or unfortunate experience (according to whom you speak with) to have joined a fraternity. In my youth and early college days it was something I resided at first, but in all things college I experimented. I had MEN OF HIGH DISTINCTION drop by my room for conversations, FRIENDS OF THE BROTHERHOOD pay for my lunches, MEN OF LEGACY come to my sporting events (I was a varsity member of my school's Track team) all in the good interest in getting to know me. In essence they wore me down. I eventually joined this whole new world which opened up to me. Some of it was good and I won't beat down the Greek System and claim that is was all bad, it has its place in the world and I gladly participated in it adding both its individual and group diversity.

The concept of the Group Dynamics was what I enjoyed the most. As an artist, part of me fought the whole inclusion thing, the whole " we are one" philosophy and yet living with my Brothers, I learned through osmosis, taking from each a sense of camaraderie that no one or one event can take away.

The "glue" that kept us together was our PLEDGE. The heart and soul of our organization. The PLEDGE locked in our commitment to the group, to the Brotherhood, to the organization, the Nation and GOD. It was serious shit no doubt. Outside of the secret handshakes and the secret passwords, the PLEDGE was something that as an individual, even if you were on the other side of the world, kept your focus on the WHY you joined in the first place. With the PLEDGE you were honored with all the benefits that came with the group and with that membership came privilege. I was an "us" in a world of "them".

If you have ever joined an organization, you know that a PLEDGE is very important. Even our Nation, The United States of America, has a pledge. It means that when you stand, say the words, believe the words, you or committed to the very essence of the PLEDGE. The problem with that sometimes is that if you join more than one group with an active pledge that is in conflict with the other .... what do you do? What do you become? How do you decide?

2001, I sat down in front of my computer and decided I was going to type out my New Years resolution. I wanted something that would be easy to do and non-superficial like promise to loose weight or not curse. It had to be something with meaning. So I decided to look back at my Greek days and see what was it that was in those words that I recited before dinner, meetings, and major decisions that effected the Brotherhood and made me join, made me stay and made me begin the path that I currently walk, and see how I could apply that philosophy to a deeper core for who I am. I decided to write my PLEDGE.

I took the time to look through some old files and folders, as "us" writers do, but don't do enough, to see the forgotten works and possibly update something unfinished when I came across my PLEDGE of 2001. I sat back in my chair and I said to myself, "DAMN" if only I knew what I know now six years later. For the most part, I had stuck to and committed myself to my resolution of 2001, the thing is, now do I get others to do the same?

I decided to add this PLEDGE to my Blog. Depending who reads this, it might sound a bit separatist, maybe (and I love this word) racist, but its neither. Its about self-determination and self-esteem building. For years my family have taught me that when improving self within a group, the group will see it as selfish and socially unacceptable. Words such as "Black Sheep", "Upstart", "Anarchist" come to mind. My parents also told me that LEADERS are often these things in the beginning and not a part of the group but those members that think outside of the box and take the intuitive for change and survive the demagoguery often rise above the chaos to do great things. My PLEDGE is pro-individual fostered by "change". In saying: I make the pledge everyday and in doing so, I foster my positive growth daily.

THE PLEDGE:

The legacy of our ancestors has survived wars, and diseases, persecution and slavery, environmental upheavals, genocide and civil unrest and second citizenship. Our legacy has touched the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean in numbers uncalculated or reasoned and it will witness the birth of stars yet to be seen in the evening sky. Our Legacy has held our bleeding enemies within arms and placed hope in the futures of a Nation's children without pause or apology. Within our humanity are the seeds that our first Millennium of ancestors was founded. Today, the soil by which we stand is saturated with their ashes.

What we do with tomorrow gives us that same responsibility for the generations to come. Our ancestors have bestowed upon us the responsibility that we do the right thing; even when the days, months and years go wrong. It’s not a responsibility for Sunday sermons and Holidays, a colonial law or a dictated Right; it’s the one true responsibility for cultural and ethical survival. Survival of the fittest isn't a thing of philosophy, but a pure representation of a reality that I, as a human being, have to live by, to conform, and to shed a tear when it becomes a reality for passing someone by to reach tomorrow. We see our people, whom have lost their way or were enticed to stray from the path of continued evolution, and although others may carry the touch, the subtle breezes of ease and waste hold a greater calling for our people. More so now than ever before, this is the reality that rings true.

Today, I accept the pledge to grab hold of my individual responsibilities. Not as a Man or Woman, but as a Black Man or Black Woman. It is in the BLACK that I see my position in the World just as others see the ASIAN and the EUROPEAN in themselves in the world. What BLACK is for AMERICA is the global evolutionary road where World Cultures meet at its crossroads. As children of God we know there is a purpose for this design and we will live to allow this design to exist. Knowing that our existence came with a price, a purpose, and a reason, it will be my duty to make my ancestors proud that I have survived. Even for the ones that did not survive and or wanted to be brought to the Americas I will fulfill the promise of life by keeping the me in myself healthy, spiritual and knowledgeable..

Biological diversity or issues of race are no longer relevant. The focus is the respect in myself that I show today and the support I give to my fellow man, woman, and child to reach their tomorrow. So excuse me if I do not sing and dance anymore, I have too much work to do before the harvest.

BLACK WOMAN

Can I come into your mindfrom behind?
Hold you from the waist down?
Whisper my message and blow,
inhale your spirit,
while tasting the knowledge?
Its the exotic blessing,
the key satisfaction
to shed light into the murky depths
of the psyche.
Let me grow around you,
on you,
into you.

Like oil
--smooth I can slide all over you,
seep into your pours
and saturate deep into the very fluidity of your nature.
Given no pause for your cause
I can accelerate beyond light
catching you, and tapping your thoughts on both shoulders.
A challenging man
thick and strong,

I can carry a nation within my arms and on my back
but only you can feed them,
most eternally.
Lightning
a flash of smile.
Come for me in existence limitless
a righteousness beyond comprehension.
Its all in your stride
from the foundation of your soul,
the width in your stride
paying the world with attitude to boot.
A pure vision from behind.
I'll gladly give it up to you.


Black Woman by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

What I Learn By Being Silent

THIS IS A RE-POST FROM EARLIER THIS YEAR

NEW YORK, Manhattan On Broadway, after Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's lecture/debate at Columbia University I walked around outside to observe the chaos. Jewish and Christian anti-support on one side, community supporters, Middle-Eastern and students on the other. The line was clearly defined. Mixed in were the curious and the event chasers; those whom wanted to be part of the energy of the moment. They were all there playing out a script written by a Power no one truly understood, considered or even wanted to acknowledge. They were the seeds that will grow the madness that will effect the world around them. An infectious passion that will ripple in waves around the world with voices, radio and microwaves, print and paper, it will be the true Monster unleashed on an empty consciousness.

The amount of police security was typical for an event of this caliber. New York is very good with this type of circus. Not long ago I attended a rally against Police Brutality in Midtown just outside of Madison Square Garden and the riot police stood on the sides as if they represented the "defenders of truth" in war gear and bullet proof jackets. As a protester against Police Brutality, I felt very safe.

Streets were cut off and blocked, Secret Service (not so secret when you can clearly see who they are) were floating through the crowds like linebackers through pre-schoolers. Helicopters beat blades camping sky-side keeping watch as media deities should. Billboards and handwritten signs, fliers and invitations littered the grounds. Words in bold, words in bright, words that proclaimed we all should. "Free Iran", "Christians United for Israel", "Hitler Lives", "Stop War", "Stop Iran From Going Nuclear", "Honk If Bush Is A Terrorist", "Judaism Rejects Zionist" and so many more. My digital camera ate up the captured moments for long term storage and I constantly flipped through the assorted images burning the reality of passion meeting chaos head on and hard in my mind.

I watched the yelling and screaming of Jews vs Non-Jews as the term "Anti-Semite" rang throughout the air. Reporters dancing throughout the crowds hurrying for quotes like bees buzzing through barren fields for pollen near the end of summer. The "Boos" and jeers of people when debates were won and the losers caught with their passions in their throats. Then there were the ones who only wanted knowledge. Eyes like saucers they searched from speaker to speaker for a morsel of truth, a faint piece of "between the line" evidence lost by editors. They hurried from one group to the next, eyes and minds stretching thin to absorb whatever they can to build an opinion in a sea of ignorance, hate and fear.

There were the Jews vs. Jews, or in this case, Jews against Zionist and Christians for Jews, Patriots against Liberals, Yeshiva University against Columbia University and then there were Jews and Muslims side by side against Jew and Christians in mass. People laughed and people cried and some I feared would have heart attacks for hearts were attacked, beaten and broken. By dusk, more helicopter blades cut into air above us as they danced perfect circles in a clear sky. And it was loud.

An American Muslim from Harlem gathered a small group of on watchers as he preached the history of Prussia; politically referred to today as Iran and Iraq. An Orthodox Jew from Brooklyn read from the Torah and people sat on the pavement and listened. I watched several off-side debates between several Columbia Professors and a single pro-Bush Patriot from the Upper Westside; he lost the debate and stomped off into the distance cursing, "Liberals are destroying this Country!"

Fox, CNN, C-Span, BBC, The Associated Press, MTV, MSNBC, NY1, Bloggers and student reporters claimed their spots to tell Americans their perspectives on "The Monster" that came to America and then the police came afterwards to keep us "more" safe, they made sure the onlookers kept it moving. And they did move.

Fathers brought their Sons, Mothers brought their Daughters and I thought what will their experiences bring to their dreams tonight. What images will burn indelibly on the mind. What passions will they inherit and what logic will be lost after all is said and done. I know as a child seeing Black people demonstrating in the streets, police beating back protesters, fires and shattered store windows all painted clear and brightly on my conscious as men in uniform carried off my family who were simple standing on the sidelines for my protection.

I kept my mouth closed and my mind open.

When it was over, I came home, ate dinner, and thanked God that I am a Man of logic and not a man of passion -- at least for that today.

BAD ASS KIDS

I love kids. I do. Really I do so I get offended when people assume that I have it in for little children. Hell, I am a kid at heart. It takes very little effort for me to spoil a child and get down on the floor and play with the same toys, games and color in the books. I like to engage children to see where their minds go, how they work and determine if they have the insight for great things or do I label them "special" and give them the "tard" card. Its that teacher aspect in me to challenge the mind and spirit of all the people I become engaged with. Often adults (mostly parents) complain that I am a spoiler of children. Spoiling in a sense that I would take whatever troubles or stress a child have and let them forget them for a moment. Tell a child they can't have candy and guess what, there is candy in the kids pocket. Can't have the Playstation? Guess who has Playstation for their birthday? I can honestly say that in my youth, I have had some very happy moments and I hold on to them like Angles hold the word of God. With uncles and older cousins, neighbors and grandparents that saw that as a child, I listened to my family, did my house work, did well in school and overall respected my place as a child, my reward to outsiders may have been seen as spoils, but I saw them as rewards for being a decent child.

My child raising philosophy is pretty basic, "Protection and Honesty" with children is what holds children in the esteem of adults and in return we hold "Structure and Discipline" for them as a foundation for proper living. It’s in degrees that we exercise structure and discipline that we struggle with as a society. Its in that old adage of "Spare the rod spoil the child" debate is where we divide as a nation culturally. I am a "rod" person believe it or not. So where am I going with this you ask? The following events all happened within a three-day period so bare with me as I vent a little.

Day 1

Long day and my energy level wasn’t at the highest and I know I needed to be indoors as soon as possible. I watched the kids running up and down the street with their costumes on going door-to-door looking for candy and treats. Trick or Treat ringing in the air all in unison. All this activity reminding me of my youth when I knew my bag of treats will be the death of the thousands of dollars in dental work my parents put into my month but it was the one day I knew I could get high on sugar and have my parents wish they could commit me to a psyche ward for overt hyper-activity.

So I’m walking home knowing my day will soon be done so I can lock myself behind the door of my personal sanctuary when all of a sudden, POW. Right in the jaw I get hit with something hard. So hard, I grab my mouth to see if blood was drawn. As the shock of the impact begins to wear off and the pain begins, I turn to see a kid try and hide behind a tree. The kid must have been about 11 or 12. I didn’t care if he was 1 or 91 because I immediately went into a red zone. As I begin to commit a major crime, a group of kids cut me off and begged me to listen to them telling me, “It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him!”

Clearly the hiding kid, who I KNEW, hit me with a rock was the person. I still marched toward the kid knowing that I was going to beat them like Sofia beat up on Harpo in The Color Purple. When I get half way to the kid who now sees that I was an adult (better yet one of those crazy adults that have no problem going to jail for murder) he begins pleading to me that it was someone from some phantom building behind him that was throwing rocks – mind you I’m getting more piss’ed because he thinks I’m stupid now. Just as I begin the action to choking the boy my Guardian Angle snapped me out of my rage and tells me, “BABY, TODAY IS HALLOWEEN, A DAY WHICH CELEBRATES DEMONS AND DEMON LIKE BEHAVIOR. GO HOME AND GET YOUR MIND RIGHT."

So I paused, took a deep breath, looked at the boy (who was clearly in a panic) and his future Junior Mafia rug rats, and I let it go and left for home. I took a long hot shower as soon as I got in, ate a light meal and chilled in peace watching a slasher movie to release from that moment.

Day 2


There is this family that live above me. Mind you, I don’t like stereotyping people but they are from somewhere south of the boarder. Now the wife just had a baby, which by no account is a crime. The thing is, she has four kids all of which are a year apart. There is the husband who I know for fact is working two jobs, and the grandfather, old as dust. So the total number of people in their apartment is seven. Mind your, it a studio apartment that would be crowded if you only had two people living there. Since they moved in, I have had many discussions about noise and each time they shake their heads and agree to work on the problem until they close the door.

Now you recall me saying how much I like kids? Well these kids I don’t like. Not because they are kids but because their parents allows them to do whatever they want and do not listen. For a group of children less than 90 pounds combined, they move like 300-pound linebackers. These kids run, jump, drop spin, roll furniture, march, stomp, skip flip from 8 AM until 11 PM just before the father comes home.

So on this particular day these kid, possibly after O.D.’ing on candy, were Off-the-Chain. I must have knocked on the door at least 5 times asking the mother if you could control her kids. Her responses in broken English, “I try but they are hard to listen.” By my third visit I asked, “Do you want me to help you? Because I have a very good method that you can apply.” She said No.
By 8 PM, I was kicking her door. When she opened it I wanted to talk to her husband. YES I demanded to man of the house. Then Girl tried to jump bad at me saying she is sick and tired of me knocking on her door about her kids. Mind you, her kids are running around in the background writing on the walls, butt naked with food all over their face and dirty hands and feet. So then I told her she need to reign in them BAD ASS KIDS or begin looking for a new place to live because as of today, I am involving management. Then she played the, “I don’t speak English card”. And to her my response was, “But you do speak Immigration? Have your husband come see me if you have an issue with my knocking on your door.”

Now I know that was bad. I know I need to ask for forgiveness. BUT since then, it’s been quite and now I can sleep and enjoy my peace of mind.

Day 3

Had to go to the doctor. My annual check up. Again, not in the best of moods but it was going better than I had expected. So I’m in the waiting and looking to have a seat when the nurse tells me to have a seat near the door. As I get the seat, this little African kid about 4 years old decides to jump up on the chair. Not sitting but literally standing in the chair. So in my sweet voice I ask the kid, “Can I sit there please?” the kid looks at me and says, “No”.

OK. I look at the kid and then I look at the person next to the kid thinking that maybe she was his mother. Since she didn’t react I really didn’t know what to think, so I asked the kid a second time with a more firm tone of voice, “Can you get down so I can sit young man?” to which he said, “No”. And he stood there in the chair will an attitude as if he had marked the territory for ownership by peeing on the property.

“Boy if you don’t get off that damn chair I will beat your ass until you pass out! Now move before I snatch you up out the way!” I yelled at him. The kid didn’t expect that and in a moment of shock, he got down and stood across from me as I sat down in the chair. Now I can tell this was something new and unexpected but personally, I didn't care. The waiting room was quite as they all looked at me. I looked around at the others in the room and noticed that as the faces looked back toward mine, they all had a look of simple satisfaction. It then occurred to me that this kid had terrorizing everyone in the waiting room prior to my arrival but there was a fear to actively do something. I also noticed I was the only adult male in the room as well.

So I sit in the seat and begin to read a magazine when I feel this wind rush pass my face. I look up from my reading material and see this little kid swinging his fist inches in front of my face. At this moment I channeled my mother.

Now let me break from script down a little. When I was younger, my mother had a low tolerance with BAD ASS KIDS and did not have an issue with beating other peoples’ children. If the child crossed the line with profanity, vandalism, disrespect to elders, or just stepping outside a child’s place, you got beat. And if the mother had and issue, too often my mother and the other parent had at it as well. Momma didn't play. In this case, this Little Ashy Bea Bea Bush Baby from Darfur allowed my mother’s spirit to flow freely into my veins.

“Who’s kid this belongs to?” I bellowed, as I grabbed the kid by the collar. The boy’s eyes were as wide as saucers. The woman sitting next to me then grabs me and tells me that the mother is outside in the hall; and she’d go get her. She takes the little boy and sits him in a chair across from me and proceeds to get the mother. While gone, the child then begins a staring match. I was giving this kid that silent look that spoke volumes and all I thought about was seriously knowing who his father was so I could whop on his ass for busting his nut to bring this creature into existence.

The mother arrives with a dismissive attitude asking what was the problem and what did my child do to you? For which I replied back that her child had crossed a serious line with adults and you really need to address this before something happens beyond your control.

“Well did my child hit you?” she said.

“It don’t mater if he did or not, your child should know better than to raise his hand at an adult and how to behave in pubic with you here or not, especially when he thinks he can swing his fist at an adult and think there would be no consequences.” I said.

Not only was I surprised but also every adult in the waiting room when the mother’s response was, “I don’t see what the drama is all about, he’s just a baby.” She then proceeded to pack her things and left with her child.

Once she left the waiting room, the woman then got the mother from the next room (the same woman that I had initially asked if she was the kid's mother and ignored me) tells me she is a Corrections Officer for Rykers Prison and got involved because she know that if I had hit that child, she would have been forces to arrest me and she didn’t want to see that happen. (I laughed at her logic). She then continued, “Don’t worry, I’ll see him behind bars in about 8 years. Its his destiny with a mother like that.”