Things Done Changed

OK, I admit it, I confess, I have a very macabre habit or maybe it's a macabre hobby. I don't know when a hobby becomes a habit or a habit becomes a hobby. But I digress. When I get on the Internet, invariably, the second or third thing I do is click on Philly.com to see the latest bad news in the decidedly violent East Coast city that's next to my home town. I either do this because I have been conditioned by the media or because I have an innate unexplainable desire for knowledge of mayhem and chaos. Unfortunately, I am never disappointed because as you know Philly's homicide rate has been drenching the national media in blood for several years now. It's seems that the city's criminal element has been determined like Marlo from The Wire to make the city's name "Ring out" as a very dangerous and risky place to be. But, on September 15, 2008 I clicked on the web site and was shocked to see the headline "Yeadon Man Killed in Early Morning Robbery". Hey, I'm from Yeadon, WTF?

The borough of Yeadon, Pennsylvania is a suburb that sits on the southwest hip of Philadelphia. It is the home of William T. Kerr, the founder of Flag Day, the Nile Swim Club, the first Black owned private pool in America, and Holy Cross Cemetery, burial place of Angelo "The Don" Bruno and Phillip "Chicken Man" Testa, the last two Philly mob bosses to get wacked. I would testify before any grand jury that growing up in Yeadon was perfect. Everybody knew everybody, it was safe, and we had basement house parties that people are still talking about today. Yeadon, like most of the Philadelphia metro area was segregated. We (Black people)lived on one side and White people lived on the other. We both knew where the line was and we only crossed it to go to school or participate in sports. (Well maybe some folks crossed it to get their jungle fever on). It was way cool and nobody had a beef because we were separate but equal. Then, around 1980 a few of my friends moved to the other end of Yeadon and White Flight jumped off in a "Yeadon is now going to hell in a wave cap", kind-of-way. The demographic went from forty percent Black in Nineteen Eighty, to seventy percent Black in Nineteen Eighty Four. Again, I didn't think anything about it because I could still walk anywhere I wanted at any time of the day or night without worrying about not making it back home. New Black faces popped up in the stores, at school, and on the basketball courts. Most were from Philly and most were cool. But that was Black America B.C. (Before Crack) and by the time I moved out of Yeadon for good in 1996, it was a different place. It was all Black or at least it seemed that way from the many young brother's choosing to spend most of their non-school, non-work hours striking gangster poses on the main thoroughfare. I remember thinking if I saw this in Philly, I would think they were slinging drugs, but they couldn't be doing that here, this is Yeadon. In the Fall of Two thousand and Six I got a terrifying call from my in-laws, they had been car jacked right in front of their house, in Yeadon. They wasted no time in selling their house and moving to what seemed like the other side of the world. I doubt that they have ever been back and if asked they would say "For what?" and who could blame them? Then on September Fifteenth, Two thousand and Eight, a man gets killed early in the morning in his driveway in what is said to have been a hit. Nobody has ever been even brought in for questioning for the crime.

Maybe it is me being simple, but growing up in Yeadon I figured that it would always have that Black Mayberry RFD feel. I would always ride through the streets with my horn constantly beeping and my hand constantly waving because I would always know everyone. But, it never quite goes that way. You move away, your friends move away, and all the people who were older than you pass away or move themselves. It's a shame but when these transitions occur it is never for the better. I mean when was the last time you heard that people from the city moved in somewhere and that place got safer? But, it still feels strange when "Home" becomes the "Hood". When all your memories seem threatened by the reality of the now grim place where you used to feel safe and hoped to one day return so that your kids could have the same pristine childhood that you did. Sadly, my last familial connection to Yeadon, ended when my grandfather passed away two months ago. I still have friends there but it's no longer home. But even sadder still is there's something deep in me that says I don't want to go back because it's dangerous there. It's yet another place where anything can happen at any time, and no one will answer for it. That is sad beyond words.

on this day

breathing this new air
while watching shards of
the shattered glass ceiling
fall at my feet
stepping on them toward new dreams
toward new ways of thinking and believing
we forge slave blood, lynch smoke,
and freedom dances into new keys for
the kingdom
on this day I cry for my grandparents and
my children
and believe in the impossible in my lifetime
I pour libations into America and
watch ghosts rise from Mississippi swamps
and the depths of the Atlantic
fly toward DC with smiles wide
as the middle passage
I tally votes like back lashes
like escape attempts and
every one seems worth it
every tear for stolen folks and
love sold down the road
seems worth it
now finally maybe possibly
the American dream
seems real

Not Getting my Hopes Up

I had an interesting semi-self initiated confrontation last Sunday while exiting the left leaning, liberal stuffed, Whole Foods Market near where I reside. Whilst two friends, who also happen to be six foot plus African-American males, and I, walked to our cars, a White American lady crossed our paths and felt compelled to, I'm sure she felt, compliment us. "Wow, you three look like a basketball team," she said with a big ol' tofu eating smile on her face. Now in my forty two years, I have become quite armor plated to this kind of well meaning but blatantly racist commentary from sons and daughters of the establishment because of it's frequency. Most times I choose to continue on my journey to the store to get Kool cigarettes, Kool Aid, and a Jet magazine (I'm kidding). But in that moment, under that sun, in this racially charged election year, I said "You know Ms. that is racist. Why do we have to be a basketball team? Is that the best you think we could do?" I should have asked her if the three of us had suits on, would we have looked like three basketball players going to court? Needless to say, her flabber was gasted and though she did mumble an apology I know she didn't have a clue where I was coming from. I thought about attempting to expound on my statement but who's got that kind of time in a super market parking lot in Sherman Oaks in the middle of the summer?



I have never considered myself to be a radical, never wholeheartedly identified with the Panthers, or Garveyites, or even Operation Push, whatever it is that they do. I figured America was ostensibly founded by racist slave owners and racism is woven deeply into the fabric of the quilt that's supposed to be covering all of us equally, so just deal with it. But, since the day Mr. Obama began his campaign, until this very minute, I've heard way more times than makes sense "This election isn't about race, it's about experience and qualification and blah blah blah..." I actually heard this White father of my son's friend, who was the most anti-Bush, anti-republican guy in the country, until Hillary lost, say, "I want to vote for Barak but I don't know if he will keep the country safe," When I asked him what he thought Obama would do to suddenly make the country unsafe, he could not articulate it in any logical way. Didn't C. Reezy (Condeleeza Rice) come out and say she believed that Barak can keep the country safe? What more validation does he need? On the radio I have heard commentators who were again, up until Hillary dropped out, the most vehement anti-war, anti-republican people, who said on several occasions, we cannot let another republican in the White House under any circumstances. But, now say they don't know who they are going to vote for. They've said that they would never ever vote for a party that is not pro-choice, who would keep the troops in Iraq, and who would not support gay marriage but now it's somehow different. Is it the issues really White America? As my late Aunt Annie would say when somebody tried to pull the okey-doke during Pinochle, "Who do you think you are talking to?



There's a Filipino guy at my job who I want to shake the piss out of, not for anything that he's done, but for what he doesn't do. He doesn't acknowledge me; as a matter of fact he shrinks from me. He moves to the side when he sees me coming and stands ten feet away from me at the printer. I have never argued with, threatened, or mad dogged this man at a stoplight. I do acknowledge that if you ever watch the news, read the paper, or especially watch Cops, I can understand thinking that Black men are some sort of lowland gorilla/rabbit hybrid, but I've worked with the guy for seven years and have yet to car jack him or tag my set on his cubicle. I say all this to say that the residue of slavery still stains this country like blue berry juice on dentures and we, African-Americans have to deal with it every single second despite what any non-Black might believe. How many times have you been in a situation with one another Black person and something racist go down and you look at each other and shake your head? You know you could never explain what you're feeling, it's too much. That's why anyone who questions whether race is an issue in this election is either smoking space crack or has just been born. When ten percent of the population used to be owned by the other ninety percent, apparently it takes more than a century and a half to resolve the four hundred years of bondage. Apologies for slavery be damned, until the sons and daughters of both the slavers and the slaves can talk about what's really going on regarding race in this country open and honestly, America will always be banging its head against the auction block. The biggest test on race in American history will occur on November fourth Two Thousand and Eight. That will be the day when voters will close themselves away behind those little curtains in courthouses, libraries, and in my neighborhood the Staples, and see if race is really the non-issue in this election that many would try to have you believe. Judging by the Filipino guy in my office, I'm not getting my hopes up.

Pointless Post on Fatherhood

At this point it's hard for me to look at this picture and not cry. Hard because of the happiness on my father's face, hard because my father actually held me, hard because of the incredible potential in this picture. See, my father's been around my whole life. Been around like a guy standing outside an Army recruiting office who wants to go inside but doesn't know if he can sign up for such a long term commitment. My father knows me but he doesn't know "me". He doesn't know my left leaning geo-political views, doesn't know that I like Brazilian cinema, or that I always wanted to take a trip with him, anywhere. My father and I have never ever had a real conversation. We have never had a talk about sex, drugs, violence, death, or his love for West Philly bars and alcohol. My father has always refused to talk to me. I believe he'd rather throw a million dollars at me (if he had it to throw) than have an honest conversation with me about anything deeper than the Philadelphia Eagles. But, at least I know my father. That is something that unfortunately fifty percent of my friends can't claim. At least, I can call him and say hello. But, beyond hello do we ever really say anything?

This is my son Mingus and I. Needless to say he is my whole world. I believe I feel for him much as my father felt for me in the first picture. I believe my father wanted the best for me, wanted me to have more than he ever did when he was a boy. I believe my father wanted me to succeed and make him glow with pride. But where did it change? When did my father decide that I was too much work? When was that first night when he chose to stay out in the street instead of seeing me before I fell asleep? I don't know. He won't talk to me about it. I play catch with Mingus. I take him to swimming lessons and to soccer practice and I'm always sitting right across from him when he's getting his hair cut. I'm not saying that to get a medal. Like Chris Rock said some Black men want credit for what they are supposed to do. Not me, I do for Mingus because I am supposed to but deeper still, inside me there is something that compels me to be a father. There is a mechanism/impulse that will not allow me to not be there for him even when he doesn't need me. Maybe it's my subconscious driving me to make up for my dad's shortcoming or maybe it's my fear of allowing Mingus to grow up with me just hanging around, there, but emotionally inaccessible.

This is my father and I last Christmas. There are approximately forty years between the first picture and this last picture. Forty years of life between us. Forty years of potential left unfilled, like a Christmas present that was never opened. Our relationship now consists of short visits and shorter conversations on the phone. I live in LA and he lives in Philly. He has never been to visit me and I never expected him to. He set the bar for fatherhood low and managed to sneak under it. But I still love him. Love him like he was Cliff Huxtable, love him like he played catch with me, and encouraged me to keep playing the saxophone when I quit, or like he ever gave me any advice on what not to do. I can't blame him for who he is, can't blame him for what he didn't do, say, or feel. I mean I could, but what would it get me? This is a pointless post because I don't even know what I'm trying to say about my father, myself, or my son. Pointless because there is no advice at the end about what I learned or what this story could mean to you. But maybe, it's just good to get some things from the inside to the outside so you can move on.

Blowing up our own spot!

I am not a Martin Lawrence fan. Never have been, probably never will be. I wasn't a fan even during the first two years of his show, when the stories made sens and before it devolved into a weekly minstrel spectacle. But, it was with an open mind and some expectations of laughter that I popped in the DVD for Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins. I do remember my highly sensitive coon–meter registering a few blips when the movie was in production and the title was revealed, but after the cast was announced, I decompressed and added it to my mental movie list.

The movie was entertaining; Mike Epps, Monique, and Green Mile (Michael Clark Duncan) provided some hardy and unexpected laughs and even Mr. Lawrence caused me to chortle and guffaw during several slapstickish scenes. The story was solid, if greatly predictable and the theme of "family" was Walton-esque and sufficiently cockle warming. But, throughout the movie, and especially at the end, sticking me in my conscious like a drunken tattoo artist, were characters who cursed at each other across the dinner table, cursed in front of their parents, and lastly Martin, who, in the supposedly triumphant scene at the end, ejects his gold-digging fiancé from his car with an enthusiastic "Bounce bitch,", which his son co-signs with a "Yeah dad!". I'm no prude but I know that this wouldn't fly with any non-movie family I know.

I confess, I am the first person to crack up at an expertly placed "Bitch" or "Bastard" in a screenplay but that is only when it's coming from the mouths of venomous villainous characters or anti-heroes who have more than a few issues. How many times have we seen a sister in a Black movie verbally abuse a brother to the point that the audience is audibly urging her to either shut up or urging the verbal abusee to slap her. Then, after she is inevitably slapped, punched, or worse, the audience erupts in cheers. The worst part is half or more than half of the cheering audiences are female. So then why are we surprised when we are out in public and here some teenager call an adult a "bitch" or when we hear parents calling their sometimes infant- aged children things that would make a marine blush? It's sad to, but the media has far too much influence on our self-image and somehow being disrespectful has come to represent keeping it real in terms of being Black. I know this is the tip of the tip of the iceberg, but when we have the chance to tell our own stories why we have to blow up our own spot? Feel me?

The Ghost of Diversity

If you want to get an idea of the ridiculous paucity of Black people working in a creative capacity in TV, an apt comparison would be if in the movie Horton Hears a Who, there was another smaller world on a speck of dust on the eyelash of one of the whos, who lived in that world, which was on the speck of dust that Horton, the elephant was carrying. Is it really that bad? Maybe not, but even on a good day, it sure seems like it.

Several years ago there was a call to arms by Black leaders (I know, ha ha!) who all of a sudden found media cachet by hollering about the lack of diversity in television. Why is there no diversity in the casts of these network shows? Why is there no diversity in the writer's room on these network shows? Why is there no diversity amongst the show runners and executive producers of these network TV shows? Suddenly, faster than a paparazzi flash bulb exploding in the faces of BeyonJay, all over Hollywood, diversity initiatives starting popping up like zits on a soda drinking teenager. There was a frenzy of excitement because it seemed like something significant was finally happening and for once being Black in the TV business was a good thing. But, of course, it was short lived and after a few people got some interviews and an even fewer number got actual jobs, the fervor for diversity exited the minds of TV power players as fast as it was forced in.

Sadly, but to the surprise of no one who pays attention to such things, TV is back to being whiter than bleached teeth and Black people interested in seeing someone who looks like them on the tube are now given the unbelievable choice of The Game, House of Payne, and Under One Roof, none of which anyone would call Must See TV and some would say they aren't even, Might-Maybe-Glance-at-Two-Seconds- of- a-Scene-TV. Doubly sad, in this age of watching TV on every device but a can opener, prospects for this wackness changing are slim and none and slim just got deported. I hate to end this post on such a Dick Cheney-esque darkly cynical note, but nobody's even talking about this issue anywhere any more. It's as if TV is American Idol and Black people wanting to work in creating and writing for TV ,are some off-key, clown-ass contestant who was sent home after he was told, "We'll see you next year for tryouts but know in advance, we aren't checking for you,"