Just started a Haitian American Writers Group to see if maybe fugees in the New York City area might be interested in helping each other edit our works, get published and meet periodically to build together to help define what Haitian American literature is and isn't before someone else does it for us. Those who are interested can contact me directly at lifejak@aol.com or on Facebook where I'm also putting the word out. Gender, age, education, political views, religious or sexual standing not an issue. Just have something to say about being of Haitian descent and a passion for pan-african solidarity. Of course, knowing your griyo wouldn't hurt!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
New Haitian American Writers Group
Just started a Haitian American Writers Group to see if maybe fugees in the New York City area might be interested in helping each other edit our works, get published and meet periodically to build together to help define what Haitian American literature is and isn't before someone else does it for us. Those who are interested can contact me directly at lifejak@aol.com or on Facebook where I'm also putting the word out. Gender, age, education, political views, religious or sexual standing not an issue. Just have something to say about being of Haitian descent and a passion for pan-african solidarity. Of course, knowing your griyo wouldn't hurt!
Friday, November 13, 2009
What Your History Teacher Ain't Telling
Inventions by Blacks
Cell phone chip Henry T. Sampson 7/6/1971
Air conditioner Fredrick M. Jones 7/12/1949
Bicycle frame L.R. Johnson 10/10/1899
Clothes dryer G.T. Sampson 6/6/1862
Curtain rod S.R. Scratton 11/30/1889
Door knob O. Dorsey 12/10/1878
Eggbeater Willie Johnson 2/5/1884
Light bulb Lewis Latimer 3/21/1882
Elevator Alexander Miles 10/11/1867
Fire escape J.W. Winters 5/7/1878
Fire extinguisher T. Marshall 10/26/1872
Fountain pen W.B. Purvis 1/7/1890
Gas mask Garrett Morgan 10/13/1914
Golf tee T. Grant 12/12/1899
Guitar Robert F. Flemming, Jr. 3/3/1886
Horse shoe J. Ricks 3/30/1885
Ice cream scooper A.L. Cralle 2/2/1897
Key Chain J. Loudin 1/9/1894
Lantern Michael C. Harve 8/19/1884
Lawn mower L.A. Burr 5/19/1884
Lock W.A. Martin 7/23/1800’s
Mailbox Paul L. Downing 10/27/1891
Motor Frederick M. Jones 6/27/1939
Peanut butter George W. Carver circa 1896
Pencil sharpener J.L. Love 11/23/1897
Refrigerator J. Standard 6/14/1891
Sprinkler W. Smith 5/4/1897
Stove T.A. Carrington 7/25/1876
Thermostat syst. Frederick M. Jones 2/23/1960
Traffic light M.A. Cherry 5/6/1886
Watch Benjamin Banneker circa 1700’s
When you know you come from brillance, you don't walk around wearing your pants low enough to show your drawers, no matter who says it's cool, because the best in you knows that dumbing down isn't cool and isn't supposed to be US!!!
Cell phone chip Henry T. Sampson 7/6/1971
Air conditioner Fredrick M. Jones 7/12/1949
Bicycle frame L.R. Johnson 10/10/1899
Clothes dryer G.T. Sampson 6/6/1862
Curtain rod S.R. Scratton 11/30/1889
Door knob O. Dorsey 12/10/1878
Eggbeater Willie Johnson 2/5/1884
Light bulb Lewis Latimer 3/21/1882
Elevator Alexander Miles 10/11/1867
Fire escape J.W. Winters 5/7/1878
Fire extinguisher T. Marshall 10/26/1872
Fountain pen W.B. Purvis 1/7/1890
Gas mask Garrett Morgan 10/13/1914
Golf tee T. Grant 12/12/1899
Guitar Robert F. Flemming, Jr. 3/3/1886
Horse shoe J. Ricks 3/30/1885
Ice cream scooper A.L. Cralle 2/2/1897
Key Chain J. Loudin 1/9/1894
Lantern Michael C. Harve 8/19/1884
Lawn mower L.A. Burr 5/19/1884
Lock W.A. Martin 7/23/1800’s
Mailbox Paul L. Downing 10/27/1891
Motor Frederick M. Jones 6/27/1939
Peanut butter George W. Carver circa 1896
Pencil sharpener J.L. Love 11/23/1897
Refrigerator J. Standard 6/14/1891
Sprinkler W. Smith 5/4/1897
Stove T.A. Carrington 7/25/1876
Thermostat syst. Frederick M. Jones 2/23/1960
Traffic light M.A. Cherry 5/6/1886
Watch Benjamin Banneker circa 1700’s
When you know you come from brillance, you don't walk around wearing your pants low enough to show your drawers, no matter who says it's cool, because the best in you knows that dumbing down isn't cool and isn't supposed to be US!!!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
K Workshops
Besides commenting on pan-african concerns and writing books for and about hard to reach populations, I also teach language arts and urban psychology, and do workshops on topics ranging from general life skills to alternative education. Past invitations include Guildford College in Greensboro College, NC and The Graduate Center in NY. The following is a list of workshops I've either done or
are on-going for those interested in having me come speak to their students and participants--
Before You Fly Off - The Workshop: Saving Our Teen Daughters
The New Rite of Passage - Black Girl Power!
English Can Be Fun -- Helping Students Fight Their Fear of Writing
Educating Urban Youth - When the Curicculum Doesn't Fit
Counseling the African American Male - The Audacity of Not Judging
Trouble Girls - Working With Female Teen Bullies
Single Parenting - Parent Stress/Peer Pressure
The Marginalized Student - From Identifying to Celebrating
Am I in the Right Major? - Learning and Developing College Skills
Prison Bizness - Why Are So Many Black Men in Jail?
Teaching the Young, Gifted and Incarcerated
You Talkin' to Me? - The 411 on Conflict Resolution
Gay Youth - Counseling Them, Counseling Us
Beyond the Bling - Black Male Self-Awareness
Black Masculinities - Hyper-Masculinity in the Black Community
Love and Happiness - Developing a Relationship With Yourself First!
Creating Your Job and Finding True Purpose
Learning How to Better Manage Your Time
Wholistic Wellness - Creating a Positive Environment For Success
Writing the Autobiography - Leaving Your Written Legacy
The University Male Center - Challenges, Tools, and Leadership
The New Academic Advisor - A Different, More Wholistic Approach
Despierta! - How Culture Can Affect Academic Performance
Toxic People - The Art of Recognizing and Avoiding
Doing It Your Way - How to Self-Publish Your Book
Doing It Another Way - How to Create, Market and Sell Your T-Shirts
No Rage, No Guilt - The Difficult Process of Addressing Race-ism
K Books
Before You Fly Off-- A Father Offers Advice to His Teenage Daughter
Before You Fly Off-- Volume Two (Released July, 2009)
The Dredlocks Tree-- Prose and Poetry
Throw-- Photos and Words (tba)
Recent Essays
My Two Ladies
When Dumb Wasn't Cool
Bang, Bang. I'm Dead!
Racismo-- Let's Talk About It
Letter to President Obama
Slave Auction/White Boy
Put a Dent in It - A Response to Racial Profiling
Why All Community Colleges Need a Male Center?
Black Masculinities
Youth Participation in Neighborhood and Community Settings
Monkey Doo
28 Days and A Mule - The Trouble With Black History Month
What Are You Doing Here? - A Conversation With a Former Rikers Island Student
My next project will be on the overall development of young American Black males; how parents can better relate to their troubled sons; their education and spiritual wellness; sexual and social identity concerns; hyper-masculinity and buffoonery; and how we can help them define and discover their purpose.
For orders or feedback, feel free to contact me at Lifejak@aol, and thanks again for your interest and support.
Monday, November 9, 2009
25 Things Blacks Don't Wanna Hear....Again
1. We'd rather laugh at the comedy of Chris Rock's film, Good Hair rather than take the time to examine why we still consider 'good hair' as being straight and long;
2. We make fortunes off our buffoonery and vulgarity, and call it music;
3. We're waiting for Obama to raise our kids and clean up our hoods for us;
4. We allow our athletes to showcase their mansions and expensive cars without expecting them to give back to the Community and stand for something;
5. We still prefer light-skinned sistas over dark-skinned ones, especially in our music videos;
6. We don't give Solange Knowles--the one with depth--props for doing away with the wig and weave thing to show young Black girls that you don't need accessories to look and feel beautiful;
7. We need to walk with a pit bull in order to feel important;
8. We're afraid of telling our young boys (and a few grown ass men) that wearing your pants low enough to show your behind is not only tired but sad;
9. We don't attend parent/teacher conferences;
10. Our public school system fails our children, especially our males and yet we still expect positive results;
11. We'd rather look good than feel good;
12. We think therapy means using a skin exfoliator;
13. We refuse to let go our wigs and weaves because we love White people more than we love ourselves;
14. We forget that the male version of a relaxer is a texturizer, and that brothas too have issues with their hair texture;
15. We don't question the contradictions of the Church;
16. We make fun of africentric Blacks to avoid our psychosis;
17. We don't know what post-slavery psychosis means, but we act it out every day;
18. We think street culture is Black culture;
19. We'll buy an $80,000 truck rather than spend $10 on a self-help book;
20. We think ethnic and fly is a contradiction;
21. We dis Blacks from other countries, out of pure ignorance and competition;
22. We celebrate the myth of Langston Hughes, but not the man himself;
23. We'll support a singer who likes urinating on girls to the point where we'll even buy the video, but we think same sex marriage is digusting;
24. We suffer from internalized racism, religious indoctrination, depression, and denial;
25. We can't handle the truth.
2. We make fortunes off our buffoonery and vulgarity, and call it music;
3. We're waiting for Obama to raise our kids and clean up our hoods for us;
4. We allow our athletes to showcase their mansions and expensive cars without expecting them to give back to the Community and stand for something;
5. We still prefer light-skinned sistas over dark-skinned ones, especially in our music videos;
6. We don't give Solange Knowles--the one with depth--props for doing away with the wig and weave thing to show young Black girls that you don't need accessories to look and feel beautiful;
7. We need to walk with a pit bull in order to feel important;
8. We're afraid of telling our young boys (and a few grown ass men) that wearing your pants low enough to show your behind is not only tired but sad;
9. We don't attend parent/teacher conferences;
10. Our public school system fails our children, especially our males and yet we still expect positive results;
11. We'd rather look good than feel good;
12. We think therapy means using a skin exfoliator;
13. We refuse to let go our wigs and weaves because we love White people more than we love ourselves;
14. We forget that the male version of a relaxer is a texturizer, and that brothas too have issues with their hair texture;
15. We don't question the contradictions of the Church;
16. We make fun of africentric Blacks to avoid our psychosis;
17. We don't know what post-slavery psychosis means, but we act it out every day;
18. We think street culture is Black culture;
19. We'll buy an $80,000 truck rather than spend $10 on a self-help book;
20. We think ethnic and fly is a contradiction;
21. We dis Blacks from other countries, out of pure ignorance and competition;
22. We celebrate the myth of Langston Hughes, but not the man himself;
23. We'll support a singer who likes urinating on girls to the point where we'll even buy the video, but we think same sex marriage is digusting;
24. We suffer from internalized racism, religious indoctrination, depression, and denial;
25. We can't handle the truth.
Bang Bang, I'm Dead!
I am a Black man. I am not allowed to love. I can sex up, dribble a ball, roll dice, and talk smack. But I do not have the luxury of expressing myself in a way that makes me a whole human being. I am merely fragments of myself, longing for emotional rescue from the hands that prevent me from becoming an individual. I do not yet know my name, though there are several words to describe me— buck, stud, mack, nigga; and dog, thug, boy, nigga. Words that limit my voice and movement, and help shape the contours of my masculinity. I am the new version of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, disheveled and exposed for the sole convenience of the media and anglo-centered research whose face is lost in exaggerated stats. I am brilliant only in my swagger but arrogant when I attempt to defy my confinement. I am not even allowed to love my brother. A burden I manage to turn into an art form, if not everyday habit. I am forced, however, to love strangers who keep me chained to their perceptions of me. For my reverence is not necessarily in how I survive my struggles but in the things I never say; things I am not permitted to say. I am hood. I am not hood. I am somewhere between what I think I am and who I long to be. I am everyone’s terror. I am everyone’s sexual objectification. It all depends on how much I tell my mirror when no one is around to judge or stifle me. I am resilient, yes, but not afforded the right to reinvent myself in a manner that reveals my true nature. I do not have a true nature. I do, of course. But it is practically illegal for me to be a man when bombarded with both the sexual obsessions of racist White folk and the buffoonery that comes with confusing street culture for Black pride. These generational attacks infest my natural ability to walk on air, since I am so much more than the caricatures that bind me and far more nurturing than even my sister credits me with. For she loves the possibility of me, but not me. She made that clear when I was but a child, not yet proficient in the language of silence and withdrawing, when she chastised me for crying. She said what everyone tells me, Man up or be ridiculed; sometimes given away. And so I man up, even if it means suppressing my right to simply be; to abide by her standards and unrealistic expectations which in turn helps determine how distant I am with my son whose own tendency to avoid any form of intimacy is a result of my futile attempt to please her, if not reach her. So we both man up to avoid the rejection and total castration, placing video games and gangster mentality over real fatherly connection. The kind of closeness that is expected from all other fathers, except me— the americanized Black man, conditioned to think with his gun and not his heart. Sons do not sit on their fathers’ lap. They do in Cuba. Sons do not kiss their fathers hello. They do in Europe. Sons are not held by their fathers. They are in Africa. And sons do not answer back I love you to their fathers. Not cool. Not manly. Not brolic. Not nigga at all.
I am a Black man. An enigma of sorts, basking on the stage of an elaborate play and all the while not knowing for sure where to stand and how to stand it. I can recite lines from an incorrigible Rapper and fulfill the prophecies of the deadbeat father, but I am discouraged from seeing my life beyond the hype. New terminologies give way to new dichotomies— a baldie, a fade, a shape up, locks and waves, cornrow, caesar, locks. Words that typically define barbershop conversation yet offer no solutions to community denials. To some, I am still the sleeping giant. To others, I am merely in the way; and I pretend to know the difference. If I come to resolving my disposition; if I am given the right to reveal who I am behind the masks then settle it as I see fit, then I would feel safe enough to say that I, too, love and that I cherish the hands that do not exploit me but, rather, provide me with the kind of hold that fully celebrates me. For I am the focal point of discussion at every state of our union and still, my Family refuses to see me. I am divided. I am divided between fleeing into the arms of outsiders who are willing to help me discover my true self and fulfilling the illusions of the very people who named me.
I am a Black man. I am not allowed to love. Just trucks and saddle, and bang bang, I’m dead!
I am a Black man. An enigma of sorts, basking on the stage of an elaborate play and all the while not knowing for sure where to stand and how to stand it. I can recite lines from an incorrigible Rapper and fulfill the prophecies of the deadbeat father, but I am discouraged from seeing my life beyond the hype. New terminologies give way to new dichotomies— a baldie, a fade, a shape up, locks and waves, cornrow, caesar, locks. Words that typically define barbershop conversation yet offer no solutions to community denials. To some, I am still the sleeping giant. To others, I am merely in the way; and I pretend to know the difference. If I come to resolving my disposition; if I am given the right to reveal who I am behind the masks then settle it as I see fit, then I would feel safe enough to say that I, too, love and that I cherish the hands that do not exploit me but, rather, provide me with the kind of hold that fully celebrates me. For I am the focal point of discussion at every state of our union and still, my Family refuses to see me. I am divided. I am divided between fleeing into the arms of outsiders who are willing to help me discover my true self and fulfilling the illusions of the very people who named me.
I am a Black man. I am not allowed to love. Just trucks and saddle, and bang bang, I’m dead!
Simply Priceless!
The best gift from my Before You Fly Off project was when a group of fly girls huddled together to read my book, saying things like Yep, that's so true!...No, he didn't say that!...Why don't they have books like this in school?...They need to let the boys read this too!!!!...
I let go of some good guvament money when I left my phd program. On a mere hunch that I'd be happier writing their story instead of somebody else's. And when them girls showed me all that love, I knew I was on my divine path! I might revisit the doctoral gig. But in the meantime, I'm enjoying writing for and about hard to reach populations such as these here young ladies who do want an education and stable life, but don't quite fit the formula handed to them. When we offer alternatives to youth that work for them and not against them, they give back to us not only stable and constructive lives but smiles that are simply priceless!!!
I let go of some good guvament money when I left my phd program. On a mere hunch that I'd be happier writing their story instead of somebody else's. And when them girls showed me all that love, I knew I was on my divine path! I might revisit the doctoral gig. But in the meantime, I'm enjoying writing for and about hard to reach populations such as these here young ladies who do want an education and stable life, but don't quite fit the formula handed to them. When we offer alternatives to youth that work for them and not against them, they give back to us not only stable and constructive lives but smiles that are simply priceless!!!
Who Did It?
Folks been asking who did the cover of my latest book. It's photojournalist, Ocean Morisset. A self-taught Haitian American photographer, he's travelled to such places as Cuba, the Southwest, Central America and Haiti to bring back the stories we often don't get to hear about; much less, see. Of course, he also tells the various stories of New York City whether it's a young Black father feeding his newborn on a subway train or Central Park's colorful transition from summer to autumn.
He's also the only artist I know who can make a simple photo of a rusted nail look like a friendly cat!!! Checkout his work by visiting http://omorisset.myexpose.com and look for his first photo collection this Christmas.
p.s.-- I actually took this shot of Morisset while visiting fellow writer and friend, Jason Trask up in Maine. I'm better with words, but every once in a while I show my own cam skillz!!!....Peace and gratitude, everyone.
He's also the only artist I know who can make a simple photo of a rusted nail look like a friendly cat!!! Checkout his work by visiting http://omorisset.myexpose.com and look for his first photo collection this Christmas.
p.s.-- I actually took this shot of Morisset while visiting fellow writer and friend, Jason Trask up in Maine. I'm better with words, but every once in a while I show my own cam skillz!!!....Peace and gratitude, everyone.
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