Monday, May 24, 2010

Haitian American Writers Group


Starting a Haitian American Writers Group to see if maybe fugees in the NYC area might be interested in helping each other edit our works, get published and meet periodically to build together and help define what Haitian American
literature is and isn't before someone else does it for us. 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, May 23, 2010

How'You Like Her Now?! - The Makings of an Irish Rasta

At a time when Prince was making CosbyBlacks mouss-up their hair so they could emulate him, a bald headed White chic from Ireland landed on us the way the terminator lady landed on Earth-- kaboom!!! Those of us in the know knew she was already in perfect anger mode with her previous album, The Lion and the Cobra. She bumrushed Prince's revolution, stole his song and then overnight became an international icon, leaving Prince a Dear John letter, Nothing Compares to You.


Since then, Sinead and America been having a love/hate relationship. We love her voice. We hate what she got to say...


She tried toning it down by delivering a more pop record but it didn't sell, and it wasn't her. She doesn't do boop-boop-pee-do! But Americans love bullsht. We like the appearance of things much better than reality, so when Sinead was asked to host Saturday Night Live and used that platform to tear up the Pope's picture and yell out, "This is the Real Enemy!" we pulled out the Frankenstein torches! It didn't matter that priests were being handslapped for their sexual crimes. Middle America saw her social awareness as plain rudeness and blasphemy for even questioning the Church. So they boycotted her music. And if an artist tried to bring her on stage, she was bood-off. In one concert Kris Kristoferson had to console her from being so humiliated and ostracized. Even after that, folks still refused to forgive her. So she said, fuck it! I'll become a priest and kaboom again, she was a priest! Fast-forward to today, what with all the politics over the Pope being in denial and Middle America now ready to talk about it. Child sexual abuse in the Church....How'you like her now?!

What makes Sinead O'Connor special is her ability to stand on her own in the face of total rejection and isolation. It's more than just being blaclisted. It's about people fucking with your self-esteeem. So when we hear that the Pope may have to testify in court, crazy isn't so crazy after all.

Since the treuce, Sinead has managed to sell again in the States. With Americans angry at government and the establishment these days, she gets to sit at the table again. Mostly everyone digs Sinead now. Some ignore her politics and just focus on the voice. That crying voice. Her childhood was Irish gangsta hood. When she said Fire in Babylon she wasn't necessarily talking about America but about coming out of imprisonment; about faith and courage. That's why she gets Black people. Her last cd was with a rasta band, Sly and Robbie. Same crying, heartfelt voice that fits well with the reggae rhythm. The names of the tracks sound more like prophesies, to me--

Jah Nuh Dead
Marcus Garvey
Door Peep
He Prayed
Y Mas Gan
Curly Locks
Vampire
Prophet Has Arise
Downpressor Man
Throw Down Your Arms
Untold Stories
War


It's finally then that you realize how this woman's range is unlimited and her cause consistent. Of course, sht got complicated when she once again made headlines. This time for announcing she's a rastafarian. It's a conflict of sorts since she's White-skinned and doesn't live strictly off the land, and also because she's bisexual. Something rastas are supposed to find appauling and evil, according to catholic teachings. Maybe Sly and Robbie don't mind cos they're getting paid; and posing with a sexual demon ain't so bad when you ignore tradition and focus on spirit instead. Or maybe rasta's a state of mind til you put Church into it...



I used to be rasta, til brothas started talkin bout bashing antimans and digging up graves...


I tried the Nation too. But I didn't like the idea of learning Arabic just to prove I'm muslim; or going from one massa (English) to another and having sistas walk behind be. I like when they walk alongside me. And I tried Buddah; tried Vodun. Even tried yoga but i couldn't sit still long enough. Now I'm just Black and tryina be me!

Saturday, May 22, 2010

I Have Many Sons...



One of my sons, esugbemi karade reached priesthood in a traditional Yoruba ceremony by the sea...I have many sons. Five mothers. One madame. Three warriors. Four if you count November. And one father. One daughter. Many names. One face...

Sean Penn and the Reconstruction of Haiti


This is what I mean when I say that sometimes water is thicker than blood. Because while it was the French who initially put Haiti in the condition she is today, it's Black faces and Black hands who are using poverty and devastation as an excuse to commit their evils. Sean Penn recently testified to congress about crime lords and gang members terrorizing international camps and areas outside the bubbles. This is why donors need to make sure their monies are going straight to the people of Haiti and not the puppet Haitian leaders whose role is to help keep the island in dependency mode while satisfying their egos and greed. As messiah-like as Wyclef Jean may seem to the people of Ayiti, not even he can punch a hole in the already sick and paralyzing government of what we once called the pearl of the caribbean. And Sean Penn can't re-train Haitian police on his own. He would if he could. I think we know him well enough by now. But it takes the U.S. government and other countries whose hands have Haitian blood on them to put the puppet strings down and put the focus on security instead, proper distribution of aid, investment, financial stability, infrastructure and then reconstruction. Not the other way around.When I see Sean I don't see White guilt. And when I see Wyclef, I don't see self-hatred....Sometimes water is thicker than blood.

Friday, May 21, 2010

The Other Pele


I think it's safe to say that everyone around the globe knows who Pele was. If you don't, you're not only living under a rock. You'dead! But the other Pele was Justin Fashanu who represented England. Those of us who are steadily weatching the 2010 World Cup got that die hard soccer appeal. We think more internationally; our scope is wider. We know what it means for the Games to take place in South Africa and for Angelique Kudjo to be the queen of ceremonies--I'm actually writing this while watching USA play the Brits; gives me even more inspiration to be in the moment...England's goalkeeper just caught the ball but then it slipped out of his hands; and the game just started!!!--But like I was saying, futbol is an international sport transcending all colors, income, ethnic and language barriers. There's no nigga smack in soccer. That's more of an American thing. And did you know that in South Africa the word for 'nigger' is kafir? But you won't hear 'What'up, kafir?' or 'That's my main kafir!' Brothas there just don't play that. Only in the States where you see Black boys and Black men call each other by the same derogatory word their plantation masters used to call them. Soccer moms try to turn the Game into a sign of privilege, but futbol is a serious, socio-political force to the rest of us. Just ask Brasil. When they win a Cup, it's not only parties and more parties but multi-ethnic pride. It's the Brazillian jungle letting out all the ancestors, all the slaves who have now become martyrs and gods.

But I'm bringing up Fashanu because it's only right, especially since soccer newbies are on the rise. The least we can do while rooting for our favorite teams is to remember a pro player who killed himself because the British Professional Footballers
Association wouldn't allow him to play


as an openly-gay man. Of course, choosing suicide over self-empowerment is problematic in itself. But that speaks to the politcs of homophobia, stigma and shame; that when the players and fans don't care but the corporations do, a player has to make the complicated decision to be him or herself or lose the contract. Sure, there's teasing from the teammates. But there's teasing regardless. That's just what players do in and out of the locker room. It may very well be that Fashanu just wasn't centered enough to take the teases and perhaps tease right back; give'em something to re-think about. I'm not making light of the F word. I don't like it either, but not for the same reasons. I just resent hearing little boys calling each other 'punk' or 'girl' cos it says being female is a negative; says anything not macho is less than, even if macho is mucho after dark!....I don't like the contradictions that come with that mindset. So maybe the brotha didn't know how to create a family for himself and just play the damn game. That's what Amaechi did, after he told the NBA he was fam and so deal with it! There was some fussing for a couple of weeks. Mostly fascination cos Amaechi didn't fit the assumptions, and then the hype got boring. But all the while he just lived, and then people went back to just living.

Fashanu was also in a bind. He had to represent Black people; and being homosexual isn't something we tend to push. Many of our leaders may be same gender loving but we prefer keeping that on the low. So there was mad pressure on him to present himself a certain way; play it off if he had to, but make it look hetero cos there was lots of money at stake. They wanted him to be a spokesperson-- Just do it! But in an industry where SGL athletes learn to appear hetero to keep the contracts coming, the brotha just couldn't deal. For whatever reasons. Cos there're all types of rumors as to why he committed suicide. There's talk about him stalking this 17yrld kid, but that's too easy; too predictable. Most folks think he just couldn't handle the fassad. Plus, there was the issue of White spectators calling him 'monkey' and throwing bananas on the field. And on top of that he was a born-again Christian. That's like waiting for the warden to tell you you matter! I don't know about you, but this says to me that the man was clinically depressed and seeking that thing each person needs to feel like they matter. He may have very well felt so isolated that he chose to end his life to end his search and rid his pain.

Still, Fashanu made history. As morbid as it may be to bring up suicide during The World Cup, Fashanu is a reminder that the face of British soccer doesn't have to be White and that some men just got more balls than others! Because it takes cojones to refuse to half-live and still snag a two-million-dollar contract; takes guts to runkick a ball across a fig field and score goals for people who look like your teammmates and not you...God bless him, and anyone else who might be going through similar agonies. Desmond Tutu said, "It is a perversion if you say to me that a person chooses to be homosexual. You must be crazy to choose a way of life that exposes you to a kind of hatred." But Tutu is supposed to say something like that. He's a priest, for Christ's sake. Let Mandela say the same words and see what happens! White people will love it. Black folks will panic. Because we're not used to being our whole selves, so used to counting on someone else to define us and being fragmented, as a result.

But we're learning...


The new Pele...



The Black star Pele...



The some kat named Kaka Pele...



The artist Pele...



The dancer Pele...





















The I can't wait 'til we end the Cuban embargo Pele...



The we'so gangsta we play barefoot Pele...



The Islamic Pele...



The even the nuns love futbol Pele...



The essence of Black cool Pele...



The you love me only when I score points for you and reaggaetonize your music for you Pele...




The Ayiti (Haiti) team Pele...



















The Mali headkick Pele...







The Harlem Youth Soccer Pele...



The I used to be a goalee too in grade school Pele...



The Marley moves Pele...




























The you sure know how to put up a good fight Pele...



The when will Spanish television admit that Latino comes in all shades Pele...



The Boricua Pele...

















The you can kiss on but not off the field Pele...

























The which one of these players looks gay Pele...

















The keep ya head up Pele...




















The I can't believe both Brazil and Argentina got put to sleep Pele...


















The no more divisions Pele...





















The give thanks to Jah Pele...





















Pele.




Sunday, May 16, 2010

How To Write a Book For and About Young Black Males, and Have It Actually Reach Their Hands?


1. Write what they need to hear, not what's trendy

2. Remember how it felt when you turned 14, and society no longer considered you cute and safe

3. Don't forget the fathers who are not allowed to see their children, out of spite

4. Don't forget to bring up Africa, because self-esteem begins at the Gold Coast; not at the car show

5. Pitch to all publishers, not just Black ones. Because sometimes water is thicker than blood

6. The ones you need to impress are the young bruhs themselves, not your agent; not your haters

7. Consider the frustrations of a single mother

8. Don't focus on writing the best help-guide of all time. Let your book be part of the Black Family Plan

9. Avoid Black educators who push eurocentric education (miseducation) on Black children

10. Have your message make a difference; not to merely sit up in a mall looking all glossy and no place to go!



Stay tuned....

Friday, May 7, 2010

For mom...


My face is tempered fire
It promises victory in emotional desertion

The stained teardrop
under my eye
is a kiss from my childhood nuances that gave me my second name

My scars
are my grays
and my grays
are my father
A discovery I made during the first receding tide


My nose tells the story of sugar cane fields

I was not there when Shango slipped through their fingers
But the hairs around my mouth come from a Portuguese slaveship
That colored my skin when it crossed my forehead

The world is full of wonderful faces
If mine doesn't smile,
It's only my mother preparing her day.