My words, My babies.

April 17,2009

These words found my fingertips to set them free

And I must oblige thee … Their release from me.

Go little words
Humble thoughts
Self-conscious emotions
Notions and ideas that otherwise would be stuck inside of me.

I set you free.

Go forth and multiple.

Little ideas soar to the sky
You belong there dangling in the air.

I see ya.

Imma proud mama boasting your success.

My babies, my how they have grown.

Seems like it was just yesterday (or a minute ago) you were sown from my wandering thoughts.

But look at you now, all free and autonomous of me.

Go ‘head lil poem, lil ditty, leave the nest.

For your time is now.

Still Shocked

Are we afraid of these faces?

I had the most disturbing experience today.

After picking up my 6-year-old son from school, I went to the gas station. Pumping gas is a task I loathe so the grimace was ever-present on my face. I swiped my card. Entered the required zip code; and nothing: “Please see cashier.”

Damn: I know I said it out loud, not like a hypothetical LOL; but a verbal DAMN!

Now, I have to leave my son in the car to go inside to pay for gas.

I gave him instructions to stay put while I ran in. Please hold all lectures on why parents should not leave kids in the car to run even the quickest errand. The windows were rolled down … so there.

I spied two little boys sitting on the curb out front eating chips and drinking Big Shot soda. Based on the color, yellowish-orange, I believe a safe guess is that the flavor was pineapple orange. The boys appeared -- maybe 6 and 8 years old –to be alone and way too young to be unattended or loitering outside of a convenience store/cheapie gas station for that matter.

As customers walked in and out of the store, the two little boys who should have been riding their bikes near their homes or doing homework or eating dinner or playing in the front yard at home blurted out different remarks: “Look at her in those shorts” as a preteen passed by with her dad and barking requests like “You got a dolla!?” and “Buy me a bag of chips.”

I was appalled and saddened all at the same time.

When I approached, they called out to me: “Hey! Hey! Give us a dolla.”

My maternal instincts kicked in pronto regardless of whose kids they were.

I said: “Don’t you mean excuse me?”

They immediately responded to the firmness in which I spoke to them and adjusted their tones and attitudes accordingly: “Excuse me …”

I ignored them and proceeded in to pay for my gas. I alerted the gas station owner to their presence outside. He shooed them at once.

Good, I thought. They didn’t need to be out there behaving that way. I thought if they continued along those lines trouble was a smart aleck statement or two away.

As I pumped my gas, I studied them closely as they left the gas station.

They didn’t go quietly.

And I became more bothered and sickened as I watched them.

In the rear of the gas station, a bicycle rider was stooping down to put air in his tires. His toddler was comfortably sitting in the bike seat watching dad. I witnessed the little boys – 6 and 8, at the oldest – harass this man. The boys were black and the bystander, white.

One of the little boys grabbed the man’s helmet and began to sway the man’s head back and forth. The other pretended to squirt his cold drink on the man, who was minding his business filling his tire with air. The man, who had to be more stunned than I, did nothing. I mean what could he have done without creating a scene and drawing attention to their upsetting actions?

Did he want to call the police and press charges? Probably not. I’m sure he wanted to avoid the headache that would come along with that course of action.

I instantly thought: This is why people are scared of black boys.

I have a black boy pretty much their age sitting in the car chatting away about his day at school.

I wanted to say something.

I wanted to do something, but I didn’t.

I stared in awe. I couldn’t believe the aggression and the reckless disregard for other people’s personal space and the disrespect these young, young boys exhibited. Did they need their asses whipped or a stern lecture? Probably a combination of the two.

This is not acceptable conduct. Where were their parents or guardians? Why would they think that it is Ok to interact with strangers in this manner?

Are they imitating behavior they had witnessed before? Where is the discipline and self control?
My heart bleeds for our black boys, especially the ones who seem to be lost in the fray. How can we reach them? How can we teach them about self-respect?

Parenting and mentorship are key. Having positive role models and healthy examples to draw from can offer children living in even the bleakest of situations a glimmer of hope and show them that there is a better way to live and act.

I don’t know those two little boys. I don’t know if they come from single parent homes or if they are growing up in an abusive, neglectful home or if they don’t have enough food to eat or even a bed to sleep or their parents are in jail. I don’t know if they go to school without uniforms or wearing dirty uniforms or runny noses or without having their homework completed or any other factor that we can use to diagnose their misbehavior.

Would I want my son to play with those kids? Nah … and does that make me so bad?

While they may have seemed rather harmless at 6 and 8 insulting strangers in a parking lot or too touchy feely with unfamiliar people, in four or five years they won’t look so childlike. They would have possibly been taken into police custody or even arrested at that age for playing pranks, practical jokes.

Was the white man a target because he came across as docile and nonconfrontational?

If the white man would have gotten physical with the little boys, the community would have wanted to lynch him.

What if the man wasn’t as passive as they thought?

From the summer of 1979 until the spring of 1981, 29 black children, adolescents and adults were killed in a series of murders that have become to be known as the Atlanta Child Murders. The victims were abducted from their predominately black neighborhoods. The youngest was 7-year-old Latonya Wilson.

What if the man would have kidnapped these boys and their fate the same as the children murdered in this case?

Yes, it is that serious. The future is at stake.

I don’t know what more to say.

Extra

Don't you hate it when people are extra?

Extra meaning, just too damn much of whatever is going on at the time.

Too loud.

Moving around too much.

Talking too much.

Asking too many questions.

Their attire is doing too much. There is style and then there's foolishness and, of course, extra.

There is a nice car. And then there's extra, Fruit Loop stickers on an old ass Cutlass, spinning rims, obnoxious paint colors.

There is expression. And then there's extra, over the top, unnecessary gestures that don't add but distract and are plain ole EXTRA.

You can be excited, eager; even ecstatic. But please don't be -- EXTRA.

There is concern. But then, "OMIGOD, how are you? I haven't seen you in forever?" grabbing your hands, gazing into your eyes. If you truly cared, you would know how I'm doing. So your pseudo-concern is just extra!

Man, extra gets on my nerves.

I would write more, yet I kept it brief because I don’t want to be – EXTRA.

A Poem For Haiti

written: April 14, 2009

This is dedicated to my people in Cite Soliel who live a few miles from the ocean but have never been.

My Haitian brothers and sisters and babies and elders dwelling in beach front slums,

Pitching Prestige beer bottles in the bluest of waters on an island without trees and shade

With the heat full blast and the Voodoo flags waving at half mast in the Caribbean breeze.

You are priceless baby but you don’t know it.

You are the revolution baby.

You are liberation baby.

You are flawless baby but you don’t know it.

My Haitian brothers and sisters and babies and elders you are beautiful baby, but you don’t know it.

Haiti, you are too, but you don’t know it.

Sand Niggas

DISCLAIMER: This poem was written over a year ago. It's my personal reaction to the war in Iraq. My intention is not to offend by using the controversial, oft-debated word "nigga." Expression. ... During my recent travels to Palestine, this poem came to mind again. Its relevancy is so urgent given the present-day circumstances there and in Iran. It's time that I share it.

Please open your mind....

7-10-08

Sand niggas;
The terror niggas;
Government niggas;
Like Mexi-niggas;
Like Haitian niggas;
Like Cuban niggas;
The new niggas that we occupy;
Demonize.
Vilify;
Deny their way of life.

The new niggas;
That we defile;
That WE terrorize in the light
Under the guise of fright
For so-called patriotic pride
Fighting for our rights to
Emasculate, diminish the humanity of the new niggas;
… The sand niggas;
With turbans and their native stink
The new niggas we abuse and use in the name of oil, nationalism and Bush’s agenda.

The sand niggas … let’s get ‘um.
Let’s bomb ‘um.
Let’s kill ‘um.
Let’s objectify ‘um.
Their women, let’s rape ‘um.
Let’s blame ‘um for our Western wreckage.
Their kids, let’s ruin ’um.
Cultivating the next generation of the new niggas
… The sand niggas.

My Trip to Palestine: Still Beyond Words

It has been a few weeks since I returned from my trip to Gaza, Palestine. I learned alot, saw alot and have been thinking alot about what it all means to live in Palestine; what it means to be subjected to some of the worst treatment in the world; to be terrorized in front of the world.

You are immobile. You can't leave because the borders are closed. Many homes have been destroyed by Israeli air strikes, bombings and heavy artillery fire. Building supplies aren't allowed in. Israel won't allow it. Medicine can't get in. Israel doesn't allow that either. What is available is expensive. You learn to live without. Exist maybe.

A Palestinian woman in Gaza.

Dabke is a national dance in Palestine. It is a line dance widely performed at weddings and joyous occasions. Our tourgides dabke at the U.N. bulding in Gaza.

A bullet-riddled hospital in Gaza. It was a target during the Jan. Israeli seige. It was full of patients during the attack.

Me and Inas, UNRWA worker in Gaza.

An Islamic University student recounts the death of

her younger brother during the Jan. Israeli siege.

Kids at a wedding party in Deir El Belah, Palestine.

Me (center) with women at a wedding party in Deir El Belah, Palestine

Yes, kids play in the rubble. This is their neighborhood.

Afro-Palestinian woman.

Fishermen can only venture three miles from the shore into the Mediterranean Sea to fish. A kilometer more and the Israeli army will fire. It's pretty much the same scenario for farmers. Homes along the border are fired upon for no justifiable reason.

You wonder: Why does Israel hate us so much?

And why, does the world allow us to suffer?

I hope these few images from my trip serve to humanize the people of Palestine; and at the very least provoke you to think about their plight.

The words are coming. I know they are.

Her name is Esperanza Spalding

At the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, I rarely listen to the jazz acts.

How terrible of me.

I spend most of my time in Congo Square; the area where the African Diaspora is celebrated via performance arts and through visual arts like the wares of artisans ranging from fine art to fabulous textile creations to jewelry made from bamboo.

I make time for the reggae sets, the hip hop sets, the soul sets. Jazz … not so much. It has become an afterthought for me.

Well, this year, I happenstancedly got back to the roots of the festival.

Hugh Maskela: April 26, 2009

Seeking a seat and of course, refuge from the heat. I headed to the jazz tent, taking in a little jazz both weekends.

The first weekend, I caught South African jazz trumpet legend Hugh Maskela. I walked in mid-way during his reviving rendition of Fela Kuti’s “Lady.” Anytime, I hear Fela it does something to me --a good something, an inspirational something. He had my attention right away, and kept it during the rest of his set.

He had me scatting or at least attempting. I was in awe of this man who at 79 refreshingly moved about on stage. He made jokes about being from Biloxi. He gave a quick history lesson about Nelson Mandela, apartheid and South African independence.

Much respect to Hugh Maskela, near octogenarian for doing his thang!

But the jewel of the 40th annual festival was my discovery of darling Esperanza Spalding.

This giant in the making plays the upright bass and can sing in English, Spanish and Portuguese. She is a prodigy, who taught herself to play the violin at the age of 5. She enrolled at the Berklee College of Music when she was Sweet 16 and four years later became the youngest faculty member at the prestigious Boston school.

Esperanza Spalding’s serene, breezy voice is like cool drops of rain on your forehead; like the coolest water quenching your thirst on a sweltering summer day in Louisiana – absolutely revitalizing.


Esperanza Spalding’s performance was cosmic. Her ephemeral jazz scats, in spite of their brevity, echoed a mellifluous depth akin to ancient Kemetic chanting.

With her oversized natural swaying as she at times closed her eyes sinking into the bass to pluck soulful, liberating chords, Esperanza Spalding charmed the crowd with her ethereal musicianship. She was totally in control of the instrument that basically towered over her. She even switched to the handheld bass to showcase her dexterity.

While grooving to this sister who is a brilliant, hip jazz singer and player, I thought: Wow! Why didn’t I know about her before?


Esperanza Spalding: May 1, 2009.

Whatever the reason, she’s on my radar now, and I’m not taking my ear off of her.

I even had a chance to briefly meet her and I said, “Esperanza, you’re hot!”

The next day, I purchased her self-titled debut.

Good stuff!













Me and Esperanza Spalding: May 1, 2009

Photo by L Kasimu Harris of lkasimuharris.com