Wow, it’s been a long long time, since I sat down to work on this blog. For those of you who read it (all two of you) I’d like to apologize for the long silence. I’ve been in the midst of a ton of stuff, personal, professional, and otherwise. When I get to that place, I’m pretty bad about blogging. I just need to live a little to get to the point where I can write a little. Some big transitions coming up, so I figured I need to get back in the habit of blogging.
So what’s happened since my last writing? Mostly good stuff Griot went to NY and got great reviews. To see that go to www.griot3.com. I have a lot I could write on the whole situation, but honestly, it’s too much to write. Suffice to say, I had a great time, the shows went well, and I think I have the opportunity to build off the success of the show. Griot, itself may not benefit from that springboard, but certainly future work will.
I’ve been come pretty unsentimental about my own work. I want to put it out there, and move on. I’m really scared of being trapped in a piece, and not creating new work. That’s not where I want to be. I think each piece needs to live it’s life and I need to not try and control it, but in the words of Ray Charles, “Let it do, what it do.” On the flip side, I also don’t want to give up on something before it’s had time to mature. I love Griot. But there are some issues that make me ready to move to the next piece. Pretty soon, I’ll be announcing here the title of my new play that will open in Baltimore in the Summer. Pretty excited about it. I’m still in the research aspect of it, and I’m not quiet sure where the concept will lead me, but it should be an interesting journey.
I look back on my career, I’ve learn that I just need to trust. Trust that the Lord hasn’t given me a gift to let it waste. Let it find it’s own way. So that’s where I am with my work.
Other news: I’m teaching fulltime now. Pretty excited about it. I’m the creative arts director at the Foundation Academy in Jacksonville Beach. A very cool school with very cool kids. I’m happy to be there. I’m really looking to do more young adult work like Chalk, so being at this school will help make that a reality.
I’ve got another large project I’m working on, but mums the word for now. If it works out, it could be pretty big for me. If not, I’m still pushin’ on. See ya soon.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Biko and the Gun.
I never heard the gunshot, but when Vicky told me what happened I could hear the echo of the bullet in her voice. Biko. An extraordinary kid. So many of these kids are. They all are. But, Biko was the first of all the boys at the Sanctuary that I made a bond with. We met two years ago, when he was much smaller, but still very much a man in the making. His father had passed away recently, and the burden of being the man in the house was heavy on his shoulders. With 6 brothers and sisters, Biko had lost a part of his adolescence when his father took his last breath.
Biko’s family had immigrated from Africa two years before his father’s death. When I met Biko I asked him if he spoke any other languages. Away from the other kids he told me he spoke three languages, English, French, and his native African tongue. It excited me, that one of these kids in the middle of the hood with trilingual, but Biko would have none of it. He didn’t want to talk about it, and definitely was not going to speak in a different language around the other kids. Assimilate, fit in, don’t make waves. I’ve often wondered about his parents. Who are they? What did they think when they landed here and America, the land of milk and honey, to find themselves in the ghetto? What had they left behind? Was it worth it? Maybe it was.
Listening to the rhetoric on the TV and radio stations although out America in regards to the question of immigrants, you would think these people land in America and right away begin living the lives of the rich and famous. Magically they appear in work places, through up a sign that says “IMMIGRANT” and the employers start lining Americans up, and kick them out. When I think of immigrants, I think of people like Biko’s parents, people with nothing, struggling to get something. Why do we criminalize the poor in the country? Why does the religious right seem to be on the wrong side of every question? What would Jesus do? Would he persecute the poor, or would he kick the money changers out of the church? I know the question of immigration is more complex then that, but somewhere in the discourse about it all, there should be room for compassion.
Back to Biko. Though he tries his best to hide it, Biko is one of the brightest kids I know. The older he gets though, I can feel the hood, wrapping it’s tentacles around his soul. How could it not? In places like the Eastside of Jacksonville, where the murder-rate is ridiculously high, AIDS is rampid, and drugs are the cash-crop that fuels the economy, only the strong survive, and survival demands payment. This year Biko was a little more detached. Even less interested in living up to his potential. I could see it, the black octopus-like digit wrapping itself around him. The land based-kracken of the hood had it’s many arms wrapped around most of the kids at the Sanctuary. Sooner or later the monster would flex his muscles, and no matter how hard the child, the tentacle, would pull him in to the maw of monster.
America always eats it’s young.
I wanted to help him. But there is only so much I can say or do without putting myself in the category of adults he just didn’t have time for. So I watched. Talked, and tried to be a positive example. It was no surprise when Vicky told me about the incident of the gun.
Walking down the street Biko and a friend ran into some guys ruthlessly beating another kid. Trying to do the right thing, Biko and his friend tried to break up the fight. The kids that were fighting went inside and got some other people. The men that walked out of the house where around the same age as Biko’s father, strong angry men pushed down so much by life, they saw no other choice but to push other people down. They walked out of the house with a gun in hand. Biko could have run. But that would have been punking out. I can imagine him, seeing the men walk up to him gun in hand, fear pattering in his heart but refusing to give in. An argument began, and one of the men shot at his feet. Biko and his friend were both smart enough to walk away, but the sting of it all was still with him the next morning. It didn’t take long for Biko’s hothead brother Patient to find out about the incident.
Patient has always been extremely quiet around me, the kind of quiet that makes me nervous. Like he’s thinking of something, and the outcome may not be positive. This summer in the time I spent with him we’d begun to build a relationship that was founded on mutual respect. I know Patient is a child of the streets the way his brother will never be. Patient knows, that I’m not judging him. With that understanding we respect each other and mover forward. The worse thing that could happen is Patient finding out about Biko being shot at. When they are together at the Sanctuary, they don’t seem especially tight, but they are brothers, and Patient is lives by hard rules. Someone disrespecting his brother is grounds for immediate retaliation. Before they kids arrived at the Sanctuary everyone knew what had happened and several of the kids there were ready to strike back.
Biko is fourteen. Patient is sixteen. The man who shot at him was in his 30’s.
Vicky was sick with worry. She loves these children deep. Four years ago, she attended the funeral of a kid that she was extremely tight with. The day he died he had just turned 21 years old. The bullets that riddled his body where sent in retaliation to something that had happened in his hood weeks early. It’s the old testament cycle of justice. Injuring someone because they have injured you or someone you love. The problem with that rational is that it never stops. Someone kills you, you’re boys kill them. Their boys, come kill one of your boys, one of your other boys kills another one of theirs, and before you know it a whole generation of black men have died in the streets of America. Or end up in jail, or wheelchairs, or someone elses child gets killed in the crossfire. It never stops.
If this was a Spike Lee flick, I’d run up to Biko and hug him tightly and scream in the middle of the hood “WAKE UP!!!!!!” The credits would role, and you the audience could go back home. But there are no credits. There is no quick out. There is only this: fourteen year olds contemplating killing someone who shot at them.
Vicky told me all of this on Thursday. The next day, I was going to Baltimore for a gig at the Creative Alliance. This was a gig that I had thought about canceling. I was writing a piece for the gig, but then got caught up and never had a chance to finish. I kept the gig, only because I felt obligated, even though I was not going to do the show I was originally asked to do, I’d put something together with the incredible Poemcees out of DC. This gig was going to be a wash. I knew they would not get tons of people out to the show, and I had to pay for my own way there, which meant I was going to take a loss. But, I gave my word. So I was going.
When Vicky was done talking about the incident, I reminded her I was going to be out of town the next day, and a light bulb went off in her head. She asked, “What do you think about taking some of the boys with you?”
The next day, Vicky, seven boys, and myself started driving down I-95 destination Baltimore.
Biko’s family had immigrated from Africa two years before his father’s death. When I met Biko I asked him if he spoke any other languages. Away from the other kids he told me he spoke three languages, English, French, and his native African tongue. It excited me, that one of these kids in the middle of the hood with trilingual, but Biko would have none of it. He didn’t want to talk about it, and definitely was not going to speak in a different language around the other kids. Assimilate, fit in, don’t make waves. I’ve often wondered about his parents. Who are they? What did they think when they landed here and America, the land of milk and honey, to find themselves in the ghetto? What had they left behind? Was it worth it? Maybe it was.
Listening to the rhetoric on the TV and radio stations although out America in regards to the question of immigrants, you would think these people land in America and right away begin living the lives of the rich and famous. Magically they appear in work places, through up a sign that says “IMMIGRANT” and the employers start lining Americans up, and kick them out. When I think of immigrants, I think of people like Biko’s parents, people with nothing, struggling to get something. Why do we criminalize the poor in the country? Why does the religious right seem to be on the wrong side of every question? What would Jesus do? Would he persecute the poor, or would he kick the money changers out of the church? I know the question of immigration is more complex then that, but somewhere in the discourse about it all, there should be room for compassion.
Back to Biko. Though he tries his best to hide it, Biko is one of the brightest kids I know. The older he gets though, I can feel the hood, wrapping it’s tentacles around his soul. How could it not? In places like the Eastside of Jacksonville, where the murder-rate is ridiculously high, AIDS is rampid, and drugs are the cash-crop that fuels the economy, only the strong survive, and survival demands payment. This year Biko was a little more detached. Even less interested in living up to his potential. I could see it, the black octopus-like digit wrapping itself around him. The land based-kracken of the hood had it’s many arms wrapped around most of the kids at the Sanctuary. Sooner or later the monster would flex his muscles, and no matter how hard the child, the tentacle, would pull him in to the maw of monster.
America always eats it’s young.
I wanted to help him. But there is only so much I can say or do without putting myself in the category of adults he just didn’t have time for. So I watched. Talked, and tried to be a positive example. It was no surprise when Vicky told me about the incident of the gun.
Walking down the street Biko and a friend ran into some guys ruthlessly beating another kid. Trying to do the right thing, Biko and his friend tried to break up the fight. The kids that were fighting went inside and got some other people. The men that walked out of the house where around the same age as Biko’s father, strong angry men pushed down so much by life, they saw no other choice but to push other people down. They walked out of the house with a gun in hand. Biko could have run. But that would have been punking out. I can imagine him, seeing the men walk up to him gun in hand, fear pattering in his heart but refusing to give in. An argument began, and one of the men shot at his feet. Biko and his friend were both smart enough to walk away, but the sting of it all was still with him the next morning. It didn’t take long for Biko’s hothead brother Patient to find out about the incident.
Patient has always been extremely quiet around me, the kind of quiet that makes me nervous. Like he’s thinking of something, and the outcome may not be positive. This summer in the time I spent with him we’d begun to build a relationship that was founded on mutual respect. I know Patient is a child of the streets the way his brother will never be. Patient knows, that I’m not judging him. With that understanding we respect each other and mover forward. The worse thing that could happen is Patient finding out about Biko being shot at. When they are together at the Sanctuary, they don’t seem especially tight, but they are brothers, and Patient is lives by hard rules. Someone disrespecting his brother is grounds for immediate retaliation. Before they kids arrived at the Sanctuary everyone knew what had happened and several of the kids there were ready to strike back.
Biko is fourteen. Patient is sixteen. The man who shot at him was in his 30’s.
Vicky was sick with worry. She loves these children deep. Four years ago, she attended the funeral of a kid that she was extremely tight with. The day he died he had just turned 21 years old. The bullets that riddled his body where sent in retaliation to something that had happened in his hood weeks early. It’s the old testament cycle of justice. Injuring someone because they have injured you or someone you love. The problem with that rational is that it never stops. Someone kills you, you’re boys kill them. Their boys, come kill one of your boys, one of your other boys kills another one of theirs, and before you know it a whole generation of black men have died in the streets of America. Or end up in jail, or wheelchairs, or someone elses child gets killed in the crossfire. It never stops.
If this was a Spike Lee flick, I’d run up to Biko and hug him tightly and scream in the middle of the hood “WAKE UP!!!!!!” The credits would role, and you the audience could go back home. But there are no credits. There is no quick out. There is only this: fourteen year olds contemplating killing someone who shot at them.
Vicky told me all of this on Thursday. The next day, I was going to Baltimore for a gig at the Creative Alliance. This was a gig that I had thought about canceling. I was writing a piece for the gig, but then got caught up and never had a chance to finish. I kept the gig, only because I felt obligated, even though I was not going to do the show I was originally asked to do, I’d put something together with the incredible Poemcees out of DC. This gig was going to be a wash. I knew they would not get tons of people out to the show, and I had to pay for my own way there, which meant I was going to take a loss. But, I gave my word. So I was going.
When Vicky was done talking about the incident, I reminded her I was going to be out of town the next day, and a light bulb went off in her head. She asked, “What do you think about taking some of the boys with you?”
The next day, Vicky, seven boys, and myself started driving down I-95 destination Baltimore.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Who will cry for Angela
“Soft-hearted people can’t work with kids like that.” She’s right. A dear friend of mine said that to me today when I told her this story.
On the first day of summer camp at the Community Center which I work/volunteer at, Angie was having problems. She is 8 and in a large group of girls her age. Angie’s new at the community center. Many of the kids from the center, go there during the school year, others are returnees from last years camp. These kids have formed a bond, so from the start Angie was on the outside. She is a fighter. Doesn’t like the view from the other side of the glass wall. She wants in and will do what’s necessary to get in. By the end of the first day, she fought, argued and pushed anyone that did the same to her. Sometimes she started, sometimes she was the recipient, but it was obvious to the staff that she would need some extra attention.
Fast forward two days. Angie’s had problems but nothing major. I personally felt like she wasn’t very nice because every time I tried to talk to her, she would treat me badly. The camp counselor who worked with her though thought she was good. Towards the end of the day, I had to organize my group. In doing a sweep of the building, I walked in on another counselor having a hard time with Angie. He was yelling at her, trying to get her to obey, which only put her in a “I don’t care” mode. I told the counselor to get the head of the camp Ms. Vickie. He agreed. The young counselor is a good guy. Does well with the kids, I like him a lot, but the situation had gotten out of control. As he left to get Ms. Vicki, I struggled with the young girl to get her to sit down and listen. She was having none of it. She pushed, hollered, and screamed at me. I made her sit down, being careful not to hurt her. When Ms. Vickie came in, I decided it was best to let her handle it. I went to check on my group, who where fine with another counselor, so I then returned to Ms. Vicki, I was a little shocked at what I saw.
When I walked in the door, Angela was on the floor, and a Jr. Counselor ‘Zo was holding her down. ‘Zo is a big kid, but a Teddy-bear on the inside. Angela was struggling like a mad woman, screaming and hollering at the top of her lungs. Her movements brought to mind a scene from the Exorcist where the little girl is being tortured by the demon inside her. Ms. Vickie, was leaning down talking to her, calmly trying bring her back to reality, but the little girl was having none of it. I decided to get on the floor and help out. I spoke quietly, and gently as if talking to a wild animal, trying to calm her, she refused to hear me. This little 8 year old girl, gathered so much strength, she was actually moving ‘Zo. Through the strength of her will, she was able to readjust herself, and sit flatly on her behind, legs out, with ‘Zo holding her arms behind her back. To stop her from kicking, I moved to grab her legs, which put us face to face. I told her to calm down. She looked at me with such anger in between her quick movements, struggling to bite ‘Zo and get free.
In the middle of it all, she screamed, “I want to die!” My daughter is the same age as Angela. They are the same height, complexion, with similar hair style. I could never imagine my daughter saying something like that at her age. Watching Angela, I couldn’t help but think of my daughter. Couldn’t help but wonder what pain she hid beneath her tough exterior. It hurt my heart to hear these words. Hurt in a way I can’t really put to words. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and cry. I wanted to cry for her, her parents, the world at large, hurting children in every corner of the globe that felt like she did. But there was no way in her state I could hug her. So instead I said, “No baby, don’t say that. You don’t want to die.”
“Yes I do!”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do! I’m ugly! I’m stupid! I want to die.” Every word out of her mouth was like a rock shattering the fragile little concept I had of children at the Sanctuary. I knew the kids here had problems. I knew poverty created all sorts of issues for children, but my ignorance, did not really allow me to truly understand how deep their pain runs. Not that kids out of poverty don’t face similar struggles, they do, they just have greater resources. Who will Angela be if no one tells her, her worth? Where will we be when an entire population of bruised and battered children become adults? Are we there now?
All I could think to say to her was that she was a child of God, and that she was beautiful because God made her.
She screamed, “No! I’m not, I’m ugly!”
“No, you are not, you are beautiful. God loves you and I love you.”
She paused at this. I thought I’d reached her. Something broke the shell, but then she reared her head back, and spit in my face. She spit like she was scared of what the consequences would be for her actions. Sprayed. It didn’t feel good, but I thought to myself, well this could have been worse. I couldn’t wipe my face because my hands were firmly grasping her legs. Ms. Vickie stood besides me, and rubbed my back for encouragement, ‘Zo looked stunned. I couldn’t stop though.
“God loves you Angela, and so do I” She spit again. Sprayed.
“I don’t care, you can spit all day and it doesn’t change that God loves you, and I love you too. Because you are a child of God.” I could see a change in her eyes this time. She knew I wouldn’t react negatively to her behavior. She then started gathering spit in her mouth, and she spit in my face. This time it was no spray. I could feel it running down my cheek. I am not saint. I was mad. I wanted to scream at her, leave her there and wipe my face. But I couldn’t. Ms. Vickie continued to rub my back and the whole time, I felt like God was in my ear whispering “hold on, hold on”. When God tells you hold on, what else can you do?
Again I told her I loved her God loved her. Repeat, spit on the other cheek. Again, repeat. Somewhere in the cycle, someone got a towel and wiped my face. Angela screamed at me. She cried, I told her I loved her over and over. She said, she was worthless, I said she was valuable beyond belief. She spit. And then at the crescendo when there was nowhere else for either of us to go, she broke down and sobbed. I knew that type of pain. But I never knew it could come from a child. She wept and wept, and mumbled, “I wanna die like my cousin…” I let her legs go and move to hold her, telling her, “No baby, no, you don’t want to die.” I held her for what seemed like an eternity. She surrender to me for bit, and then, began to push away. Ms. Vickie asked her, if she wanted her to hold her, Angela said yes, and then crawled in Vickie’s arms. It was 3:30 when Vickie carried the sobbing child away.
I wanted to go home. Vickie would have let me go home. I sat in the empty room unsure of what just happened. I looked at the clock and thought, I should just go, I felt like I had nothing left. Everything had left my body. But I couldn’t leave. I knew, word of this incident would spread through the kids. Everyone would know, Angela flipped out, and spit on me at least 4 times, and I did nothing about it. The mentality with these children is “only the strong survive.” So me not responding, was a sign of weakness. Especially if I left early. I sat in the room alone for about 15 minutes, and then walked out. I was determined to redefine strength, for them, and honestly, I was a little bit of pride on my behalf. I wasn’t going to let the heartbreak, beat me. Not now. I stayed until 4:40, watching the clock the entire time. The whispers were getting out about what happened but no one said anything to me.
After calming down and hanging with Vickie for a while Angela come out in the common room acting like a normal kid. She walked up to me and apologized for spitting on me. She wrapped her arms around me, and it was all I could do not to cry. Her foster mother came to pick her up at 4:30, and Vickie told her, Angela could not come back. She gave her a hug goodbye and I watched as she walked out of the building. Vickie came to me, and told me, she wanted to keep her, but we don’t have the staff trained to deal with a child with problems like Angela. It was somewhat a liability issue, but also the truth of the matter is we as much as we wanted to, could not help her. I know Vickie is right. I know it. But it hurts.
I left the Sanctuary feeling like acid was eating my heart away. I called my mother, to tell her something completely unrelated, and started crying. She talked to me the whole way home. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop crying. I just ached for Angela. I prayed so hard that night hoping that God would watch over her, that God would watch over all the children I see in pain everyday. I’ve told this story a couple times, and each time people focus on her spitting on me, and what I went through. But that is not the point. At all. Angela is the point. That she had no other place to put her pain, then direct at me in such a harsh way. That she has no one, nothing, and despite our incident, she’s still in pain.
“Soft-hearted people can’t work with kids like that.” She said after I talked to her about the whole incident, and she’s right. But if people like me don’t work with Angela, who will? If we don’t cry for her who will? If I just walk away from it all, and only write plays and poems about people’s struggle but don’t get my hands dirty, who am I, and what is my work about? Father Greg Boyle said, “God doesn’t want us to endlessly praise God for being compassionate God is hoping that we will spend our time being compassionate. So, I kinda want to live like the truth is true, and go where love has not yet arrived.”
Amen.
Amen.
On the first day of summer camp at the Community Center which I work/volunteer at, Angie was having problems. She is 8 and in a large group of girls her age. Angie’s new at the community center. Many of the kids from the center, go there during the school year, others are returnees from last years camp. These kids have formed a bond, so from the start Angie was on the outside. She is a fighter. Doesn’t like the view from the other side of the glass wall. She wants in and will do what’s necessary to get in. By the end of the first day, she fought, argued and pushed anyone that did the same to her. Sometimes she started, sometimes she was the recipient, but it was obvious to the staff that she would need some extra attention.
Fast forward two days. Angie’s had problems but nothing major. I personally felt like she wasn’t very nice because every time I tried to talk to her, she would treat me badly. The camp counselor who worked with her though thought she was good. Towards the end of the day, I had to organize my group. In doing a sweep of the building, I walked in on another counselor having a hard time with Angie. He was yelling at her, trying to get her to obey, which only put her in a “I don’t care” mode. I told the counselor to get the head of the camp Ms. Vickie. He agreed. The young counselor is a good guy. Does well with the kids, I like him a lot, but the situation had gotten out of control. As he left to get Ms. Vicki, I struggled with the young girl to get her to sit down and listen. She was having none of it. She pushed, hollered, and screamed at me. I made her sit down, being careful not to hurt her. When Ms. Vickie came in, I decided it was best to let her handle it. I went to check on my group, who where fine with another counselor, so I then returned to Ms. Vicki, I was a little shocked at what I saw.
When I walked in the door, Angela was on the floor, and a Jr. Counselor ‘Zo was holding her down. ‘Zo is a big kid, but a Teddy-bear on the inside. Angela was struggling like a mad woman, screaming and hollering at the top of her lungs. Her movements brought to mind a scene from the Exorcist where the little girl is being tortured by the demon inside her. Ms. Vickie, was leaning down talking to her, calmly trying bring her back to reality, but the little girl was having none of it. I decided to get on the floor and help out. I spoke quietly, and gently as if talking to a wild animal, trying to calm her, she refused to hear me. This little 8 year old girl, gathered so much strength, she was actually moving ‘Zo. Through the strength of her will, she was able to readjust herself, and sit flatly on her behind, legs out, with ‘Zo holding her arms behind her back. To stop her from kicking, I moved to grab her legs, which put us face to face. I told her to calm down. She looked at me with such anger in between her quick movements, struggling to bite ‘Zo and get free.
In the middle of it all, she screamed, “I want to die!” My daughter is the same age as Angela. They are the same height, complexion, with similar hair style. I could never imagine my daughter saying something like that at her age. Watching Angela, I couldn’t help but think of my daughter. Couldn’t help but wonder what pain she hid beneath her tough exterior. It hurt my heart to hear these words. Hurt in a way I can’t really put to words. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and cry. I wanted to cry for her, her parents, the world at large, hurting children in every corner of the globe that felt like she did. But there was no way in her state I could hug her. So instead I said, “No baby, don’t say that. You don’t want to die.”
“Yes I do!”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do! I’m ugly! I’m stupid! I want to die.” Every word out of her mouth was like a rock shattering the fragile little concept I had of children at the Sanctuary. I knew the kids here had problems. I knew poverty created all sorts of issues for children, but my ignorance, did not really allow me to truly understand how deep their pain runs. Not that kids out of poverty don’t face similar struggles, they do, they just have greater resources. Who will Angela be if no one tells her, her worth? Where will we be when an entire population of bruised and battered children become adults? Are we there now?
All I could think to say to her was that she was a child of God, and that she was beautiful because God made her.
She screamed, “No! I’m not, I’m ugly!”
“No, you are not, you are beautiful. God loves you and I love you.”
She paused at this. I thought I’d reached her. Something broke the shell, but then she reared her head back, and spit in my face. She spit like she was scared of what the consequences would be for her actions. Sprayed. It didn’t feel good, but I thought to myself, well this could have been worse. I couldn’t wipe my face because my hands were firmly grasping her legs. Ms. Vickie stood besides me, and rubbed my back for encouragement, ‘Zo looked stunned. I couldn’t stop though.
“God loves you Angela, and so do I” She spit again. Sprayed.
“I don’t care, you can spit all day and it doesn’t change that God loves you, and I love you too. Because you are a child of God.” I could see a change in her eyes this time. She knew I wouldn’t react negatively to her behavior. She then started gathering spit in her mouth, and she spit in my face. This time it was no spray. I could feel it running down my cheek. I am not saint. I was mad. I wanted to scream at her, leave her there and wipe my face. But I couldn’t. Ms. Vickie continued to rub my back and the whole time, I felt like God was in my ear whispering “hold on, hold on”. When God tells you hold on, what else can you do?
Again I told her I loved her God loved her. Repeat, spit on the other cheek. Again, repeat. Somewhere in the cycle, someone got a towel and wiped my face. Angela screamed at me. She cried, I told her I loved her over and over. She said, she was worthless, I said she was valuable beyond belief. She spit. And then at the crescendo when there was nowhere else for either of us to go, she broke down and sobbed. I knew that type of pain. But I never knew it could come from a child. She wept and wept, and mumbled, “I wanna die like my cousin…” I let her legs go and move to hold her, telling her, “No baby, no, you don’t want to die.” I held her for what seemed like an eternity. She surrender to me for bit, and then, began to push away. Ms. Vickie asked her, if she wanted her to hold her, Angela said yes, and then crawled in Vickie’s arms. It was 3:30 when Vickie carried the sobbing child away.
I wanted to go home. Vickie would have let me go home. I sat in the empty room unsure of what just happened. I looked at the clock and thought, I should just go, I felt like I had nothing left. Everything had left my body. But I couldn’t leave. I knew, word of this incident would spread through the kids. Everyone would know, Angela flipped out, and spit on me at least 4 times, and I did nothing about it. The mentality with these children is “only the strong survive.” So me not responding, was a sign of weakness. Especially if I left early. I sat in the room alone for about 15 minutes, and then walked out. I was determined to redefine strength, for them, and honestly, I was a little bit of pride on my behalf. I wasn’t going to let the heartbreak, beat me. Not now. I stayed until 4:40, watching the clock the entire time. The whispers were getting out about what happened but no one said anything to me.
After calming down and hanging with Vickie for a while Angela come out in the common room acting like a normal kid. She walked up to me and apologized for spitting on me. She wrapped her arms around me, and it was all I could do not to cry. Her foster mother came to pick her up at 4:30, and Vickie told her, Angela could not come back. She gave her a hug goodbye and I watched as she walked out of the building. Vickie came to me, and told me, she wanted to keep her, but we don’t have the staff trained to deal with a child with problems like Angela. It was somewhat a liability issue, but also the truth of the matter is we as much as we wanted to, could not help her. I know Vickie is right. I know it. But it hurts.
I left the Sanctuary feeling like acid was eating my heart away. I called my mother, to tell her something completely unrelated, and started crying. She talked to me the whole way home. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop crying. I just ached for Angela. I prayed so hard that night hoping that God would watch over her, that God would watch over all the children I see in pain everyday. I’ve told this story a couple times, and each time people focus on her spitting on me, and what I went through. But that is not the point. At all. Angela is the point. That she had no other place to put her pain, then direct at me in such a harsh way. That she has no one, nothing, and despite our incident, she’s still in pain.
“Soft-hearted people can’t work with kids like that.” She said after I talked to her about the whole incident, and she’s right. But if people like me don’t work with Angela, who will? If we don’t cry for her who will? If I just walk away from it all, and only write plays and poems about people’s struggle but don’t get my hands dirty, who am I, and what is my work about? Father Greg Boyle said, “God doesn’t want us to endlessly praise God for being compassionate God is hoping that we will spend our time being compassionate. So, I kinda want to live like the truth is true, and go where love has not yet arrived.”
Amen.
Amen.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Fear itself
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
Frank Herbert, Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear, "Dune"
Fear. Fear is what stops people, shows, performances, and art from greatness. I learned this pretty early in my life as a performer. I could tell when I’d let the fear of something get the best of me. My work on stage always suffered. So early on, I decided not to let it in. To take that fear and push up against it, in essence, use the friction from fear and faith to create.
Professionally, I’ve been feeling some apprehension over where I’m going as an artist. Which road to take, how to see through the foggy lens of the future. Balancing being the artist I know I can be against the human being I need to be. Without a doubt being a good father, friend, and person weights out everything. You can be a true artist if you let your art get in the way of loving someone. At the same time, I got work to do that is bigger then me. The responsibility of it pushes me forward. It’s not just this “lofty” goal of giving something back to the world. It’s also because I love what I do. Love it. I’m thankful for it. The people who have employed me, the audiences that have enjoyed my work… I’m humbled by it. I can’t thank God enough for the blessings I’ve received.
What I really wanted to write about has to do with working on “Griot”. As I write this, I realize this play, and reworking it, has become a metaphor for what I’m trying to do in my career and life.
So the good news Griot: He Who Speaks the Sweet Word will be taking part in the New York City Fringe Festival. Brilliant! I’m overjoyed. What’s the significance? Being in NY and having the opportunity to get agents, producers, and theaters to come see the show can really help us move the piece forward. Honestly, I was a little at an impasse as far as where to take the show next. We’d wanted to take it to Edinburgh, but decided against it. The cost outweighed the benefits, so it made sense for us to stay stateside and try to get into Festivals here. We’d missed the cut off for a lot of the festivals, but NYC Fringe was where I wanted to be anyway. So here we are.
Here’s the part where the fear plays a part. I have always wanted to rework different spots in the play. For the most part I think the play is solid. But there are parts in the play that stick out like a sore thumb. The biggest is the Motown section. There has been a disagreement within the production itself about this section of the play. There are those who think it’s fine, but I hate it. I hate it mostly because we are lip-synching the Motown songs. It feels empty, and not quite professional. I’ve never seen a Broadway show where the characters lip-synched a song. Either you sing it or you don’t. Secondly, I feel like the play on a whole does not give it’s due to the civil rights struggle. It was important to me, when first writing the piece that we created a play that would welcome all people to enjoy. I want the play to touch African-Americans, but I didn’t want to alienate other people. I still feel that way, but without truly dealing with the dark passages of history in this country, we will never be able to have an honest discussion about race. The exclusion of the civil rights struggle was not intentional at all. We were just focused on dealing with the modern equivalent of Griots. King, Malcolm, John Lewis, Stokely Carmichael, Andrew Young were great leaders, but not Griots.
Recently, when I was looking over the play, I read a line from the Miles monologue I wrote, (using Mile’s Autobiography as reference) Miles said “we were the soundtrack of the struggle, musicians give the marchers their beat” it struck me this is how the civil rights and the Griot fit. During the Motown era the movement was in full swing. I don’t think most people think of the music of the time when they think about the struggle, or vice versa. This is what Motown should reflect in the play. The full picture of history. What the art was doing. How the struggle formed the art, and how the art formed the struggle.
It’s tough when you’ve written something and the general public likes it, but you know this isn’t what you want. You don’t want to break something that works. On top of that there are those in the production who have valid points for not wanting to change. But it doesn’t feel right to me. In my bones, I know I have to make this change. I know I can’t be scared of failure. I must reach up and embrace it.
Frank Herbert, Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear, "Dune"
Fear. Fear is what stops people, shows, performances, and art from greatness. I learned this pretty early in my life as a performer. I could tell when I’d let the fear of something get the best of me. My work on stage always suffered. So early on, I decided not to let it in. To take that fear and push up against it, in essence, use the friction from fear and faith to create.
Professionally, I’ve been feeling some apprehension over where I’m going as an artist. Which road to take, how to see through the foggy lens of the future. Balancing being the artist I know I can be against the human being I need to be. Without a doubt being a good father, friend, and person weights out everything. You can be a true artist if you let your art get in the way of loving someone. At the same time, I got work to do that is bigger then me. The responsibility of it pushes me forward. It’s not just this “lofty” goal of giving something back to the world. It’s also because I love what I do. Love it. I’m thankful for it. The people who have employed me, the audiences that have enjoyed my work… I’m humbled by it. I can’t thank God enough for the blessings I’ve received.
What I really wanted to write about has to do with working on “Griot”. As I write this, I realize this play, and reworking it, has become a metaphor for what I’m trying to do in my career and life.
So the good news Griot: He Who Speaks the Sweet Word will be taking part in the New York City Fringe Festival. Brilliant! I’m overjoyed. What’s the significance? Being in NY and having the opportunity to get agents, producers, and theaters to come see the show can really help us move the piece forward. Honestly, I was a little at an impasse as far as where to take the show next. We’d wanted to take it to Edinburgh, but decided against it. The cost outweighed the benefits, so it made sense for us to stay stateside and try to get into Festivals here. We’d missed the cut off for a lot of the festivals, but NYC Fringe was where I wanted to be anyway. So here we are.
Here’s the part where the fear plays a part. I have always wanted to rework different spots in the play. For the most part I think the play is solid. But there are parts in the play that stick out like a sore thumb. The biggest is the Motown section. There has been a disagreement within the production itself about this section of the play. There are those who think it’s fine, but I hate it. I hate it mostly because we are lip-synching the Motown songs. It feels empty, and not quite professional. I’ve never seen a Broadway show where the characters lip-synched a song. Either you sing it or you don’t. Secondly, I feel like the play on a whole does not give it’s due to the civil rights struggle. It was important to me, when first writing the piece that we created a play that would welcome all people to enjoy. I want the play to touch African-Americans, but I didn’t want to alienate other people. I still feel that way, but without truly dealing with the dark passages of history in this country, we will never be able to have an honest discussion about race. The exclusion of the civil rights struggle was not intentional at all. We were just focused on dealing with the modern equivalent of Griots. King, Malcolm, John Lewis, Stokely Carmichael, Andrew Young were great leaders, but not Griots.
Recently, when I was looking over the play, I read a line from the Miles monologue I wrote, (using Mile’s Autobiography as reference) Miles said “we were the soundtrack of the struggle, musicians give the marchers their beat” it struck me this is how the civil rights and the Griot fit. During the Motown era the movement was in full swing. I don’t think most people think of the music of the time when they think about the struggle, or vice versa. This is what Motown should reflect in the play. The full picture of history. What the art was doing. How the struggle formed the art, and how the art formed the struggle.
It’s tough when you’ve written something and the general public likes it, but you know this isn’t what you want. You don’t want to break something that works. On top of that there are those in the production who have valid points for not wanting to change. But it doesn’t feel right to me. In my bones, I know I have to make this change. I know I can’t be scared of failure. I must reach up and embrace it.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Transitions.
Transitions.
I’ve been writing blog entries and haven’t posted any of them, as I’ve been trying to sift through it all. Welcome to the penumbra. The place I spend time in when I’m between projects, trying to figure out what the next move is. I’ve been pecking away at a couple projects. But nothing substantial. I’ve got ideas for three new pieces, all of which scare me to death. This is a good sign. Pieces that scared me, are the ones that I have to write. I have to steer towards going to the next big thing, challenging myself or the work will bore me and never get finished.
Last night we wrapped up our short run of GRIOT at FCCJ. The two nights we ran the show went really well. There are parts of the show that drive me crazy. Little things, that I know can be done better, I just have to spend the time making it right. Where the time will come for that, I have no idea. But I’m hoping I’ll etch out sometime in the near future and start making it happen. I love the show. I love how Larry, David, and I are magic when we are on stage together. But still there is plenty to work on. Right now we are waiting for word on whether we got into the NYC Fringe Festival. We should know about that in a couple of weeks. If that happens then I’ll begin re-working the parts of the play that don’t quite work for me.
I imagine, in the next month or so, I’ll have a lock on what project I’m working on. Right now, I’m just feeling the concepts out, see which one will get born first. I’ve got some good news on the Julius X tip but for right now, until it’s completely confirmed, I won’t announce it, but it’s pretty big news. So that’s what’s up with me. Short entry. Next time much more to say. Promise.
I’ve been writing blog entries and haven’t posted any of them, as I’ve been trying to sift through it all. Welcome to the penumbra. The place I spend time in when I’m between projects, trying to figure out what the next move is. I’ve been pecking away at a couple projects. But nothing substantial. I’ve got ideas for three new pieces, all of which scare me to death. This is a good sign. Pieces that scared me, are the ones that I have to write. I have to steer towards going to the next big thing, challenging myself or the work will bore me and never get finished.
Last night we wrapped up our short run of GRIOT at FCCJ. The two nights we ran the show went really well. There are parts of the show that drive me crazy. Little things, that I know can be done better, I just have to spend the time making it right. Where the time will come for that, I have no idea. But I’m hoping I’ll etch out sometime in the near future and start making it happen. I love the show. I love how Larry, David, and I are magic when we are on stage together. But still there is plenty to work on. Right now we are waiting for word on whether we got into the NYC Fringe Festival. We should know about that in a couple of weeks. If that happens then I’ll begin re-working the parts of the play that don’t quite work for me.
I imagine, in the next month or so, I’ll have a lock on what project I’m working on. Right now, I’m just feeling the concepts out, see which one will get born first. I’ve got some good news on the Julius X tip but for right now, until it’s completely confirmed, I won’t announce it, but it’s pretty big news. So that’s what’s up with me. Short entry. Next time much more to say. Promise.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
“The past is so hard to get from under”
“The past is so hard to get from under”
March 28th is a day of loss for me. My daughter passed away on this date. Her name is Laurynn LeShonda Letson. Usually, I don’t talk about people in my family. Many people know I have a daughter because of my “Venus” poem, and that daughter’s name is Brooklynn. Laurynn is her little sister, who would be six today. I never got to play with her, or do things I do with my other children because she was gone almost as quickly as she was here. What I did get to do was to hold her. Once. I felt her warm little body pressed against mine. She was already gone, but I still got the chance to touch her. I whispered a poem in her ear. It was more of a prayer that she would find some peace some place better then where she’d be born into. I don’t remember letting go. I wanted to follow the nurse to whatever room they were taking her, and beg them to take me. Let her stay, I’d go in her place. But I knew when I watched them wheel her away that I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t pure or perfect. I’d done to much and seen too much to just walk into the light like her.
I use to feel so guilty about it all. Like a bricks had been laid against my chest each one with her name inscribed on them. I used those bricks to build walls around my heart, and soul. The thing about being a writer, or any kind of artist for that matter means that you can not operate within walls. Walls are exactly what an artist strives against. Slowly but surely, you have to chip away at those walls, so you can be human. So you can help other people escape their own walls. I thought about writing the entry and never mention Laurynn just talk about the loss of someone close to me, but that’s just living behind the wall. It’s not living in the real world, with real pain, or real happiness. I want more for me. And more for her. I don’t want her memory to be the pain that defines me. And yet, I know sometimes it is.
I these days, I don’t look to place blame on myself, of anyone else, I just understand that sometimes life works in it’s own ways. But I miss her. In ways I don’t even know how to write about. In times that seem to be a random as hell, but somehow make sense. That’s where she lies. I don’t know how heaven works. I don’t know if what people say will happen, happens. It would be nice to see her, to tell her I love her. But I think if I don’t ever see her again, this is as good as a place as any.
“Laurynn, I prayed for you the last time I held you, and I said it to you but you were already gone, but I love you baby. As much as I do all my little ones, from now till forever”
The Universe makes space. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
March 28th is a day of loss for me. My daughter passed away on this date. Her name is Laurynn LeShonda Letson. Usually, I don’t talk about people in my family. Many people know I have a daughter because of my “Venus” poem, and that daughter’s name is Brooklynn. Laurynn is her little sister, who would be six today. I never got to play with her, or do things I do with my other children because she was gone almost as quickly as she was here. What I did get to do was to hold her. Once. I felt her warm little body pressed against mine. She was already gone, but I still got the chance to touch her. I whispered a poem in her ear. It was more of a prayer that she would find some peace some place better then where she’d be born into. I don’t remember letting go. I wanted to follow the nurse to whatever room they were taking her, and beg them to take me. Let her stay, I’d go in her place. But I knew when I watched them wheel her away that I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t pure or perfect. I’d done to much and seen too much to just walk into the light like her.
I use to feel so guilty about it all. Like a bricks had been laid against my chest each one with her name inscribed on them. I used those bricks to build walls around my heart, and soul. The thing about being a writer, or any kind of artist for that matter means that you can not operate within walls. Walls are exactly what an artist strives against. Slowly but surely, you have to chip away at those walls, so you can be human. So you can help other people escape their own walls. I thought about writing the entry and never mention Laurynn just talk about the loss of someone close to me, but that’s just living behind the wall. It’s not living in the real world, with real pain, or real happiness. I want more for me. And more for her. I don’t want her memory to be the pain that defines me. And yet, I know sometimes it is.
I these days, I don’t look to place blame on myself, of anyone else, I just understand that sometimes life works in it’s own ways. But I miss her. In ways I don’t even know how to write about. In times that seem to be a random as hell, but somehow make sense. That’s where she lies. I don’t know how heaven works. I don’t know if what people say will happen, happens. It would be nice to see her, to tell her I love her. But I think if I don’t ever see her again, this is as good as a place as any.
“Laurynn, I prayed for you the last time I held you, and I said it to you but you were already gone, but I love you baby. As much as I do all my little ones, from now till forever”
The Universe makes space. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Life after February
Life after February
Dear Blog forgive me it’s been about a month since my last confessional. With tons of writing to do, and new projects needing to be written, I find myself in a state of inertia. I don’t want to do anything. I just want to live a little. This is not a bad thing, what it is, is a testament to the work, I put in on Julius X. It was a long and good process, but it’s left me feeling somewhat drained. I’m working hard to get the play produced in other places, so we’ll see how that goes. Additionally, I’ve been working with the composer, Mr. Bruce Mack. I am very, very, excited about where the piece can go. The biggest draw back with X is the size of the cast. There are not many African American Theatre companies across the nation that could do a version of this piece. That fact is part of the reason I try not to write big pieces. The story for Julius X was so big, and it was something I had to do, I have to accept that there are some downsides to the work.
What I’ve been up to: Last week I went to NYC it was suppose to be a time of fun, and some good work. I got hired by Sony to film a tradeshow commercial for their new HiDef products. They wanted their own, HiDef Poets. In addition I was going to work with the composer for Julius X, and have a few meetings with some key people to hopefully get the show on the right path for an NYC production. I have a gang of friends in the NY area I do not see enough, so I thought this would be a great time to do a bunch work and socializing, but the best laid plans, always have plans of their own.
The Sony shoot went well. I’ve done a couple TV gigs from Def Poetry to the Final Four for CBS in 2004, to some PBS stuff, I have to say Sony was really a class act. The CBS shoot had a level of uncertainty. They weren’t sure whether the spot was going to air or not. So it was shot as fast as possible, without really giving me a chance to prepare. We auditioned, they choose me, I was given a script, and boom, time to shoot. Def Poetry of course is a whole different ball of wax. You come in do your thing, see a lot of folks have a great time, and make a little change. PBS stuff was mostly promotional, so you talk about what you’re doing, and perform and then out the door. Sony fully catered the shoot. They gave all 4 poets participating an opportunity to write their own short segments, and then drove us out of a soundstage in New Jersey where we performed the piece. The other poets on the shoot were Kelly Tsia www.yellowgurl.com, Bob Holman www.Bowerypoetryclub.com, & Bassey Ikpi www.basseyworld.com , Also an actor named Anthony Veneziale who is a part of www.backhouseproductions.org. We had a good time, and I can’t wait to see the actual commercial.
The next day my health crashed. Stuck in NY a thousand miles away from my inhaler, I had a major asthma attack and my allergies were out of control. For the most part I stayed in the bed for 4 days. I had some pretty important meetings I was able to make, but as soon as they were over I ran back to my hotel and crashed. Later in the week, I stayed with Bruce Mack and his lovely wife Vons, out in Jersey. We worked some on the music, both of us feeling the direction of the other. I came home a little early. I needed to recuperate from the trip and here I sit, not feeling 100%. The sad part about the trip is that I didn’t get to see a lot of people I wanted to hang out with. Nor, did I get to see any of the theatre I was hoping to check out. But on a whole the entire trip was productive. Life moves on…..
Dear Blog forgive me it’s been about a month since my last confessional. With tons of writing to do, and new projects needing to be written, I find myself in a state of inertia. I don’t want to do anything. I just want to live a little. This is not a bad thing, what it is, is a testament to the work, I put in on Julius X. It was a long and good process, but it’s left me feeling somewhat drained. I’m working hard to get the play produced in other places, so we’ll see how that goes. Additionally, I’ve been working with the composer, Mr. Bruce Mack. I am very, very, excited about where the piece can go. The biggest draw back with X is the size of the cast. There are not many African American Theatre companies across the nation that could do a version of this piece. That fact is part of the reason I try not to write big pieces. The story for Julius X was so big, and it was something I had to do, I have to accept that there are some downsides to the work.
What I’ve been up to: Last week I went to NYC it was suppose to be a time of fun, and some good work. I got hired by Sony to film a tradeshow commercial for their new HiDef products. They wanted their own, HiDef Poets. In addition I was going to work with the composer for Julius X, and have a few meetings with some key people to hopefully get the show on the right path for an NYC production. I have a gang of friends in the NY area I do not see enough, so I thought this would be a great time to do a bunch work and socializing, but the best laid plans, always have plans of their own.
The Sony shoot went well. I’ve done a couple TV gigs from Def Poetry to the Final Four for CBS in 2004, to some PBS stuff, I have to say Sony was really a class act. The CBS shoot had a level of uncertainty. They weren’t sure whether the spot was going to air or not. So it was shot as fast as possible, without really giving me a chance to prepare. We auditioned, they choose me, I was given a script, and boom, time to shoot. Def Poetry of course is a whole different ball of wax. You come in do your thing, see a lot of folks have a great time, and make a little change. PBS stuff was mostly promotional, so you talk about what you’re doing, and perform and then out the door. Sony fully catered the shoot. They gave all 4 poets participating an opportunity to write their own short segments, and then drove us out of a soundstage in New Jersey where we performed the piece. The other poets on the shoot were Kelly Tsia www.yellowgurl.com, Bob Holman www.Bowerypoetryclub.com, & Bassey Ikpi www.basseyworld.com , Also an actor named Anthony Veneziale who is a part of www.backhouseproductions.org. We had a good time, and I can’t wait to see the actual commercial.
The next day my health crashed. Stuck in NY a thousand miles away from my inhaler, I had a major asthma attack and my allergies were out of control. For the most part I stayed in the bed for 4 days. I had some pretty important meetings I was able to make, but as soon as they were over I ran back to my hotel and crashed. Later in the week, I stayed with Bruce Mack and his lovely wife Vons, out in Jersey. We worked some on the music, both of us feeling the direction of the other. I came home a little early. I needed to recuperate from the trip and here I sit, not feeling 100%. The sad part about the trip is that I didn’t get to see a lot of people I wanted to hang out with. Nor, did I get to see any of the theatre I was hoping to check out. But on a whole the entire trip was productive. Life moves on…..
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Julius X
Alright kiddies, if you want to read about JULIUS X you can check it out at http://web.mac.com/al_letson/iWeb. Additionally the first review for the show is out at http://www.citypaper.com/arts/story.asp?id=11460 More to come.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Don’t call it a come back
Don’t call it a come back
It’s been a minute since I sat down to scribble some thoughts. Mostly because I’ve been maddddd busy. Secondly cause I get lazy when it comes to “blogging”, although this little journal has helped in my personal growth so much. It’s easy to look back and know exactly where I was, like creating a trail from the place you started. Sometimes I look back and go WOW. Other times, it’s too painful to read. Either way the future waits for no one. This is where I’m at now.
Julius X premiers at the Baltimore Theatre Project 45 West Preston St. Feb. 9th-19th. Can’t wait to see it. I’ve had a lot of heartburn over this one. For a couple reasons I’d rather not air publicly. To sum it up, I am totally not use to being “just” a playwright. Writing something and giving it to someone who may or may not get your vision of the play is something I struggle with. Usually I’m use to working on my stuff intimately with people I know intimately. This has a different feel altogether. I think the director is going to do a great job with the play. My apprehension has nothing to do with him. I think it’s primarily because I’m 12 hours away (car) and can’t really be apart of the process. I can’t watch the scenes, and change things that don’t work. It’s relying solely on the work that I’ve done on the script, instead of having the chance, to see what works and what doesn’t. That is what the performance will be an opportunity for me to see what works and what doesn’t the problem with that is the show is going to be reviewed. Reviews. I’ve heard playwrights talk about it with dread but never thought much of it, until I started getting reviewed. I remember the feeling of walking to the store to get the newspaper when my first review came in. It was nerve wracking, thank God it was a good review. I haven’t gotten a bad one yet, so I’m not sure how that feels. Honestly, on the level I’m working, I never want to get a bad one. When my work is on Broadway, then that’s something else. Right now though, I’d like to stay in the positives. Reviews are important because they set you up to do other things with the play. I want Julius X to run in NY. To do big things, and this review could be the beginning of it. At this point, all you can do is have faith.
More to come. Stay tuned.
It’s been a minute since I sat down to scribble some thoughts. Mostly because I’ve been maddddd busy. Secondly cause I get lazy when it comes to “blogging”, although this little journal has helped in my personal growth so much. It’s easy to look back and know exactly where I was, like creating a trail from the place you started. Sometimes I look back and go WOW. Other times, it’s too painful to read. Either way the future waits for no one. This is where I’m at now.
Julius X premiers at the Baltimore Theatre Project 45 West Preston St. Feb. 9th-19th. Can’t wait to see it. I’ve had a lot of heartburn over this one. For a couple reasons I’d rather not air publicly. To sum it up, I am totally not use to being “just” a playwright. Writing something and giving it to someone who may or may not get your vision of the play is something I struggle with. Usually I’m use to working on my stuff intimately with people I know intimately. This has a different feel altogether. I think the director is going to do a great job with the play. My apprehension has nothing to do with him. I think it’s primarily because I’m 12 hours away (car) and can’t really be apart of the process. I can’t watch the scenes, and change things that don’t work. It’s relying solely on the work that I’ve done on the script, instead of having the chance, to see what works and what doesn’t. That is what the performance will be an opportunity for me to see what works and what doesn’t the problem with that is the show is going to be reviewed. Reviews. I’ve heard playwrights talk about it with dread but never thought much of it, until I started getting reviewed. I remember the feeling of walking to the store to get the newspaper when my first review came in. It was nerve wracking, thank God it was a good review. I haven’t gotten a bad one yet, so I’m not sure how that feels. Honestly, on the level I’m working, I never want to get a bad one. When my work is on Broadway, then that’s something else. Right now though, I’d like to stay in the positives. Reviews are important because they set you up to do other things with the play. I want Julius X to run in NY. To do big things, and this review could be the beginning of it. At this point, all you can do is have faith.
More to come. Stay tuned.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Temporary Arrangements
I’ve been working on a post to the website, a really good post full of what I’ve been doing for the last month or two. And today when I sat down to post it, I just didn’t feel it anymore. I’ve been depressed for a couple days, over work stuff, and just don’t have the heart to post all my dreams today. Sometime in the near future I guess I will, but today, no dice. With that being said, this song always picks me up. I found it when I was going though a really hard time a couple years ago. I felt like she was talking directly to me. I think everyone at some point feels like a stranger in a strange land. That's exactly where I'm at. Like I'm speaking in a language the people around me can't understand. The world has turned up it’s gravity field, and is trying to keep me on the ground. It won’t hold me, I was made to fly, but sometimes the struggle to get airborne is a tough one.
No Pressure over Cappucino
By Alanis Morissette
And you're like a 90's Jesus
And you revel in your psychosis
How dare you?
You sample concepts like hors d'oeurves
And you eat their questions for dessert
And is it just me or is it hot in here?
And you're like a 90's Kennedy
And you're only a million years old
They can't fool you
They'll throw opinions like rocks in riots
And they'll stumble around like hypocrites
And is it just me or is it dark in here?
You may never be or have a husband
You may never have or hold a child
You will learn to loose everything
We are temporary arrangements
And you're like a 90's Noah
And they laughed at you when you packed all of your things
And they wonder why you're frustrated
And they wonder why you're so angry
Is it just me or are you fed up
And god bless you in you're travels
in your conquests and queries...
No Pressure over Cappucino
By Alanis Morissette
And you're like a 90's Jesus
And you revel in your psychosis
How dare you?
You sample concepts like hors d'oeurves
And you eat their questions for dessert
And is it just me or is it hot in here?
And you're like a 90's Kennedy
And you're only a million years old
They can't fool you
They'll throw opinions like rocks in riots
And they'll stumble around like hypocrites
And is it just me or is it dark in here?
You may never be or have a husband
You may never have or hold a child
You will learn to loose everything
We are temporary arrangements
And you're like a 90's Noah
And they laughed at you when you packed all of your things
And they wonder why you're frustrated
And they wonder why you're so angry
Is it just me or are you fed up
And god bless you in you're travels
in your conquests and queries...
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Story of the Locks
Story of the Locks
Milwaukee is cold this time of year. Duh. But I got a gig, and the gig is for a good cause, so here I am. I hate the cold. Hate it. You’d think I was born in the south for my aversion for the cold. I consider myself a southerner, for good or bad, but it wasn’t always so. I’m a boy from New Jersey, and love the Tri-State area, but feel no connection to it during the winter.
The flight to Milwaukee brought up a lot of old feelings, and I have no idea why. I’ve been on several planes in the last 4 years, but none of them have made me miss the life I left behind. Maybe the word “life” is too melodramatic, the flight made me miss the job I use to have.
Four years ago I was a flight attendant for American Eagle Airlines. I started flying when I was 22 and stopped when I was 29. I loved the job. It was an escape from problems I was having at home, but also I taught me a lot about who I was, and who I wanted to be. I usually never miss flying. Towards the end I was sick of it. On 9/11 I was in New York worried sick about my friends that I knew flew those routes. On the flip side, everyone I cared about was worried about me, all in all it was a surreal and terrifying experience. Slowly, it started to take the enjoyment of the job away. As traumatic as that was, it would be more then a year later before I left American Eagle.
One day in 2002 I woke up in Oakland California and looked in the mirror, and realized that I was beginning a transition. I remember looking at my face and thinking, it wasn’t the same one I’d washed before I went to bed. Months prior to that day, my life was falling apart. I’d lost everything and was sleeping in my car. All the things that everyone that loved me saw for me no longer held the same appeal. I didn’t want the things that I’d seen people around me have. Something was tugging at me, had been my whole life, but I never knew what it was, or how to name it. A longing for something that you can’t really put into words, but it’s always there in the corner of every major life decision. I’d gotten to the point where I had nothing left to loose and that voice, whispering in my ear was becoming more persistent. Ultimately I wanted to figure out who I was, and who I was going to be. Somewhere deep, I knew that was not being a flight attendant.
Poetry was a hobby. A good one. As a flight attendant, I’d been able to make a name for myself by going to all the little poetry slam venues, won a couple slams, had a couple laughs, made a couple friends. In the midst of it all, that pulling came back in full force and whisper, this is what I wanted to do, what I was meant to do. Perform, write, live life on my own terms. As a child I’d always been an artist. I was an exceptional little artist/painter, if 4th grade I wrote my own play, sung (lost that skill), and acted in several plays. In Jr. High, I got heavily involved with Hip-hop and became somewhat of a local “Puffy-Daddy”. Funny to think about it, but when I see people from High School some of them ask me if I’m still rapping. When I got older, I let all that go, along with the nickname Alfie, and forged this new person, Al that was an adult. Adults do things that are responsible. Like get married have 2.5 kids, buy a house with a white picket fence, work 9-5, retire and get an RV. Poetry changed all of that. I could no longer think on those terms. The world seemed like such a bigger place then that dream. It hit me like a ton of bricks, the thought that I would not follow in my parent’s footsteps. For some people this realization might be trite, or easy to come to, but for me, son of a Baptist preacher, who had always been given a “Cosby-esque” view of the world, being a full-time artist was scary. For months it dogged me. I wanted to do so much more then just write a three minute poem, or sling peanuts on a plane.
That day in Oakland was important because staring at the mirror, I decided to grow my hair. The a couple nights before the beautiful woman I was dating said she thought I would look good with long hair. It got me thinking that all my life I’d worn the same hair cut. Low-fade. Not once did I ever consider growing my hair out. Never. My haircut was controlled and tight exactly what everyone around me expected. I’d heard that growing dreds was supposed to be a religious experience. Before I started letting my hair grow, I thought it was corny mysticism, but that day in Oakland was a conversion of sorts. I knew I could no longer live my life the way people wanted me to. Or even in a way that was comfortable. More then anything, I wanted to be an artist. I always wanted to be an artist, I just never knew what my art was, now I’d found it.
I remember feeling like I was at the edge of a cliff, and I couldn’t see below, the road I’d walked to get there had been erased by a sandstorm, and all I could do was stay put or go forward. Some people have told me over the years that doing what I do as a living is brave. I think back to that cliff and know it wasn’t. Either I stayed put for the rest of my life, or I jump. There was no real choice. You jump. You jump and you pray the Lord will find a way to set you down easily, or give you wings to fly. I could end this post with something really corny, like “Thank God, he gave me wings!” But instead, I’ll just end by saying, I’m living the life I’ve always wanted. I’m doing the work that is important to me. On a whole things have worked out just the way they were meant to. Everything is not rosey. There have been plenty of hard times, and bad breaks. I’m not rich, probably never will be, I’m not comfortable, comfortable would have been staying at a 9 to 5, getting the steady check, but I don’t want that. I’m living, creating, working, and giving something back to the world. My gift is small, but it’s what I got to give. Thank God he gave me wings…LOL.
Milwaukee is cold this time of year. Duh. But I got a gig, and the gig is for a good cause, so here I am. I hate the cold. Hate it. You’d think I was born in the south for my aversion for the cold. I consider myself a southerner, for good or bad, but it wasn’t always so. I’m a boy from New Jersey, and love the Tri-State area, but feel no connection to it during the winter.
The flight to Milwaukee brought up a lot of old feelings, and I have no idea why. I’ve been on several planes in the last 4 years, but none of them have made me miss the life I left behind. Maybe the word “life” is too melodramatic, the flight made me miss the job I use to have.
Four years ago I was a flight attendant for American Eagle Airlines. I started flying when I was 22 and stopped when I was 29. I loved the job. It was an escape from problems I was having at home, but also I taught me a lot about who I was, and who I wanted to be. I usually never miss flying. Towards the end I was sick of it. On 9/11 I was in New York worried sick about my friends that I knew flew those routes. On the flip side, everyone I cared about was worried about me, all in all it was a surreal and terrifying experience. Slowly, it started to take the enjoyment of the job away. As traumatic as that was, it would be more then a year later before I left American Eagle.
One day in 2002 I woke up in Oakland California and looked in the mirror, and realized that I was beginning a transition. I remember looking at my face and thinking, it wasn’t the same one I’d washed before I went to bed. Months prior to that day, my life was falling apart. I’d lost everything and was sleeping in my car. All the things that everyone that loved me saw for me no longer held the same appeal. I didn’t want the things that I’d seen people around me have. Something was tugging at me, had been my whole life, but I never knew what it was, or how to name it. A longing for something that you can’t really put into words, but it’s always there in the corner of every major life decision. I’d gotten to the point where I had nothing left to loose and that voice, whispering in my ear was becoming more persistent. Ultimately I wanted to figure out who I was, and who I was going to be. Somewhere deep, I knew that was not being a flight attendant.
Poetry was a hobby. A good one. As a flight attendant, I’d been able to make a name for myself by going to all the little poetry slam venues, won a couple slams, had a couple laughs, made a couple friends. In the midst of it all, that pulling came back in full force and whisper, this is what I wanted to do, what I was meant to do. Perform, write, live life on my own terms. As a child I’d always been an artist. I was an exceptional little artist/painter, if 4th grade I wrote my own play, sung (lost that skill), and acted in several plays. In Jr. High, I got heavily involved with Hip-hop and became somewhat of a local “Puffy-Daddy”. Funny to think about it, but when I see people from High School some of them ask me if I’m still rapping. When I got older, I let all that go, along with the nickname Alfie, and forged this new person, Al that was an adult. Adults do things that are responsible. Like get married have 2.5 kids, buy a house with a white picket fence, work 9-5, retire and get an RV. Poetry changed all of that. I could no longer think on those terms. The world seemed like such a bigger place then that dream. It hit me like a ton of bricks, the thought that I would not follow in my parent’s footsteps. For some people this realization might be trite, or easy to come to, but for me, son of a Baptist preacher, who had always been given a “Cosby-esque” view of the world, being a full-time artist was scary. For months it dogged me. I wanted to do so much more then just write a three minute poem, or sling peanuts on a plane.
That day in Oakland was important because staring at the mirror, I decided to grow my hair. The a couple nights before the beautiful woman I was dating said she thought I would look good with long hair. It got me thinking that all my life I’d worn the same hair cut. Low-fade. Not once did I ever consider growing my hair out. Never. My haircut was controlled and tight exactly what everyone around me expected. I’d heard that growing dreds was supposed to be a religious experience. Before I started letting my hair grow, I thought it was corny mysticism, but that day in Oakland was a conversion of sorts. I knew I could no longer live my life the way people wanted me to. Or even in a way that was comfortable. More then anything, I wanted to be an artist. I always wanted to be an artist, I just never knew what my art was, now I’d found it.
I remember feeling like I was at the edge of a cliff, and I couldn’t see below, the road I’d walked to get there had been erased by a sandstorm, and all I could do was stay put or go forward. Some people have told me over the years that doing what I do as a living is brave. I think back to that cliff and know it wasn’t. Either I stayed put for the rest of my life, or I jump. There was no real choice. You jump. You jump and you pray the Lord will find a way to set you down easily, or give you wings to fly. I could end this post with something really corny, like “Thank God, he gave me wings!” But instead, I’ll just end by saying, I’m living the life I’ve always wanted. I’m doing the work that is important to me. On a whole things have worked out just the way they were meant to. Everything is not rosey. There have been plenty of hard times, and bad breaks. I’m not rich, probably never will be, I’m not comfortable, comfortable would have been staying at a 9 to 5, getting the steady check, but I don’t want that. I’m living, creating, working, and giving something back to the world. My gift is small, but it’s what I got to give. Thank God he gave me wings…LOL.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Beginnings and Endings
I started to write a really long post about August Wilson and what he means to me as a writer, and as an African-American. But I’ve read so many other accounts that I decided, I had nothing new to add to the conversation. Except to say that he changed my life when I discovered his work. I don’t feel bad that he’s gone. Death is something that will come to all of us. I’m happy for him. He set an ambitious goal, and he saw it through. 10 plays. An unheard of cycle. Some of the plays are better then others, but on a whole brilliant work. I hope when inevitability catches up with me, it will find me as accomplished and have contributed to the whole of humanity the way August did. Rest in peace.
All of that ties into this. I have finished the first draft of Julius X. Yay! For the next month, I’ll be doing some intense rewrites, readings, and more research to make the piece work better. But for a first draft, I’m really happy. David Mamet said something along the lines, that all acting really was, is being brave. Going out there, and just doing it. I don’t know how much I agree with that, but I do think it has a lot to do with it. So it is with writing. A lot of it is just having the courage to dream and put it on paper. A POETICAL is much harder to write then a straight play. So there are plenty of opportunities to wimp out. I feel like in the first draft of CHALK I wimped out a couple times. I was tired of trying to write engaging poems. So instead, I just did the easy thing and let drama carry it. Which for what I was trying to do is cheating.
With Julius however I kept my nose to the grind. I got it done a week past the deadline, but a week isn’t that far off. I think the piece is strong. But you know when your doing something new sometimes it’s hard to gage how people will take it.
There is a deep sense of satisfaction from finishing something I’d dreamed up a year ago spent months researching, and several months writing. This isn’t the end of the work. This is just the birth-day.
I never write the title page until I finish the first draft. It was an honor to add an additional page in between the title page and first page of the script. The page is mostly blank with two words, “For August”.
All of that ties into this. I have finished the first draft of Julius X. Yay! For the next month, I’ll be doing some intense rewrites, readings, and more research to make the piece work better. But for a first draft, I’m really happy. David Mamet said something along the lines, that all acting really was, is being brave. Going out there, and just doing it. I don’t know how much I agree with that, but I do think it has a lot to do with it. So it is with writing. A lot of it is just having the courage to dream and put it on paper. A POETICAL is much harder to write then a straight play. So there are plenty of opportunities to wimp out. I feel like in the first draft of CHALK I wimped out a couple times. I was tired of trying to write engaging poems. So instead, I just did the easy thing and let drama carry it. Which for what I was trying to do is cheating.
With Julius however I kept my nose to the grind. I got it done a week past the deadline, but a week isn’t that far off. I think the piece is strong. But you know when your doing something new sometimes it’s hard to gage how people will take it.
There is a deep sense of satisfaction from finishing something I’d dreamed up a year ago spent months researching, and several months writing. This isn’t the end of the work. This is just the birth-day.
I never write the title page until I finish the first draft. It was an honor to add an additional page in between the title page and first page of the script. The page is mostly blank with two words, “For August”.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
BALTIMORE, USA
Baltimore, Baltimore
I’m home. Been a bit since I’ve been to Baltimore, but once I get here it doesn’t take long for me to remember why this is my second home. I came here for a bunch of reasons. The place I stay at in Baltimore is the Governement House which is a bed and breakfast in the Mt. Vernon section of B-more. The place is magical. I've loved the building and the propietor since the first time I walked through the door. Jeanie, always takes good care of a poor poet trying to live his dream. I am blessed.
Confession time: I am a nerd. Always have been always will be. So it should be no surprise that I am a huge comic book fan, and for the last year or so, I’ve been pretty serious about trying to write comic books. So when I was planning this trip to read Julius X, it seemed to be fate that brought me Baltimore the same time as the Baltimore Comic Book Convention. In addition to the Convention, another business contact was going to be in town during the same time. I knew this was going to be a busy trip.
The Baltimore Convention.
Everything I’ve read about breaking into comics says you need to go to conventions and get to know people. So that’s why I went. I had a great time as a nerd. As a writer, it was the big goose egg. The conventions are made for Artist to connect publishers, but for a writer without an artist, not much going on. I talked to a few people, tried to make some connections, we’ll see if anything happens.
On the big ole phat nerd tip. I met some of the creators that I love. Like Amanda Conner. I spoke to her like I was a little kid. I’ve just been digging her Art work forever. Check out her stuff: www.amandaconner.com. (she’s my celebrity crush) LOL. I met the king John Romita Sr. This man is a legend. I shook his hand, and could barely speak. Jimmy Palmiotti was there, he’s a great talent unfortunately I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I met a new writer named Raven, he’s pretty good too. So on a whole it was fun. Ultimately, I need to figure out how to break in cause it seems like the convention route isn’t going to get me far.
JULIUS X
Monday was the reading of Julius at the Eubie Blake Community Center. I had a good meeting with the director Troy Burton the day before the reading. He listened intently as I explained my vision for the piece. I could see the light bulb go on as I explained it all. He helped me think somethings through, and I think the piece is really strong. The reading made me even more confident of where it's going. Which I needed because writing a “Poetical” isn’t something that comes with an instruction book. This time I’m a little more free with the poetry, and the blending of it with dialogue. The play will be finished in a couple weeks. (We read the first half of the piece) and once that’s done, then it’s out of my hands. I’ll be in Baltimore again in November to do a reading open to the public, which will be much more intense. Anne @ the Theatre Project is happy with what she heard. I felt a little pressure to make her happy. She supports me fully, and I want her to know I appreciate it. At the same time I want to prove that the work is worthy of being supported. Big ambitions, but you gotta dream big right? I’m excited to see where this will end up.
On a separate note, a new business oppertunity opened up. I met some wonderful people while I was in B-more, and we may do some work together. Don't want to talk much about it now, until we get the details hammered out. But if it all works out which I think it will, the project could be pretty big. It's all pretty exciting. This was facilited by Jeanie Clark (the Inn Keep), as always she's looking out for me. I hope I can "pay-it-forward" in the near future.
I’m home. Been a bit since I’ve been to Baltimore, but once I get here it doesn’t take long for me to remember why this is my second home. I came here for a bunch of reasons. The place I stay at in Baltimore is the Governement House which is a bed and breakfast in the Mt. Vernon section of B-more. The place is magical. I've loved the building and the propietor since the first time I walked through the door. Jeanie, always takes good care of a poor poet trying to live his dream. I am blessed.
Confession time: I am a nerd. Always have been always will be. So it should be no surprise that I am a huge comic book fan, and for the last year or so, I’ve been pretty serious about trying to write comic books. So when I was planning this trip to read Julius X, it seemed to be fate that brought me Baltimore the same time as the Baltimore Comic Book Convention. In addition to the Convention, another business contact was going to be in town during the same time. I knew this was going to be a busy trip.
The Baltimore Convention.
Everything I’ve read about breaking into comics says you need to go to conventions and get to know people. So that’s why I went. I had a great time as a nerd. As a writer, it was the big goose egg. The conventions are made for Artist to connect publishers, but for a writer without an artist, not much going on. I talked to a few people, tried to make some connections, we’ll see if anything happens.
On the big ole phat nerd tip. I met some of the creators that I love. Like Amanda Conner. I spoke to her like I was a little kid. I’ve just been digging her Art work forever. Check out her stuff: www.amandaconner.com. (she’s my celebrity crush) LOL. I met the king John Romita Sr. This man is a legend. I shook his hand, and could barely speak. Jimmy Palmiotti was there, he’s a great talent unfortunately I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I met a new writer named Raven, he’s pretty good too. So on a whole it was fun. Ultimately, I need to figure out how to break in cause it seems like the convention route isn’t going to get me far.
JULIUS X
Monday was the reading of Julius at the Eubie Blake Community Center. I had a good meeting with the director Troy Burton the day before the reading. He listened intently as I explained my vision for the piece. I could see the light bulb go on as I explained it all. He helped me think somethings through, and I think the piece is really strong. The reading made me even more confident of where it's going. Which I needed because writing a “Poetical” isn’t something that comes with an instruction book. This time I’m a little more free with the poetry, and the blending of it with dialogue. The play will be finished in a couple weeks. (We read the first half of the piece) and once that’s done, then it’s out of my hands. I’ll be in Baltimore again in November to do a reading open to the public, which will be much more intense. Anne @ the Theatre Project is happy with what she heard. I felt a little pressure to make her happy. She supports me fully, and I want her to know I appreciate it. At the same time I want to prove that the work is worthy of being supported. Big ambitions, but you gotta dream big right? I’m excited to see where this will end up.
On a separate note, a new business oppertunity opened up. I met some wonderful people while I was in B-more, and we may do some work together. Don't want to talk much about it now, until we get the details hammered out. But if it all works out which I think it will, the project could be pretty big. It's all pretty exciting. This was facilited by Jeanie Clark (the Inn Keep), as always she's looking out for me. I hope I can "pay-it-forward" in the near future.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
The silence of good people.
I usually do not write in this blog with politics in mind. Why because I feel like there are better writers who do that sort of thing. Instead I look at my blog as a place where I can write about my own work and challenges, and hopefully people can relate with that. But today, I feel like I have to say something about the madness sprouting up around us.
Like everyone in this world watching the drama unfold on TV in New Orleans my heart is so heavy. I wish there was some way I could go there and save the people who have been forgotten by the government. Sure today they are starting to get some relief but for 4 to 5 days after the Hurricane hit, no one had done nothing.
The head of FEMA is an idiot, or a liar. I’m not sure what’s worse. Earlier in the week he said the victims where to blame for no evacuating. Basically blaming them for being poor. Today I read Homeland Security Secretary (Micheal Chertoff ) saying there was “no plan for this,…. (the storm was) breathtaking in its surprise." He is one of the few surprised. I’m not in the business of managing disaster relief and I knew this was inevitable. The folks in the know in New Orleans have been predicting it for years. Every indication is that the government should have known this was possible. I do not fault any one administration with not having taken this seriously. The work on the levies should have been done decades ago. What I fault them for is not having a viable evacuation plan, for not being prepared to help those left behind, for treating it like it was no big deal.
Why did it take so long to get help to the area? Because we have the National Guard dieing in Iraq, instead of being in place to help the survivors. These destitute people don’t matter though. There are poor, and mostly black, so therefore undeserving of our help or sympathy. Meanwhile President Bush has Airforce One do a fly by so he can look down at the devastation. It takes him 3 days to get there, after being shamed into action by the Mayor of New Orleans. But this is what America asked for when they reelected this failed oil-man back into the presidency. If his past record is any indication, the president will give the director of FEMA a promotion. Because that’s what this President does. There is no accountability. The buck stops nowhere, and Americans are okay with it, as long as they get their dose of electronic Novocain in the form of Brittany Spears, Jessica Simpson, or Jen and Brad’s divorce.
Debating in 2000, Bush said his favorite political adviser was Jesus. If that is so, then the Jesus I know and believe in is weeping. Jesus was one of the all time great advocates for the poor. When do the policies of this administration benefit the poor? Where is the concept of “turning the other cheek”? Does “Bring’em on” sound like turning the other cheek? It sounds more like the click of a clip being forced in an automatic weapon. African American clergy, helped get Bush reelected based primarily on his staunch objection to peoples sexual behavior. But now we see what he truly thinks of them by his inaction.
In this bizarro world, people fighting for survival are looters. With no help from the government, and lawlessness taking grip, people did what they had to, to survive. I got an e-mail from a friend (a very cool individual,) but a quote from the article he sent me said: "Not a single tourist caught in the tsunami was mugged. Now with all this happening in the U.S. we can easily see where the civilized part of the world's population is.” That is an affront to Black people, and is exactly what many people feel in their hearts, that we are animals. The economic, social, and cultural aspects of Asia are very different from New Orleans. They have their own issues there, very different of those in the inner-cities in America. Our streets are flooded with drugs, guns, and hopelessness. Why because someone is making money off it, and it’s not the people in these neighborhoods. One would be naïve to think there isn’t someone somewhere in power, benefiting off of these people’s pain. It’s capitalism at it’s ugliest. These are the ingredients for the perfect storm. Not Katrina’s level four, but the decay of our culture into this gun obsessed, drug saturated, loveless mess. In every bad situation there are a few who are going to cause problems. Human nature unavoidable, but on a whole the people are struggling to survive, wouldn’t you?
These people have been left to die because no one thought they were worthy of being evacuated before the storm hit. Most of the people that stayed behind, stayed because they had no other choice. They couldn’t rent a car, they didn’t have a car themselves. No money for plane, train, or bus tickets. Nothing. So they stay and watch their lives be washed away. Meanwhile the rest of the world sits in judgment of them. Next week, or next month, or sometime in the future, President Bush will praise the relief efforts, FEMA, and anyone else he owes for their “tireless efforts” and America will forget all about this tragedy. We will move on to mourn the death of William Renquist, but who will mourn the hundreds of little babies, old people, and “worthless looters” who lost their lives not to Katrina’s deadly winds and waters, but to government inaction. Adlai Stevenson once said, “You always get the government you deserve.” But today in the flooded ruins of New Orleans, as poor people struggle to make it to the next day it is apparent they deserved better then this.
Like everyone in this world watching the drama unfold on TV in New Orleans my heart is so heavy. I wish there was some way I could go there and save the people who have been forgotten by the government. Sure today they are starting to get some relief but for 4 to 5 days after the Hurricane hit, no one had done nothing.
The head of FEMA is an idiot, or a liar. I’m not sure what’s worse. Earlier in the week he said the victims where to blame for no evacuating. Basically blaming them for being poor. Today I read Homeland Security Secretary (Micheal Chertoff ) saying there was “no plan for this,…. (the storm was) breathtaking in its surprise." He is one of the few surprised. I’m not in the business of managing disaster relief and I knew this was inevitable. The folks in the know in New Orleans have been predicting it for years. Every indication is that the government should have known this was possible. I do not fault any one administration with not having taken this seriously. The work on the levies should have been done decades ago. What I fault them for is not having a viable evacuation plan, for not being prepared to help those left behind, for treating it like it was no big deal.
Why did it take so long to get help to the area? Because we have the National Guard dieing in Iraq, instead of being in place to help the survivors. These destitute people don’t matter though. There are poor, and mostly black, so therefore undeserving of our help or sympathy. Meanwhile President Bush has Airforce One do a fly by so he can look down at the devastation. It takes him 3 days to get there, after being shamed into action by the Mayor of New Orleans. But this is what America asked for when they reelected this failed oil-man back into the presidency. If his past record is any indication, the president will give the director of FEMA a promotion. Because that’s what this President does. There is no accountability. The buck stops nowhere, and Americans are okay with it, as long as they get their dose of electronic Novocain in the form of Brittany Spears, Jessica Simpson, or Jen and Brad’s divorce.
Debating in 2000, Bush said his favorite political adviser was Jesus. If that is so, then the Jesus I know and believe in is weeping. Jesus was one of the all time great advocates for the poor. When do the policies of this administration benefit the poor? Where is the concept of “turning the other cheek”? Does “Bring’em on” sound like turning the other cheek? It sounds more like the click of a clip being forced in an automatic weapon. African American clergy, helped get Bush reelected based primarily on his staunch objection to peoples sexual behavior. But now we see what he truly thinks of them by his inaction.
In this bizarro world, people fighting for survival are looters. With no help from the government, and lawlessness taking grip, people did what they had to, to survive. I got an e-mail from a friend (a very cool individual,) but a quote from the article he sent me said: "Not a single tourist caught in the tsunami was mugged. Now with all this happening in the U.S. we can easily see where the civilized part of the world's population is.” That is an affront to Black people, and is exactly what many people feel in their hearts, that we are animals. The economic, social, and cultural aspects of Asia are very different from New Orleans. They have their own issues there, very different of those in the inner-cities in America. Our streets are flooded with drugs, guns, and hopelessness. Why because someone is making money off it, and it’s not the people in these neighborhoods. One would be naïve to think there isn’t someone somewhere in power, benefiting off of these people’s pain. It’s capitalism at it’s ugliest. These are the ingredients for the perfect storm. Not Katrina’s level four, but the decay of our culture into this gun obsessed, drug saturated, loveless mess. In every bad situation there are a few who are going to cause problems. Human nature unavoidable, but on a whole the people are struggling to survive, wouldn’t you?
These people have been left to die because no one thought they were worthy of being evacuated before the storm hit. Most of the people that stayed behind, stayed because they had no other choice. They couldn’t rent a car, they didn’t have a car themselves. No money for plane, train, or bus tickets. Nothing. So they stay and watch their lives be washed away. Meanwhile the rest of the world sits in judgment of them. Next week, or next month, or sometime in the future, President Bush will praise the relief efforts, FEMA, and anyone else he owes for their “tireless efforts” and America will forget all about this tragedy. We will move on to mourn the death of William Renquist, but who will mourn the hundreds of little babies, old people, and “worthless looters” who lost their lives not to Katrina’s deadly winds and waters, but to government inaction. Adlai Stevenson once said, “You always get the government you deserve.” But today in the flooded ruins of New Orleans, as poor people struggle to make it to the next day it is apparent they deserved better then this.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Julius X
Artistically I’m in the biggest fight I’ve taken on yet. I find myself always drawn to something bigger then what I may be prepared for. The benefit is that when I conquor it I move up a level. There is no downside, except the deep feeling of being overwhelmed, but even that in the end is good cause it keeps me from being lazy.
I have been working for the last two months on my biggest play project to date, Julius X. “Julie” as I sometimes call it is a “Poetical” that is a re-envisioning of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. The play takes place in the 1960 within the power struggle in the Black Muslim Organizations. So Julius is basically a Malcolm X like figure. What makes this so difficult? Everything about it. In theory it’s an intriguing concept, in practice, it’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax. For those of you just tuning in (where you been?) a POETICAL is a new genre of theater I have created (I use the word created loosely) a poetical basically works like a musical but instead of the actors breaking out into song, the dialogue leads to performance poetry. The type of poetry heard in a poetry slam. So that’s the first difficulty. Writing 9 poems, each with their own rhythms and each poem must push the story forward. Secondly the concept of “re-envisioning” Shakespeare. So many people love his work, myself included, all eyes will be on me, and how I handle reworking something that most people feel is genius. Who am I to re-envision any one? Third, Malcolm, the Nation, the 60’s all of these hold special places in people’s hearts especially black people. I want to do something that moves people, that gives us a different perspective on the world around us, and the history behind us. That’s what has drawn me to this subject.
The writing has been extremely slow. Mostly because I’m trying to balance Shakespeares language with the contemporary venacular of the 60’s. The poems are coming even slower, but I knew that would happen.
I see this piece actually branching out and being bigger then just a poetical. I’d really like to work with a Jazz Musician who understands Hip-hop to create something that has never been seen before. A Poetical-Jazz-Opera. Man it could be hot. I’m seeing it as I write this.
The novel is coming along. With Julius premiering in Feb. I needed put Julie first so, the novel is standing still, it’s a slow process but I’m happy with what I’ve gotten so far. If it takes 10 years, that’s cool, as long as I finish.
I have been working for the last two months on my biggest play project to date, Julius X. “Julie” as I sometimes call it is a “Poetical” that is a re-envisioning of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. The play takes place in the 1960 within the power struggle in the Black Muslim Organizations. So Julius is basically a Malcolm X like figure. What makes this so difficult? Everything about it. In theory it’s an intriguing concept, in practice, it’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax. For those of you just tuning in (where you been?) a POETICAL is a new genre of theater I have created (I use the word created loosely) a poetical basically works like a musical but instead of the actors breaking out into song, the dialogue leads to performance poetry. The type of poetry heard in a poetry slam. So that’s the first difficulty. Writing 9 poems, each with their own rhythms and each poem must push the story forward. Secondly the concept of “re-envisioning” Shakespeare. So many people love his work, myself included, all eyes will be on me, and how I handle reworking something that most people feel is genius. Who am I to re-envision any one? Third, Malcolm, the Nation, the 60’s all of these hold special places in people’s hearts especially black people. I want to do something that moves people, that gives us a different perspective on the world around us, and the history behind us. That’s what has drawn me to this subject.
The writing has been extremely slow. Mostly because I’m trying to balance Shakespeares language with the contemporary venacular of the 60’s. The poems are coming even slower, but I knew that would happen.
I see this piece actually branching out and being bigger then just a poetical. I’d really like to work with a Jazz Musician who understands Hip-hop to create something that has never been seen before. A Poetical-Jazz-Opera. Man it could be hot. I’m seeing it as I write this.
The novel is coming along. With Julius premiering in Feb. I needed put Julie first so, the novel is standing still, it’s a slow process but I’m happy with what I’ve gotten so far. If it takes 10 years, that’s cool, as long as I finish.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
The True Culture War
This summer I’ve been working at a community center in the hood. The woman who runs the place is a hard working beautiful individual. She is an activist in every sense of the word. She’s put her life on the line to be there for these kids. It is a beautiful selfless thing she does. I hate when poets call themselves activist, when all they do is poetry. I think it’s worthy to be a poet, that it is a form of activism, but nothing in comparison to true activist that put it on the line, everyday. There are a few poets I can think of that fall into both categories, like my sisters Wahlida Imishara, Turiya Autrey, and Malikha Hameen. They do the real work. But it’s too easy for a poet who goes around getting paid to say some verses about an issue return to their relatively comfortable life, and claim that they are revolutionary. I’m not judging other poets. This is my measuring stick. I won’t call myself an activist. If someone else thinks they fall into that category that’s their thing. I just know the principals that guide me. I have it easy.
Back to the community center. This is the type of work an activist does. I go throughout the country performing, teaching, lecturing to kids of all ages, and for the most part I really dig it. It’s all the benefits of teaching without the drawbacks. This community center is a much harder thing. The children there range from the age of 5 to 17 and many of them come from broken homes. Broken sounds pedestrian. A typical broken home means divorce. Some of these children come from homes that have exploded. Deceased parents, drug addicted parents, no parents, poverty. Despite all of this, these children everyone of them are beautiful. But with pasts so filled with pain and uncertainty, which acts out in their behavior. I thought when I got this job, that I would walk in and boom, they’d love me, because, despite what my son would say, I’m a pretty cool adult.
It doesn’t work like that with these kids.
Everyday is a struggle to reestablish yourself as a person worth respecting. Some of the kids there, I will never break through to. I try but they don’t want anything to do with me. Teaching them writing is near impossible. I could give them paper and say “Write a poem.” But that’s not teaching. That’s more of the same what they get at school. I want them to walk away from this experience with something they will carry with them the rest of their lives. Maybe those goals are too lofty, but they deserve to have lofty aspirations.
This is ground zero for what should be defined as the culture wars. Not what politicians mean when they say “culture wars”. That is classified as a struggle between the right and left over moral issues. Which is fine from a philosophical level, but here where the pavement is hot, and hope is in limited supply, the tug of right and left hold no value. The true culture war is between what our true culture is and what powerful corporations have decided it will be.
All you hear on the radio is songs about Sex. (on black radio) “bend over to the front…”, R. Kelly, and a bunch of other idiots and that’s it. Now that isn’t my type of music, never has been, but there is a noticeable shift in the last 10 years. I don’t like that music, but I can tolerate it, if there is a balance. If there where songs of substance on the radio, then it wouldn’t be so bad. These songs are popular because that’s the only option these kids have. That’s it. Because one corporation owns most of the radio stations across America, they decided what’s going to be hot, and what isn’t. So the perception that the market is making the decisions when it comes to radio is off base because the market never gets a chance to try a new product. All of this ties into the kids at the community center. All these kids hear on the radio, and in the videos are songs about sex. They see young women not much older then themselves, running around half naked, young men chasing after them, and everyone chasing after the mighty dollar, or diamonds, or gold. That’s all they see and without a guiding force in their lives, what they see and hear becomes their reality.
I don’t know how to combat that. But some fights, you just fight. Period. You don’t ask questions, you don’t make excuses, you just roll up your sleeves and dive in because the cause is worthy. These children are worthy. This is not an act of activism. This is an act of the heart. I am no better then anyone else out there. So if anyone is reading my ramblings, and you feel the same as I do, please, please, join the fight.
Back to the community center. This is the type of work an activist does. I go throughout the country performing, teaching, lecturing to kids of all ages, and for the most part I really dig it. It’s all the benefits of teaching without the drawbacks. This community center is a much harder thing. The children there range from the age of 5 to 17 and many of them come from broken homes. Broken sounds pedestrian. A typical broken home means divorce. Some of these children come from homes that have exploded. Deceased parents, drug addicted parents, no parents, poverty. Despite all of this, these children everyone of them are beautiful. But with pasts so filled with pain and uncertainty, which acts out in their behavior. I thought when I got this job, that I would walk in and boom, they’d love me, because, despite what my son would say, I’m a pretty cool adult.
It doesn’t work like that with these kids.
Everyday is a struggle to reestablish yourself as a person worth respecting. Some of the kids there, I will never break through to. I try but they don’t want anything to do with me. Teaching them writing is near impossible. I could give them paper and say “Write a poem.” But that’s not teaching. That’s more of the same what they get at school. I want them to walk away from this experience with something they will carry with them the rest of their lives. Maybe those goals are too lofty, but they deserve to have lofty aspirations.
This is ground zero for what should be defined as the culture wars. Not what politicians mean when they say “culture wars”. That is classified as a struggle between the right and left over moral issues. Which is fine from a philosophical level, but here where the pavement is hot, and hope is in limited supply, the tug of right and left hold no value. The true culture war is between what our true culture is and what powerful corporations have decided it will be.
All you hear on the radio is songs about Sex. (on black radio) “bend over to the front…”, R. Kelly, and a bunch of other idiots and that’s it. Now that isn’t my type of music, never has been, but there is a noticeable shift in the last 10 years. I don’t like that music, but I can tolerate it, if there is a balance. If there where songs of substance on the radio, then it wouldn’t be so bad. These songs are popular because that’s the only option these kids have. That’s it. Because one corporation owns most of the radio stations across America, they decided what’s going to be hot, and what isn’t. So the perception that the market is making the decisions when it comes to radio is off base because the market never gets a chance to try a new product. All of this ties into the kids at the community center. All these kids hear on the radio, and in the videos are songs about sex. They see young women not much older then themselves, running around half naked, young men chasing after them, and everyone chasing after the mighty dollar, or diamonds, or gold. That’s all they see and without a guiding force in their lives, what they see and hear becomes their reality.
I don’t know how to combat that. But some fights, you just fight. Period. You don’t ask questions, you don’t make excuses, you just roll up your sleeves and dive in because the cause is worthy. These children are worthy. This is not an act of activism. This is an act of the heart. I am no better then anyone else out there. So if anyone is reading my ramblings, and you feel the same as I do, please, please, join the fight.
Friday, July 01, 2005
heartbroken
Today is one of those days that stick with you for a while. Before I talk about the hard stuff maybe I should talk about the good stuff. I was real happy with the def poetry stuff. I thought it looked good, and you know that’s all you can ask for. Thank you to everyone that supported me and sent me congratulations. It meant the world to me. What a great week, I put up a show at 9th and Main to coincide with the show. It went over well, and the party was the hot. Also some friends of mine came and really rocked the mic during the down time. So that was a huge blessing…. I’ve been meaning to write all of this down, but my heart is so heavy tonight, that I feel like I can’t do the last week justice.
This week has been hard. Money is a constant struggle. Especically during the summer. See most of the gigs I do are with Schools. No schools in Summer, not much money either. I’ve been working at a community center, and that has been hard, beautiful, and sad all at the same time, and for the time I’m there they pay me well, but it’s nowhere near what I normally make. So with the tough money situations, everything seems harder especially when you have children. Then I found out one of my closest friend’s little nephew got shot and is in intensive care. Then today, a good friend of mine was killed by a drunk driver. I’m heartbroken.
Deliah and Alex have been my friends since I was 20. Alex was my barber and Deliah is his wife. I met them not long after they had got together. They both worked hard to start their own business, and they succeeded. They own a barber shop/beauty salon in Jacksonville called Low Profile. I love that shop. Before I started growing dreds, I’d go there just to hang out. When they found out about my work as an artist they refused to take money from me. Every cut was on the house. I hadn’t seen Alex in about a year. I would drive by his shop and think, damn I need to stop in, but never did. I saw Deliah at Wal-mart in February. We talked and laughed. I asked about her kids (4) she asked about mine. We thought about old times, and promised to catch up. Today I get the call that she was killed in a car accident. Hit and run, and drunk driver hit her and kept going….. I don’t’ have anything poetic to say. This post is probably rambling and stupid, but I’m broken. I’m broken by this stupid war, and all the people dieing in it. I’m broken by the young black men shooting each other. I’m broken, because I love these people, Alex and Deliha, and I never told her, or him for that matter. That I love them, and thank them for believing in me. There were times when their belief, the refusal to take 10 buck from me for a haircut was the only validation I had. I wish it would stop raining, but somehow it fits.
This week has been hard. Money is a constant struggle. Especically during the summer. See most of the gigs I do are with Schools. No schools in Summer, not much money either. I’ve been working at a community center, and that has been hard, beautiful, and sad all at the same time, and for the time I’m there they pay me well, but it’s nowhere near what I normally make. So with the tough money situations, everything seems harder especially when you have children. Then I found out one of my closest friend’s little nephew got shot and is in intensive care. Then today, a good friend of mine was killed by a drunk driver. I’m heartbroken.
Deliah and Alex have been my friends since I was 20. Alex was my barber and Deliah is his wife. I met them not long after they had got together. They both worked hard to start their own business, and they succeeded. They own a barber shop/beauty salon in Jacksonville called Low Profile. I love that shop. Before I started growing dreds, I’d go there just to hang out. When they found out about my work as an artist they refused to take money from me. Every cut was on the house. I hadn’t seen Alex in about a year. I would drive by his shop and think, damn I need to stop in, but never did. I saw Deliah at Wal-mart in February. We talked and laughed. I asked about her kids (4) she asked about mine. We thought about old times, and promised to catch up. Today I get the call that she was killed in a car accident. Hit and run, and drunk driver hit her and kept going….. I don’t’ have anything poetic to say. This post is probably rambling and stupid, but I’m broken. I’m broken by this stupid war, and all the people dieing in it. I’m broken by the young black men shooting each other. I’m broken, because I love these people, Alex and Deliha, and I never told her, or him for that matter. That I love them, and thank them for believing in me. There were times when their belief, the refusal to take 10 buck from me for a haircut was the only validation I had. I wish it would stop raining, but somehow it fits.
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