An Evening at the Rose Garden

Roger Porter

May 9, 2011

One place that I like to visit when I need to reflect is the Piedmont Rose Garden. I tend to go there in the late afternoon on days that I feel like my day job has taken up way too much of my day. I sit within close proximity of the waterfall and begin writing in my notebook. Not that I can’t write anywhere else because I definitely can. It’s just the dynamics of that place that inspire me to think deeply even when I don’t necessarily want to.

The city of Piedmont represents segregation at its finest. It is a small white affluent town that is surrounded by Oakland on all sides. If one were to look at it on a map, then one would see that technically it should be a part of Oakland. It’s a little white island in a black see, an island of sanity I suppose. Or maybe one can look at it as one of the last surviving white settlements before the Negroes ran-a-muck. No matter how you see it, every American city that has experienced white flight has one. We tend to think of racism and segregation as something relegated to the South but that notion couldn’t be further from the truth.

It is true that when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was asked to name the most hostile place in which he had ever tried to march for desegregation he answered Chicago—not Selma, not Birmingham, and not Memphis. It is also true that the transit cop who killed Oscar Grant was found innocent on charges of manslaughter, even though the prosecution had it on tape, in Los Angeles, CA—not in Louisiana, Mississippi, or Tennessee.

So I go to the rose garden to try to put things in perspective. The same rose garden that I just learned about a few years ago after living in the general vicinity my whole life. I come cloaked in the mortal sin of envy. But I do not envy any man; instead I envy the roses that bloom every spring while the human race remains closed all year round, and I envy the water for always finding a way to flow downstream while man remains so still.

To put it simply I go to the rose garden because I am obsessed with contradictions. Contradictions like a bright sun in an otherwise dark ghetto, people who use the word justice to describe murder, and roses that grow to be so beautiful in such a hideous world. I write until the sun inexorably sets then I leave, refusing to write under the manmade lights because they are too dim.

I touch a few rose petals on my way out put I never pick one. Over the years I have learned how to show my love from a distance.

Notes on Pacquiao's defeat of Mosley

Roger Porter

May 8, 2011

There are very few things in this world that are sadder to watch than a busted fighter in a championship fight. I just had the misfortune of watching Shane Mosley lose practically all 12 rounds to Manny Pacquiao. In retrospect it isn’t just that he lost the fight its how he lost. There were moments when you could tell he wanted to let his right hand go, there were several more moments when everyone watching the fight could see that Shane wanted to follow his jab up with a combination, but he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get off, he couldn’t pull the trigger, he’s too old mentally, and he really needs to retire. But see that’s exactly the problem. You can never tell a fighter to stop fighting, for that is what they do. To tell a boxer to retire because they aren’t as good as they used to be would be just as absurd as telling Terry McMillan to stop writing books because she will never be able to top Waiting to Exhale.

Writing and fighting come from the same part of the soul. Both of these crafts require moments of extreme social isolation which often times lead to feelings of intense loneliness. Both of these art forms stress individuality, and when done effectively, always bring out the deepest secrets of a person and place them on center stage. It is said that you can learn more about a person by watching them fight for one round than you would by talking to them for an entire lifetime. Indeed when you watch a person spar in the boxing gym it is the equivalent of reading their journal, their blog, and their autobiography all wrapped up into one.

So what did we learn about Shane Mosley tonight? We learned that his mind and body are no longer united, thus forcing his soul into a state of confusion. This is extremely problematic because you cannot win a championship fight—especially not against Manny Pacquiao—without mind body and soul working together in complete harmony. As much of a warrior as Shane is he can no longer will his body to do the impossible, yet when asked about retirement after the fight he stated with a bruised face and a battered heart that he “could still get in there with these young guys.” It was astonishing.

It is this mentality that kept Mark Twain writing books well into advanced stages of dementia, and it was this mentality that enabled John Milton to write Paradise Lost after he lost all of his sight. A true champion can’t help but to keep going. To keep doing it. Even after dawn has turned to dusk, even after the once large crowds dwindle down to only a faithful few, after the last bell has sounded, after the last page is published, there are still punches that need to be thrown, there are still so many words that need to be said. How can a person quit what they truly love if in fact they truly love it?

I supposed I may have to answer this question at some point in my life, but for Shane Mosley that point is right now. Shane needs to ask himself whether or not his personnel happiness is worth more than his physical health. And that is perhaps the toughest question for a real fighter like Shane Mosley to answer.

No Sleep

Roger Porter

May 5, 2011

There is something about spring that makes me realize how spectacularly beautiful the human race is…well at least on the surface.

I was walking down Market Street in San Francisco yesterday and was taken aback by how alive everyone looked. I almost had to squint my eyes to adjust to the glow emitted from the faces of passers-by. I walked down the middle of the sidewalk and people seemed to move past me in either direction with a determination that was almost surreal. Panhandlers pleaded for money to the rhythm provided by the street musicians. Women showed flesh and wore sunglasses, and even the air tasted sweet. Yesterday was one of those outstanding days that made me feel a little guilty. Perhaps even a little ashamed that I can catch a train in the afternoon and not have to worry about deadly nerve gas being released in the station. Or that I can walk around a densely populated area in a major metropolis and not even consider the possibility of a drone attack, or a suicide bomber taking out as many people as possible. As a matter of fact at that moment in the city I must admit I felt very carefree. The only thing that concerned me was the movie that I was about to watch in the theater.    

I’m thinking I should be grateful for days like yesterday and I genuinely am, but that does not mean that I am ignorant. At this point in the history of this country I am very aware of all the global bloodshed that enables me to be so complacent. Yeah the weather feels good but I also feel guilty. I suppose that’s the very downfall of being conscious. It’s strange but sometimes I wish I could sleep as hard as everyone else.

All I see is Death

Roger Porter

May 2, 2011

There is so much trouble in the world right now, so much confusion, and so much futility.

I’m sorry but I won’t allow myself to confuse murder with justice. I understand that a lot of people feel like Bin Laden deserved to die for what he did, and maybe part of me does too, but that doesn’t make it justice. Justice in America is due process and, for all of those who have recently forgotten, we pride ourselves as a Christian nation. As followers of Christ and believers in Holy Scripture it’s hard for me to see how we can celebrate the murder of 5 people. If murder is an abomination then that should hold true for everyone. As a civilized people we should not make exceptions for anyone no matter how heinous their crimes. It is our duty to show enlightenment even in the way we punish criminals— especially in the way we punish criminals. But in the case of Bin Laden there was only a dead body dumped in the sea. There will be no prison time for him, no reformation, no suffering, just the martyr’s death that he has probably dreamed of since he was a little boy.

And what do we make of the heavily populated city where Bin Laden was killed? Pakistan has some of the poorest regions in the world, yet Bin Laden was able to walk around town with a $25 million price tag on his head for years. In the end it wasn’t a member of his organization or any of his countrymen that killed him for the money; to the contrary, it was US Navy SEALS who killed him because it was their job. This speaks volumes to the dedication of his followers. And it makes me question our objective in this so-called war on terror.

 I mean are we supposed to bomb these people into submission? Are we supposed to show them the light of democracy? Are we supposed to just keep slugging it out until we win? Well then what classifies as a victory because, as capitalists, there is no way we are going to change the ideology of a culture that has very little regard for money. How does America defeat an organization that would pass up on $25 million everyday for 10 years straight in the name of faith and honor?

The death of Bin Laden has been touted by some as the biggest victory in the war on terror but I see it differently. All I see is yet another casualty in a war that should have never been started in the first place. I see several more strikes from both sides in what now amounts to global gangbanging. I see a lot more deaths, I see continued military presence, I see a lot of things, but what I don’t see is an end. I don’t see justice and I don’t see god. All I see is death.

Notes on the Death of Osama Bin Laden

Roger Porter

May 1, 2011

I would much rather have heard that Osama Bin Laden had been captured than to find out he has been killed. It would have brought me a terrific amount of joy to know that Osama Bin Laden was in federal custody somewhere on US soil awaiting trial. Then he would be forced to answer personally to the family members of the many thousands of people whom he has massacred not only in America but in Kenya and Tanzania as well.

I would have liked to see Bin Laden do life in the penitentiary just like my uncle is doing life. Perhaps it would have been comical to hear stories of Bin Laden walking the yard barefoot because no one put money on his books. Or to hear of him flipping out on a correctional officer because he couldn’t get a phone call, or they skipped his turn to take a shower, or because his commissary was late, or they refused to give him his mail.

I would have been elated if Osama were made to suffer like my people suffer over dope charges, robbery beefs, and the infamous 3^rd strike. For if anyone deserves to have their minds slowly debilitated in the United States prison system it’s Osama Bin Laden. Not Leonard Peltier, or Mummia Abu Jamal, but a real killer of innocent people.

If Osama Bin Laden was given a fair trial and sentenced to life in a maximum security federal penitentiary somewhere in the state of Colorado then that would be justice. His being killed inside a mansion in Pakistan is not. Osama Bin Laden never had to do any time for his crimes against humanity.

Osama Bin Laden got off easy.

Unnatural State of Mind

Roger Porter

April 30, 2011

Today I found myself at Natural Bridges State Park near Santa Cruz, CA. Natural Bridges is the perfect place to go on a warm spring day because of its magnificent beach and the breathtaking views. The people are beautiful too, and they seemed to represent every corner of the world…every corner except mine. I realized as I was showing my daughter the amazing tide pools at the park that outside of us there were no other black people there.

The beach was really crowded as a matter of fact. There were Pakistanis, Indians, Filipinos, French people, Mexicans, Whites, Asians, but no black folk to be seen. I thought to myself maybe it’s because Santa Cruz has a very small African-American population but then as we walked through the park I heard several different languages being spoken and I smelled a very diverse array of ethnic foods being cooked on the grill. It became pretty clear that everyone there was not from Santa Cruz proper or even the surrounding area.

The lack of blackness at the beach puzzled me a bit. I can’t understand how a group of people who lived on the coast of Africa for thousands and thousands of years, unlearned loving the beach so quickly. And it isn’t just the beach either. It’s also understood that hiking, and camping are extremely uncool things for black people to do (incidentally I enjoy doing all of these activities regularly). How did this happen? How did appreciating the beauty of the Earth become strictly forbidden for the Earths original people?

I can’t give a very thorough answer to that question; however, I know it has a lot to do with the legacy of slavery and segregation. I know a large part of institutionalized racism is confining an oppressed group to a certain space and disallowing them to ever come out. That’s what ghettos, barrios, shantytowns, and favelas are all about and today was proof as to how effective those constructs have become. After a while people don’t even try to leave their boundaries. Not even on a gorgeous Saturday in the liberal state of California.

It was a very nice day at the beach though. We saw starfish, crabs, and jellyfish, built a sand castle and played in the water until close to sunset. I made it a point that we were among the last people to leave just to represent because after all, you know how we do— LOL.

My Nina

Roger Porter

April 28, 2011

I listen to Nina when I’m feeling really down. It’s been this way for about 5 years now and I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it’s because when I hear the pain inside her voice it makes my own issues seem insignificant. Maybe it’s because her voice is as pure as the church house is supposed to be thus I have come to appreciate the way it washes away my daily sins and past transgressions.

I have never heard a Nina Simone record played on the radio which undoubtedly adds to her mystique. An old girlfriend of mine introduced me to her music some years back and I’ve been in love with Ms. Simone ever since. There’s something about discovering a musician through word of mouth that is extremely empowering. I feel as though I have a personal relationship with Nina. It is as if I have access to a secret that only real music fans know about. When I hear Wild is the Wind I know my baby is singing to me. I know she is striking those piano keys for me. I know she misses me. I know she loves me. I know she is as obsessed with me as I am with her and it is only through the appreciation of timeless art that we are allowed to be in love.

I once tried to share my adoration for Nina Simone with my mother over Sunday breakfast. I asked her whether she listened to Nina when she was younger. She scrunched up her face and replied; “I don’t know. She’s just so ugly.” I immediately changed the topic, feeling let down and oh so hurt. I was also very perplexed, wondering why her looks mattered at all. Of course I think she is beautiful but that’s not the point. The reality is that most Americans would probably side with my mother on that issue. Moreover it strikes me as absurd to know that if Nina were an aspiring artist today she probably wouldn’t be able to get a record deal for that exact reason. Never mind the fact that she was a classically trained pianist, disregard the intense spiritually of her recordings, and her dedication to uplifting oppressed people. Ugly women don’t sell records. Even the most righteous woman I have ever met can’t help but to prove that theory to be correct.

Thank god mama’s baby child has learned to choose his own path over the years, for this is a love that I am willing to fight over. I would disassociate myself from the whole world to be with the woman who reminded me that I am Young Gifted and Black at a time when I felt like a failure. There were moments when I forgot who I was and she sang to me in the middle of the night; “You kiss me and with your kiss my life begins. Daddy you're Spring to me, all things to me. Don’t you know you’re life itself?” With that I became rejuvenated, refocused, resurrected. Maybe I would have given up a long time ago had I not known that Nina would never give up on me.

So I think of her when I am uninspired and I call on her when everyone else claims to be unavailable and Nina has never let me down because My Baby Just Cares for Me.

Go Get It!

Young Jeezy

Roger Porter

April 27, 2011

Remember when we were young and higher education was marketed to us like the latest toy during Christmas time, except it wasn’t just seasonal it was all year round? When I was a kid the media, teachers, and adults in general made it seem like if you got a college degree then you were set for life. Now you’ll find people with BA’s, MA’s, and PhD’s in the same unemployment line as high school dropouts.

It’s a shame and I didn’t really start thinking about it until I was driving through the city running some errands while listening to Young Jeezy (who is a very underrated M.C. by the way). Jeezy dropped the lines; “I said I’m so hot/ but my house cool/ So many rooms that it look like a high school/ Speaking of high school/ I never passed that/ No work right here/ Know where the cash at.” As I listened to the record I thought damn, knowing what I know now should I continue to stress a college education to the younger generation or just encourage them go out into the real world and pursue their dreams as soon as possible? It’s true that if they drop out of high school they probably won’t make it but if they finish high school—and college—then they probably still won’t make it.

With the current economic depression people may as well just go for it. And I’m not saying people should put all of their energy into buying a million dollar home, jewelry, and a Lamborghini. What I am saying, however, is the time is now propitious for people to chase their wildest dreams. At the present time everyone should go for broke because chances are you’ll wind up broke anyway.

Notes from Dreamland

Roger Porter

April 25, 2011

How long can one pursue one’s dreams until the pursuit is gone? It seems as though full time work kills more righteous artists than all the repressive regimes around the world combined. I guess it becomes impossible to resist at some point. I suppose it becomes pretty difficult to continue to wait tables, or substitute teach, or tend bar, or baby sit year after while trying to make it as an artist.

After all everyone has a limit. Everyone has a threshold. Everyone reaches that point where they have to get real and pay the bills…on time. There comes a time when every struggling artist arrives at the conclusion that it is no longer cute to be a struggling artist. That there is nothing cute about being broke. There is nothing cool about borrowing money, living from check to check, having very little yet dreaming very big— no really at some point, I’ve been told, that everyone has to grow up. Grow tired, grow weary, grow cold, grow bitter, become disenchanted, work hard, buy house, have wife, have kids, have dog, stop dreaming, be real, be grown…

The numbers prove that these things are much more likely to come than success as an artist. It seems as though the world is screaming for me to wake up but the world is unaware that I’m in a comma. They may have to consider pulling the plug on this one.

LOGOUT!!!!

No Money, No Cable, No Problem

Roger Porter

April 23, 2011

You know not having cable really frees the mind. Besides not being able to tune into World Championship Boxing (missing Berto Vs. Ortiz nearly broke my heart) I think having my cable disconnected was the best decision that I ever made. Now instead of flipping through over 500 channels looking for something that isn't there I do productive things like go to the theater to watch plays, go to the Farmer’s Market, and blog. I am also a lot less inclined to buy stupid things I don’t need because I’m not taking in all those commercials.

When I do look at the basic channels that I actually get I can only take it for about 30 minutes until I start feeling lazy, like man what else can I be doing? I honestly feel like my brain is recovering from years of nonstop television abuse. You know when you think about it it’s such a non interactive form of entertainment. You just sit there on the couch being filled with whatever images are put before you. Even if you do control what you watch, you can’t control the products that are advertised during commercials. For example; you may want to watch a basketball game but that doesn’t necessarily mean you want to be exposed to the glorification of the Marines, Carl’s Jr., and Captain Morgan Rum.

It’s pretty gross how they manipulate you but then what can I say, that’s capitalism. The objective is to get the money by any means necessary. With that being said right now I feel a very real sense of liberation because Comcast won’t be getting my money anytime soon. So I guess this can be looked at as something positive that has happened to me as a result of the recession.

No money, no cable, no problem.

30 Years

Roger Porter

April 22, 2011

It never ceases to amaze me how whenever I feel like I'm finally getting things together I am always reminded that someone else is not. While at work I got a call today from a friend who only calls me to deliver bad news. He told me that a friend of ours who has been in jail awaiting trial for over a year now is looking at 30 to life in the penitentiary. It shocked the hell out of me when he told me for a few reasons. The primary reason was that he is a first time felony offender and the charges aren't rape or murder. Given the circumstances of the crimes that he allegedly committed I think 30 years is a bit extreme.

The other reason why that phone call had me down all day is because the last time I spoke to my friend before he got arrested I was convinced that he was heading in the right direction. I no longer saw him hanging out on the corner, he was going to Wyotech studying to be a mechanic, and even his posture seemed upright. His eyes appeared to be focused – not glazed over—and he spoke with a new-found motivation like he was done hanging out with clowns in the streets and he was really about to handle his business. I think at the time he believed everything that he said, so of course I did too.

It's kind of like having a loved one who is addicted to drugs. They experience some kind of epiphany one day and they make a vow to be clean and sober for the rest of their lives. In the beginning you are skeptical because this isn't the first time they've said these things but then time passes and you can see them making changes in their lifestyle. You witness them read the bible and even catch them exercising. They even give up eating red meat and get a job, maybe even two.

So after about 3 months you believe in them. You believe that this time they are really serious. This time will really last for the rest of their lives. And right after you tell them how proud you are of them, and that you support them, and that you’re sorry for doubting them, they have a major relapse. At this point it becomes pretty clear that you are not nearly as bothered by what they have done to themselves as you are by what they have done to you. It’s the betrayal that kills you. Not the all night drug binge, not the things that they stole from you to get the drugs, not the disease of addiction, but the fact that you believed in something that was a downright lie. That’s the part that keeps you up at night.

I hate to be selfish but I wish I didn’t have this feeling. I wish he would have never put himself in this situation and I’m sure he does too.

A Fleeting Daydream

Roger Porter

4/22/11

Sometimes when I'm in the midst of people watching while at a Cafe or walking down the street, I admit to having very random thoughts. Often times I see people who are mentally ill talking to themselves and blurting out obscenities or whatever else comes to mind and I become envious. I know how strange that must sound but I cannot deny the truth.

I am aware that most people are either repulsed by the mentally ill, indifferent, or sympathetic however you must be aware that I'm not most people. I honestly think that it takes a lot of courage to walk down the street wearing whatever clothes you want to wear, unkempt hair, and an unshaven face knowing that people are going to point, laugh, or stare and not care at all. I admire the people who we tend to call crazy in a way because no matter what happens they continue to sing their song. They refuse to fall in line like the rest of us and do normal things, and have normal ambitions, and wear normal clothes. Assata Shakur once wrote; "Only the strong go crazy. The weak just go along." Therefore the mentally ill people who we see on the streets may not have families or homes like us "sane" folks but they have something that we don't have—the strength to go against the grain.

 And on these days I just want to give up my laptop and roam the Earth until my shoes get holes in the bottom. I want to wear a full length leather jacket in the middle of July and walk around shirtless in the winter not caring if I live or die. Then maybe I'll meet a friend that no one else can see but me and we'll have lengthy conversations about love, hypocrisy, sweet potato pie, and The Little Mermaid. And when we walk down the street people will clear the way and give us the whole sidewalk because they respect us that much. And we will have peace of mind, we will have healthy souls, and we will truly love ourselves. People will look at us and shake their heads as if to say what a shame, and we will have pity on those poor unfortunate souls because both of us had the foresight to jump out right before the whole thing exploded while they all died in the wreck.

Then my daydream ends. I save my document, logout, and close my laptop.

A Small Stream of Consciousness on Hate

Roger Porter

4/21/11

Tyler Perry recently said that Spike Lee can go straight to hell during a press conference for his latest Madea movie. Apparently he is still irritated by Spike Lee saying his movies are "coonery, bafoonery" back in 2009. So now we officially have two more prominent African-Americans that have decided to have beef. Sometimes it seems like beefing is our most celebrated past time. We've had WEB Dubois and Booker T. Washington go at it, Zora Neale Hurston and Richard Wright, James Baldwin and Eldridge Cleaver, Martin and Malcolm, Ralph Ellison and Amiri Baraka, Pac and Biggie. Sometimes it seems like you can just sum up black history by reading "The Battle Royal" scene in Ralph Ellison's book The Invisible Man. That is to say it seems like we're just fighting one another blindly much to the amusement and benefit of the ruling class. Now I'm not saying that there is anything wrong with having opposing viewpoints--after all it would be impossible to have meaningful discourse if everyone had the same opinion--all I'm saying is that as black people we take it to the extreme. It seems as though there are no respectful disagreements in our culture. When two black people have an issue, especially two black men, it's almost always a fight to the death. Internalized racism is a beast. It never ceases to amaze me how programmed to hate one another we truly are. Whether it be on the streets, in the press, on a record, or on the written page--we are consumed by our disdain for ourselves. We hate one another everyday and in every possible way.

Black Child in the Early 90's

Roger Porter

April 19, 2011

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7g_e6RJRCPk]

It's kind of funny to me when I see these young high school kids with high top fades and intricate designs cut into their heads trying to bring the early 1990's back. It makes me think about the sheer irony of that era. It was a time when you could find bootleg Black Bart Simpson T-shirts being sold on the street corner with Bart saying things like; "We come from Kings and Queens man!" I remember the fashion of that era being very vibrant like purple and yellow Cross Color overalls, and the music was extremely proud and bold.

There were groups like Arrested Development, Public Enemy was still heavily in the mix, and of course you had the X-Clan which was my favorite of all the black nationalist hip-hop groups. I used to go crazy when the chubby dude  would say "We are protected by the Red, the Black, and the Green, and we have the key-- SISSY!" It's hard to even imagine a time when there was a multitude of popular hard-core conscious hip-hop artists but when I was a boy in elementary school it was a reality. People used to wear Malcolm X hats and use picks with a black fist design serving as the handle to pick their afros. It was cool to wear African medallions and beads in the streets, indeed it appeared to be a brief era of Afro-centrism and racial solidarity. Beneath the surface, however, it was one of the most violent era's on record. Homicide statistics were through the roof and black on black crime was at an all time high.

But then again I wasn't really into analyzing crime data as a young kid so I didn't  know how bad things really were. Me and my sister thought it was a natural thing to have to watch American Gladiators on the floor Saturday Nights because we heard gunshots, or to see the light from the police helicopter shining through the living room window. We figured that was the way it was supposed to be. We knew nothing of housing segregation, unfair lending practices by the banks, crack epidemic, blah, blah, blah.

 My major concern was why didn't my high top ever grow. I wanted it to look like Kid's from the House Party movie but it was just a little nappy puff. And when it did grow the barber would just cut it back down again and tell me he was trying to shape it up. Now that was a tragedy to me. Hmmm its interesting because when I think about it maybe that's why I laugh at these little retro kids running around town. Maybe I think it's a joke that they get to pick what they want from the era of my childhood instead of experiencing it all. They get to have their high top fades without the Malt liquor commercials and daily gunshots.

 Sometimes I feel like they don't realize how good they really have it, but then maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Notes on the Woman who Drove her Family into the Hudson River

Roger Porter

April 17, 2011

This past Tuesday a New York woman named Lashanda Armstrong drove a minivan occupied by her 4  kids into the Hudson River killing herself and all but one of the children. Recently some family members have confirmed that Lashanda was involved in an abusive relationship which is more than likely what triggered her suicidal actions. Newspapers have reported that she felt alone and overwhelmed in the months leading up to her death. I think the situation is completely disheartening and I hope that this will help to make mental health services more readily available, particularly to single mothers, but other than that I cannot sympathize with those who take the lives of their own children.

If Ms. Armstrong would have only killed herself then that would have been another issue all together but I can't make an emotional connection with a person who drowns an 11 month old child. I do realize that I speak mostly out of ignorance. It is true that I have no idea what it's like to have a child at the age of 15 and to be strapped down with 4 by the time you are 25. I also realize that as a man I will never know what it's like to be a mother; to have a baby grow inside your womb, suckle milk from your flesh, and to cling to you 24 hours a day. Yes I am aware of all of these facts, however, from reading about this incident in the paper and watching the coverage on television I feel as though we need to be careful. I don't want to dismiss Lashanda for I know that she could be any young abused mother anywhere in America. What I do want to say is that regarding this particular situation sympathy can only take us so far. We as a country have got to care enough about our families to say what Lashanda did was absolutely wrong and we as a society have got to make sure that this never happens again.

We need more mental health services such as counselors, clinics, psychiatrists and psychologists in our communities and we need them right now. We also need to monitor the behavior of our neighbors in order to make sure children are not being abused. We need to be more supportive of single mothers and care about other peoples children, not just our own. I know it can be difficult but there is nothing more difficult than dealing with the murder of 3 innocent children.

This should never happen again.

Down for Life

   

Roger Porter

April 15, 2011

Is there such a thing as too much freedom? I pose this question in response to the extremely high divorce rate along with the very common American practice of having children out-of-wedlock. I feel like part of the problem is we've advanced as a society perhaps a little too much and we've become liberated in all the wrong areas.

From the time of the very first homo sapiens until right now I doubt that human sex practices have changed very much. As long as there are young people with very little responsibility they will always take chances. Translation: Unexpected pregnancies are bound to happen. This is the same thing that happened to our parents, our grandparents, and our great grandparents. They got a little frisky in their youth, one thing led to another, and they became pregnant. The only difference is when they got knocked up they got married and for the most part we don't. And why don't we? Well basically because we don't have to.

Back in the day, however, it was mandatory. If you got a woman pregnant you were stuck with her for life. And once a couple was married there was no getting a divorce. A woman couldn't leave a man under any circumstances and so she was stuck with him as well. He could be beating on her and she could be cheating on him but it didn't matter--you worked things out. And I know it sounds oppressive (well basically it is) but at the same time there's a certain honor in that. There's a certain pride in being down for somebody for the rest of your life and having them be down for you. I kind of admire a society that pressures couples to stay together no matter what as opposed to being OK with spouses who file for divorce over secret text messages.

I don't know maybe I should enjoy the new freedoms that we have but it becomes hard when I look at the poor shape of our families. I mean I'm not saying that people should live a lie when they are clearly unhappy but the truth is no one is perfect. We all have our issues so what's wrong with suffering a little bit for love?

The Trap

             Roger Porter

April 13, 2011

               Just a few hours ago I found myself rereading James Baldwin’s Sonny’s Blues for probably about the 35^th time. One of the reasons why I enjoy reading the story as much as I do is because it is so rich. It’s one of those stories where each time you read it you notice something amazing about it that you hadn’t noticed before.

                There’s a scene in the story when the narrator goes to pick up his baby brother Sonny from jail. During the cab ride home Sonny requests that they take the scenic route because he hadn’t seen the city since he was arrested. Initially the idea appears to be a good one as they ride through an upscale section of town but ultimately they wind up driving through the same ghetto that they grew up in. It is at this moment that Baldwin provides the insight that only he can provide; “Some escaped the trap, most didn’t. Those who got out always left something of themselves behind, as some animals amputate a leg and leave it in the trap.” And when I read the passage in silence I had to reread it, and then reread it yet again, and then finally I had to read it out loud.

                It’s kind of wild to me that James Baldwin was calling the ghetto the trap at least 4 decades before Young Jeezy and TI ever mentioned it on a rap record. And the sheer accuracy of the metaphor is mind-boggling. How naïve are some people to actually believe that they can erase all remnants of their ghetto past by going to an elite school or marrying someone who is from a well off background? If you were raised in the ghetto then the ghetto will inevitably affect your behavior for the rest of your days even if you move out. I mean how could it not?

                One thing I noticed relatively early on in my hood upbringing is that to be smart—that is to do well in school—is  equal to treason. I’m not exactly sure why this is but I do know that in the 7^th grade I once made the inexcusable mistake of getting a perfect report card and was traumatized by the reaction I got from my peers. I was branded a square, the worst thing a kid in an inner city public school could possibly be. In fact I was derided so relentlessly by the other kids that I ended up having to get into a fist  fight to prove that I wasn't a punk. Not only did I win the fight but I was also suspended from school for 3 day which, thank god, made me cool once again.

                But the damage was already done. I immediately began to conceal my intelligence as if I were ashamed of it. And even to this day it is very rare that I will discuss my education in person. So unfortunately, even though I’ve successfully navigated through all the pitfalls of the ghetto I have left pride in my education in the same trap that James Baldwin so vividly depicted in Sonny's Blues-- a story first published in 1957.

                I guess when it comes to the hood things never change.

Close to Crazy (a flashback)

Roger Porter

April 12, 2011

I'm a 22-year-old English major at UC Berkeley. After I listen to a lecture on Chaucer's The Parliament of Fowls I go to the library and try to get a descent sense of what I just heard by studying my notes. After I leave the library I hop on the 40L toward East Oakland. As the riders on the bus change from geeky college kids to Berkeley Bohemians and then to average everyday hood folks, I sit in the back corner seat looking out of the window trying desperately to daydream.

When the bus reaches Havenscourt and Foothill Boulevard a young man gets on the bus. He is even younger than me. He is wearing a thin knee-length black leather jacket, blue jeans, a gray sweater, a black beanie, and black Lugz boots. His skin is the same shade of brown as mine. He stomps to the back of the bus and sits down hard into the seat directly in front of me. The seats are set up so that I am facing his right side.

The young man looks forward at nothing and blinks half a speed faster than it seems like he should. He turns to me and asks if I want to buy a bottle of cool water cologne. I say no. He turns back forward and shakes up a bottle of cologne in his hand as one would shake a can of whipped cream or spray paint. He sprays some cologne on his jeans, he sprays on his leather jacket, a few squirts on his face, and finally he sprays some into his mouth.

It troubles me that his mind is deteriorating at such a young age. I am also troubled by my decision to stay in my old neighborhood to save money instead of moving somewhere by campus. At this moment I want nothing more than to live in some apartment on College Avenue in order to escape the ghetto for once in my life.

As I get off the bus it pains me that I saw myself in that young black crazy man.

Two Prophets

Roger Porter

       

April 11, 2011            

At this very moment that I am writing this blog I am 29 years old. Not that there is anything wrong with that. In fact I am truly blessed to have made it this far when so many people have been lost along the way. In addition to that I've accomplished quite a few things  in my life that make me very proud. For the most part, however, I'm still trying to figure everything out. I'm trying to determine how I can impact the world in the most positive way and feed my family at the same time. And on the most basic level I'm still trying to figure out me.

That's why I find it to be so astonishing that someone as great as Fred Hampton was killed at the age of 20. It's hard to believe that he could do so much for his people and rise through the ranks of the Black Panther Party all before he was able to legally have a drink. In a similar vein Assata Shakur was only 25 when she was involved in that infamous shootout with police on the New Jersey turnpike. In only 25 years she managed to become one of Black America's most important revolutionaries. Assata fought everyday for what she believed in and is still struggling for equal rights in Cuba to this very day.

My admiration for these two  prophets, as well as countless others, is ineffable. To be so young and to have so much clarity is really rare. At 20 years old I was so lost and at 25 I was just coming out of my youthful stupor. It is only now at the age of 29 that I genuinely feel as though I'm headed in the right direction. Therefore on this day I salute Sista Assata Shakur and Chairman Fred Hampton for being so strong and so wise so early on in their lives, and I thank them because I know they did it for me.

Before They Were All Considered To Be Hoes

Roger Porter

April 9, 2011

I was watching an old school Bell, Biv, Devoe video posted by a friend on facebook when I noticed a familiar face wearing a sexy dress with a bass guitar in her hand. I looked a little closer and realized it was none other than the respected actress Ms. Nia Long. This was the video for Do Me Baby which came out in 1990, almost a year before she was introduced to the world in the film Boyz in the Hood.

Nia Long of course is not the only one. Both Jada Pinkett-Smith and Vivica A. Fox starred in music videos before making the leap to the silver screen as well, which compels me to pose the question "Whatever happened to actresses being able to use music video's as a vehicle for their burgeoning careers?" I don't know exactly when but at some point all women in music videos became "video hoes" destined to be nothing more than big bootied strippers for the rest of their days. I mean could you imagine any of the girls in Nelly's Tip Drill video or Buffy the Body playing a supporting role in the next Tyler Perry movie?

It's kind of sad actually because I'm sure every woman who dances in a video is not turning tricks in the back of a strip club or making pornos for a little extra money. For all we know some of them could be world-class thespians who graduated from Julliard and are trying to pay back their student loans. It doesn't matter anymore though because the stigma now associated with dancing in a video is way too strong. It's like a trap that young women can't seem to get out of these days.

As if breaking into the industry wasn't hard enough already. It's really unfortunate.