I'm Not Buying It

Roger Porter

June 6, 2011

Believe it or not I try not to trip off of petty things. I do put a lot of time into choosing my battles in an attempt to keep from completely losing my mind, but sometimes I can’t help it. Sometimes little things just bother me and bother me until I can’t take it anymore. Today’s example of this is the phenomenon of club cards at the grocery store.

Why the hell do I need to be in a special club to save money at Safeway? Since when did buying things on sale become so esoteric? As a matter of fact if I have to give you my name, phone number, and address to save 50 cents on some Oreo cookies then it really isn’t a bargain.

What do they do with that information anyway? It’s kind of creepy to know that someone out there has complete access to your diet. Once again I don’t know what someone would do with this information but I would much rather they didn’t know everything that I like to eat.

I can imagine a lot of people writing me off as being paranoid for this entry. I mean I guess it feels good to most people when they swipe their card and the cashier (unless it’s the self check-out line) tells them how much money they’ve saved and circles it with a red pen, but I’m not buying it. If something is on sale then it’s on sale. They’re already receiving our business. Do they need all of our personal information as well?

R.I.P. Geronimo

Roger Porter

June 6, 2011

I just found out that last Thursday former black panther Elmer “Geronimo” Pratt died at the age of 63 in a village in Tanzania. Although Pratt was a charismatic leader and an extremely determined man, he is best known for being falsely convicted of murder in 1968. Geronimo Pratt served 27 years in prison for a crime that he did not do. He wasn’t released until 1997.

Nelson Mandela also served 27 years in prison on trumped up charges. And when both of these men were released they showed no bitterness. They only aimed to move their lives in a righteous direction. I really can’t understand the mental and spiritual strength that it would take to get through a 27 year sentence, let alone for a crime that you did not commit. I consider myself to be very passionate about my political beliefs, however, I don’t know if the passion burns bright enough to survive 27 years in an institution that was created to destroy me.

Once again I find myself taken aback by the fervor of that era. I’ve barely been on this Earth for 27 years and these men served that time in prison because they were committed to bringing about change. They demanded that their people be treated like human-beings and that was considered to be a subversive act. Well then let their collective power continue to inspire us all. May Nelson Mandela continue to age in grace and may Brother Geronimo rest in immortality.

We will never forget your sacrifice.

Elmer “Geronimo” Pratt

September 13, 1947- June 2, 2011

If She Was A Boy

Roger Porter

June 5, 2011

Often times I wonder what kind of parent I would be if I had a son instead of a daughter. I am positive that I would be a pretty bad one. I know I would be very hard on my son and probably justify it by telling everyone I was trying to toughen him up or some crap like that. Having a girl is so different. For a man it is as transformative of an experience as he allows it to be.

I can remember walking into my ex-girlfriend’s house without saying a word, picking up my 8-month-old daughter and leaving. Even infants can sense tension so when I walked out of the door with her in my arms she would cry hysterically. She would cry the whole way home and I being a 23-year-old man would actually get mad at her. It sounds ridiculous to me now but I would raise my voice to an 8-month-old child. I would tell her about all of the sacrifices that I was making to come out and get her, all the hours I had worked to buy her things, all the studying I was doing so I could provide for her in the future and she, of course, would just look at me and cry harder. Not just a normal cry either. It would be one of those cries that makes babies gasp for breath. It was loud, incessant, and oh so hurtful.

It took me a little while to figure out but although she didn’t respond to my lectures she did respond favorably when I started singing Summer Time to her. When I would kiss her little toes and tickle her feet. When I would make up funny rhymes with her name in it and when I would ask her “What ta matter suga, suga?” like I really meant it.

Now that those days are over I wonder did I take the time to soften my stance because I realized that I was talking to a baby or was it just because she was a girl. It’s kind of sad but I don’t know if I would have shown as much affection to my child if she was a boy. I’m not sure I would have been as aware of his humanity.

Jaycee Dugard: An American Slave

Roger Porter

June 4, 2011

               Yesterday in El Dorado superior court in Placerville, CA Phillip Garrido was given life in prison and his wife Nancy was given 36 years for the kidnapping and sexual enslavement of Jaycee Dugard. Although the case received international media attention when it first broke in 2009 the graphic details of the abuse suffered by Jaycee Dugard, who was kidnapped at the age of 11 and held captive for 19 years, had not been made public until today.

                When I read about it in the paper I couldn’t help but to compare it to the autobiography of Harriet Jacobs who was born into slavery. She wrote the slave narrative under a pseudonym and it is called Linda Brent, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. In the book Jacobs recalls confining herself to a small garret for several years to escape the sexual advances of her philandering owner. Similarly Dugard lived in a tent in the backyard of the Garrido’s property for 19 years until she was rescued, but unfortunately for Dugard she could not escape the advances of her captor. Dugard was raped repeatedly and had two children by Phillip Garrido.

                The element of the story that most reminded me of something from the antebellum South was that Jaycee had to go by another name while in captivity. Phillip Garrido called her Snoopy and eventually she chose the name Alissa for herself. It was this kind of resocialization that led Dugard to believe that she was living a normal life and that the people who had stolen her off the street really loved her, therefore she refused to run away even when Phillip Garrido went to prison for a parole violation. Dugard said that she never ran away because if she did she wouldn’t know how to take care of herself or how to make money. She worried that her two girls would starve to death.

                I once read in an article that when West Africans were marched from the inlands of Africa to the slave fortresses on the coast in preparation for the brutal middle-passage, everyone would be chained or bound together except the women with very small children. The reason being that the possibility of a woman running away with a baby in her arms was very low and if she did try to run then she wouldn’t get far; thus the baby in itself served as a form of shackles.

                The Jaycee Dugard case is a reminder that slavery is not merely the physical ownership of a human being but it is mental control as well. Once a person convinces another person that they cannot take care of themselves then they have effectively transformed that individual into a submissive being. Just like the pimp does the prostitute, like the missionary does the native, like the master does the slave, and like the police do the poor.

              The Jaycee Dugard story is woefully sad and I pray that she will have the ability to rise up from slavery like my ancestors did.

The Education Industrial Complex

Roger Porter

June 1, 2011

It’s insane how they slang education like dope in this country. And all the unemployed higher education junkies are so quick to hop in line for their next fix. To make matters worse they raise college tuition every semester. I mean at least marijuana and cocaine are somewhat affordable. It’s sad when you have people in their mid 20’s who are upwards of $50,000 in debt and discover after graduation that there are no jobs; so what do they do—they go back to school.

It’s a sick cycle that I myself have managed to get wrapped up in. It bothers me that my generation was lied to continuously about pursuing higher education, as if that would solve all of our financial problems. On the contrary it actually creates severe financial problems.

Sometimes I feel as though the Education Industrial Complex has surpassed the Prison Industrial Complex in terms of sheer treachery. They distribute thousands upon thousands of dollars in loans to teenagers, leading them to believe that as long as they are in school they won’t have to worry about them. But Sally Mae doesn’t forget, Citibank doesn’t forget, Bank of America doesn’t forget, and 6 months after graduation if one is not in school then please believe they will hunt you down like the mafia.

To make money off the backs of young people who are trying to do something positive with their lives is extremely shady. It appears that the University has become nothing more than a grand hustle; it is merely a manufacturer of false dreams.

The Lost Art of Calligraphy

Roger Porter

May 31, 2011

You know I used to have really good handwriting back in the day when I used to actually write things out longhand. In high school I used to hate those teachers who would force us to type the final draft of an essay. It bothered me because up until that point every English/ Language Arts teacher I had ever had placed a huge emphasis on our handwriting.

When I was in the 1^st grade my teacher used to make us copy a paragraph from the chalkboard. Then when we were done she would go from student to student making sure she could place her index finger between each word and if she couldn’t she would make us rewrite the whole thing. It was a heartbreakingly tedious process but it did instill a respect for calligraphy in her classroom. Unfortunately, over the years I have lost that respect. As of today I can’t remember the last time I have handwritten anything. Since I created my blog site I don’t even journal any more. All those countless hours I spent learning how to write in cursive—what a waste.

And who can forget those teenage years when you used to ask a young lady for her phone number and if she wanted you to have it she would reply; “You got some paper?” Then you would look all over the ground for a brown paper bag or rifle through your pockets for a gum wrapper so she could give you the digits. After you finally got it you would analyze her handwriting. You would see if she dotted her eyes with hearts, or wrote down a specific time to call her. If she wrote in cursive then she was sophisticated, if she wrote in print then she just might be a freak. Now all she does is put your number in her phone. How boring.

Needless to say I miss those days of everyday art; before texting, laptops, and facebook. Back in the good old days when people had to put pin to paper and express themselves the old-fashioned way.

Another Moment

Roger Porter

May 30, 2011

Is there anything wrong with watching a woman dance? Is it a crime against manhood to be perfectly content with watching a strikingly seductive lady in heels move to the music before you with minimal conversation, no touch, and no future plans of hooking up?

I was at a lounge with a small dance floor. I had a little Hennessey, shared a few laughs with my friend, and began to relax. The woman was with a friend as well. She was the kind of lady that wasn’t afraid to be goofy. Incidentally the D.J. was on that night; playing every song that you remember and love from the early 90’s. She did The Robocop and The Butterfly for a few songs before she got serious and broke it down slowly.

She seemed to be O.K. with dancing with her friend the whole night—in a way that only two women can do—but every now and then she would peek at me over her shoulder and I would smile at her. Maybe she wanted me to approach her or maybe she just wanted to see if I was looking but we definitely made a connection. I admired her in the same manner that museum patrons admire the art— from a short distance and without touch.

Earlier this year I got a chance to see Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhone when it was at the Fine Arts Museum in the city. The difference between the original painting and the highly ubiquitous replica was stunning. The colors were so vibrant, the paint was so thick, and the yellow stars actually appeared to glow. I liken it to hearing your favorite song on the radio versus sitting in the front row of an arena when the artist performs it live. They just aren’t the same. So when I saw the painting I really wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel the individual brush strokes, to rub my fingers across the uneven surface, but that would have been distasteful. The natural oils from my skin could have ruined the art; and what would that make me if I were to ruin something so perfect.

I do not wish to objectify this woman but to me she was as sacred as a Van Gogh painting. I didn’t want to touch her or get too close. I only wanted to appreciate her from a short distance.

Computer Degenerated

Roger Porter

May 29, 2011

A little while ago I was on some lame date with some very lame woman and while she’s telling me some off the wall foolishness about her ex-girlfriend I began thinking to myself; “Wow, I would much rather be at home blogging right now.” Then all of a sudden I started getting all of these great ideas about things that I want to write about so quite naturally I took my phone out and began texting these thoughts to myself because the last thing I wanted was to forget them while listening to Ms. Wackness purge.

Yeah I know that’s probably kind of rude on my part but that’s beside the point. The point is that at that moment, for the first time in my life, I wanted to be at home in front of a computer screen instead of being outside in the real world. Granted I was trapped in an atrocious one-sided conversation but it still concerns me all the same.

Since then I’ve been thinking about social net-working websites and how you have complete control over who you interact with and who sees the comments that you make. On facebook in particular if someone is talking too much you can just hide them. We don’t think about it but our behavior on these sites has a tremendous impact on how we interact in real life. Moreover, I would have given anything to have had the ability to hide that lady once she started having flashbacks. All I could do was endure her however and I was so pissed that I could not control my surroundings.

Something strange is happening to me. I have also been developing extremely strong inclinations to buy an eReader when just one year ago I thought the very same notion was blasphemous. I love my library and I love the physicality of actually holding a book but eReaders are so convenient. As if being a book-worm wasn’t socially isolating enough once I buy an eReader I won’t even have to leave the house to go to a bookstore. Speaking of which, I wonder if the whole purpose of the information age is to get people to stay at home?

It’s really bizarre when you think about it. The way we duck for cover into our phones when we see someone approaching who we don’t want to talk to. The way we date online instead of actually approaching a person on the street. And the way we Skype people thousands of miles away when we travel as opposed to making new friends. I guess there’s no stopping all the changes from coming but I just wonder about the end result. How else are our interactions going to change?

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKW9GwFiR1Y]

Chino

Roger Porter

May 27, 2011

I got a letter from cousin the other day. He wrote it from the California State Penitentiary in Chino. Until I got the letter I thought he was still in San Quentin. I have no idea why the powers that be would send a man who was arrested in the Bay Area more than 400 miles away. I suppose they want to add to the mental torture and isolation that comes along with being in prison by separating him from all of his family. Or maybe the prison industry in Northern California was becoming more lucrative than the Southern California branch so they decided to ship them some business. I’ll never really know. All I know is what he said to me in hurried handwriting on that sheet of lined paper. He wondered why some people hadn’t returned his letters, he said he would be getting out in late August, he asked me how I was doing, he even apologized for not writing a longer letter because he had waited until the last minute and the County Officers were about to collect the mail, but nowhere did he mention why the hell he had to do his time in Chino. He didn’t even question it. It causes me great concern to know that my cousin is now taking a natural attitude toward not having any control over where his body is placed. It forces me to compare him with chattel or with a slave who has been shipped down the river to the Deep South. Although the latter reference is probably a bit disrespectful to my ancestors because after all my cousin did allow himself to be put in this situation. He wasn’t born into prison like blacks in the antebellum south were born into slavery; he did something stupid that put him there. It was a crime heinous enough to shock our family; however it was also a crime only worth a 2 year sentence. At times I feel just as helpless as he has now been rendered behind bars because all I want is for him to come out and be able to function in society as a man, and be able to stand on his own two feet and provide for his family. In an ideal world he would come out relatively unscathed and be able to move on with his life. In an ideal world he wouldn’t be in there in the first place. But as we know this country is not ideal for a black man. My cousin will inevitably come out traumatized and shell shocked. He’ll be paranoid and feel out of place in the real world. He’ll be upset when he notices that the world continued to move while he was away and perhaps most significantly for the first time in his life, he will be a convicted felon. He will have to go to job interviews with a giant CF carved onto his forehead. He will ultimately have to move in with his sister. They will argue, it will be chaos, and he will fall. I don’t want him to fall. I pray that he doesn’t but how can he stay upright with the world on his shoulders and memories of Chino and San Quentin weighing on his brain? I fear that the world, which wasn’t enough for him before he went in, will become way too much once he is released. I wish that I could step in and give him an honest job. I wish I could make the situation right but I can’t. I have to make my own situation right and I know that sounds shady but that is the truth. I don’t have the resources to guide my cousin down the right path and I don’t have the patience to allow him to live with me, all I have is my ability to write. I will return his letter sometime this weekend. I just needed to clear my head. Now my head is clear.

Adele

Roger Porter

May 26, 2011

I’ve been listening to Adele’s new album entitled 21 everyday for about a week straight. It’s a beautiful feeling when you put a CD in and you can tell by about the 2^nd song that what you are listening to is classic material. Adele put every emotion she has ever experienced into each note of 21. When I listen to it I wonder how far is too far for an artist? I mean can you ever give too much?

Adele made such a tremendous sacrifice by sharing her pain with us in such a visceral way. When I listen to her she inspires me to go even further with my work. If Adele can give everything then I can too and I will have no shame. And I will become stronger for doing so, and then once I’ve given all there is to give then maybe I will be able to feel her music even more. Then it would all be worth it.

Blood

Roger Porter

May 25, 2011

I was at the boxing gym one day jumping rope while watching these two men spar in the ring. One of the men was young, tall, and frail. The other was older, shorter, but more muscular. The younger fighter was around 20 years old and he turned out to be no real match for the more experienced boxer. By the end of the 1^st round there was a slow trickle of blood streaming from his left nostril. The trainer of the young fighter sent him out for two more rounds and although he showed heart he took a lot of punishment for it.

By the end of the session blood flowed freely from both of his nostrils. He tried to sniff it up but it began to pour onto his top lip as he climbed out of the ring. Perhaps it was because he was embarrassed or perhaps he was still high off of adrenaline or maybe it was both but as he approached me he wore a deep goofy grin—the kind I’ve seen on the faces of teenagers high on ecstasy pills. Before he went to the bathroom to clean his face he said to me;

“That’s the only time I feel alive when I’m in that ring.”

Initially it sounded troubling coming from the mouth of a man so young but as I began to ponder his statement the truth was undeniable. As adults we learn to keep everything inside until the time is appropriate to release it; all of our fears, all of our pain, and all of our regrets. When we bleed, however, it is a rare instance when what moves around inside of us comes out for the world to see. If one has ever seen his or her own blood pouring from ones flesh then one knows that initially it is almost always shocking to be exposed in that manner. For everyone knows that blood is the fluid that courses through our veins but to actually see it is something else all together. In a very real sense blood represents life. Thus when we bleed it makes a moment real.

And then sometimes when we don’t bleed it makes a moment even more real.

As in when one discovers that they are going to have a child. When the normal flow of blood is interrupted by a new life it forever alters ones universe. I received this information from my girlfriend at about 11:00pm one night. It was a very surreal conversation that took place over 6 years ago. It was a wild experience for her to discover that there would be no more blood for at least 9 months; no heavy flow, no light flow, no flow at all. Something that had been a regular occurrence to her since adolescence had vanished and there was an actual creature moving, growing, and kicking inside of her. It took away her appetite sometimes and increased it at others. Ultimately it consumed every aspect of her being until alas a woman child was born; a little 6 pound thing that shared our blood and screamed with life. This little baby now represented more than the stoppage of blood, she was now truly alive.

During my existence on Earth I’ve seen blood in many forms. I’ve seen it run in rivulets, I’ve seen it collected in pools on the concrete, I’ve seen it make white shirts bright red, and I’ve seen it make blue jeans dark and wet. Every time I see blood I become hyper-sensitive to the world around me. I am forced to remember that life can be such a brutal journey. I realize that it is everything beneath the flesh that gives us depth and makes us real, for everything else is merely on the surface.

The Golden Minute

Roger Porter

May 23, 2011

Remember that brief but magical period of time after Barrack Obama was elected president and before Oscar Grant was murdered by BART cops? I am convinced that the months of November and December 2008 was the absolute high point for American politics. It was a golden minute if you will.

I must admit even after I voted for Obama I never, never, never, ever thought that he would actually win. I just knew that white America would never allow a black man to run this country so when they did I had to question myself. I had to question the radical agenda that has come to define me since adolescence. I recall contemplating for hours about how much of a pessimist I had become and how it was eating away at my soul. For it had now been proven that America was nowhere near as racist as I thought it was—it was a very strange time.

During those last months of 2008 I felt, dare I say it, almost patriotic. I felt like I was included in the American dream. I honestly felt proud of the system. For two months I was lost in a state of bliss only previously known to the American elite.

And then no sooner than I went to sleep I saw the video tape of Oscar Grant being murdered on the 5:00 news and was forced to wait about a month before any official charges were filed. This caused me to wake up flustered and embarrassed with myself for believing that things had changed; that progress had been made, that WE were headed in the right direction. It’s a shame.

I am, however, still grateful to say that I lived in the golden minute of American politics. I will cherish that moment for the rest of my life.

Talkin Bout Revolution

Roger Porter

May 22, 2011

I sit down to write this blog entry a day after Harold Camping falsely predicted the world would end in a biblical apocalypse known as rapture. I can’t really go in-depth as to why Camping chose May 21, 2011 as the last day for the human race because I, like the vast majority of people on Earth, refused to take Camping seriously so I tuned him out.

But what if we lived in an era in which a very large percentage of the American population was so disenchanted with the ways of government that they bought into Camping’s ideas? What if almost every young luminary had an idea about how to shut down this country’s government and create a new one that benefitted ALL the people? What if instead of rapture there was revolution? And what if people—similar to Nat Turner looking up from the slave quarters of the plantation upon a blood red moon—believed that the day of revolt was upon us?

I’m referring to that timeframe from the late 60’s to the late 70’s when people talked about revolution like it was a political party. There was so much change but there also seems to have been so much chaos and disillusionment. On one hand you have the formation of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense along with young people embracing peace and love but on the other hand you have the Jonestown Massacre and Charles Manson’s vision of Helter-Skelter. Either way it’s amazing to me to be able discover a time when radicals were brought to the table to have a discussion along with democrats and republicans. I believe this made a much more intelligent and open-minded society.

It always seems kind of funny to me when I watch John Stewart and Bill O’Reilly go head to head in a debate as if they represent two opposing sides of the political spectrum when in actuality they do not. The truth is that both of these individuals believe wholeheartedly in the American political system. In order to make it a true debate you would have to have one of them verbally spar with a real revolutionary; not a democrat, not a republican, and not an independent.

At any rate a friend of mine posted a video on facebook that got the wheels of my brain spinning in this particular direction. Pasted below is a link to the incomparable John Lennon on the Dick Cavett show. Check it out!      

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRq1mp4VArA&feature=share

Notes on Lake Merritt

Roger Porter

May 20, 2011

There is no better place to be in Oakland, CA USA than Lake Merritt on a sunny day. The energy is so positive that it is almost unbelievable. It must be the only place in the town where everyone who you see smiles at you. I must say that I love the lake so much that I can actually jog there with no I-pod on. I just listen to the sounds made by all of the beautiful things around me. The families with the small children riding bikes with training wheels, the middle-aged man huffing and puffing trying to make it the whole 3 miles distance, the two women chatting about work while speed walking down Lakeshore Boulevard, the storks, the cranes, the pigeons, the ducks, it’s all good and at night-time it gets even better.

The sight of Lake Merritt all lit up at night is one of the more breathtaking things I have ever seen. It exudes a very real sense of calm and appreciation; an appreciation of life, of earth, and of all things lovely. Lake Merritt is right in the middle of the town and therefore it is considered to be our heart. It pumps life into every person who has ever called Oakland home. The sight of it revitalizes us all.

The New History of Tupac Shakur

Roger Porter

May 18, 2011

Today I found myself engaged in a conversation with a group of kids who attend a local continuation high school. We talked about the war, and their futures, and then somehow we ended up talking about the movie Poetic Justice. It was at this point in our chat that I had to show how much older than them I was because while I saw the movie with my older brother in the theater, it came out before any of them were born.

It made matters even worse when I began sharing memories with them about the day Tupac died. It was really interesting because they only know of Pac as a legend or some kind of symbol. They know him in the same way that I know Marvin Gaye and Jimi Hendrix. Tupac represents something instilled in them by their parents not as something they themselves discovered and learned to appreciate.

It’s crazy but I remember not really understanding Tupac’s music until the posthumous release of the Makaveli album. When Me Against the World came out I was merely a 12-year-old child. I had no idea that Pac was prophesying the rest of my life to a beat. All I knew was that it was one sad song after another and I wished my brother’s tape would break so I didn’t have to hear it again.

Makaveli made me stop in my tracks. By then I was a mid-teen and I had experienced a little something. So the first time I heard “Hail marry” I just had to put it on repeat (thank god we had gotten a C.D. player by then). In a few days I had memorized the whole song. Pac’s voice on that track was so eerie, so wise, and so profound that it made me go back and listen to all of his other music. It was only after he died that I realized how great he was and how truly righteous he wanted to be.

I tried to explain this to the students though I’m not sure they got it. A few of them just nodded their heads and one of them said “Yeah Pac shit be slappin.”

It’s fascinating how history works.

Words

Roger Porter

May 17, 2011

Sometimes I have to literally laugh out loud at my dreams of becoming a writer. It seems almost as random as having ambitions of being a professional fencer or fly-fisher. I mean sure it’s a beautiful craft to learn but who cares.

No one reads books anymore. No one has the patience. As a matter of fact there are very few people who will read a blog that is over 200 words. It becomes difficult to explain why I would invest money that I have never seen into an art form that will probably never pay me back. I am the first to admit that it was a completely illogical decision on my part; however, I have never really been a logical decision maker.

Writing is about passion. It’s about having the ability to wage guerilla warfare anytime I want. I don’t have to depend on politicking or incessant networking, all I need is something to write with. I’m not a member of a powerful church, I never pledged in any fraternity, and I wasn’t born into an influential family yet the ability to write gives me the unique ability to move on my own.

I once heard Amiri Baraka say “writing is a very lonely enterprise.” At the time I didn’t realize how true his words were but even if I did they wouldn’t have altered my path. There is nothing stronger than an individual who is not afraid of standing alone. A person who refuses to follow yet does not wish to lead; a person who belongs to self.

Notes on the Contemporary Hip-Hop Landscape: Image Vs. Art

Roger Porter

May 16, 2011

I can’t tell you how bad I wanted to hate on Drake when he first burst onto the music scene. The more I learned about his background the more I wanted to dismiss every notion of him being the next big thing in hip-hop. After all he is a Canadian-Jew that got his start on a Nickelodeon drama. Not that I have anything against Jewish-Canadian teen actors but it is a long way from Ghetto-America where all of my favorite rappers just so happened to be raised. Which brings up the most significant reason why I wanted so desperately for Drake to flop and that is, quite simply, because he grew up privileged.

I said to myself there is no way this dude should ever be taken seriously as a rapper. I figured that his outside of the hood experience would prevent him from writing any noteworthy lyrics, boy was I wrong—Wow! So I definitely can’t take anything away from him now. He’ proven his worth, the kid is certified Ill and he seems to be getting better with each guest appearance. It’s kind of wild when you think about it but the lyrical prowess of somebody like Drake reminds us that below the hyper-masculine/superthugginit surface hip-hop is still an art form, and Drizzy-Drake is a trained artist.

Somewhere on the hip-hop timeline people began to believe that being incarcerated and shot multiple times transformed an average unlucky street thug into an outstanding rapper. Somewhere along the way the consumer became more concerned with street credibility than with one’s dedication to his or her craft. In essence the packaging became more important than the product.

The reality is that Young Jeezy is not a dope rapper because he has been incarcerated but because he spends hour after hour trying to master his craft. Lil Wayne is not at the top of the food chain because he accidentally shot himself or because he is from the Holly-Grove section of New Orleans but because he studied the great rappers of the past and tries to emulate them. Finally Jay-Z being widely regarded as one of the best to ever do it has a lot less to do with the fact that he used to sell crack than it does that he reads books and stays informed.

Now I’m hoping that the emergence of Drake puts the emphasis back on the music as opposed to the hype. I would love to see hip-hop get to the point where the artistry is placed before the image.

Releasing the Inner-Thug

Roger Porter

May 14, 2011

I was heading into the last straight away of my daily run today when my body screamed for inspiration. So I hit the next song button on my beloved I-pod. Bobby Brown, no. TLC, no. R. Kelly, no. Green Day, ummmm no. Rick Ross, lets get it!

As soon as I heard the beat drop to “Push it to the Limit” that’s exactly what I started doing. I was caught up in some gangster fantasy and convinced myself that I was running from federal agents or chasing down some coward that violated me until next thing I knew I was finished with my work out. The song ended and I went right back to being a square ass struggling writer.

But it was something about that moment that made me wonder what it is about gangster rap that I find so irresistible. And it’s not just me. All of my college educated friends have a favorite thugged out song that they like to go crazy to. Whether it is in the car, at the gym, or in the club, there is something about the latest hood anthem that brings out the primal instinct in all of us. We mean mug, bob our heads to the beat, throw our fingers up and scream along with the chorus; “If you don’t give a damn we don’t give a fuck!/Hey!”

To make matters worse usually the more violent, vulgar, and extreme the song is the more we love to hear it. I don’t know. It really doesn’t make sense. I mean it’s not like we want to be thugs or think the criminal lifestyle is all fun and games. Every last one of my friends has lost a loved one to the street life so it isn’t like there is a detachment either. It’s just something that comes over us that we can’t stop when we hear Young Jeezy, Lil Wayne, or Rick Ross. I suppose it’s something similar to when educated white men watch a Godfather marathon, or Scarface, or the Sopranos. While you are watching it you become equally as invincible as the characters and you never have to spend a day in prison for it. The truth is that at times everyone wishes they didn’t have to care about the consequences of their actions or observe the law, so when we hear the voice of a rebel we respond—even if that voice is fictitious.

Gangster rap is a lot of things at the same time. It’s oppressive, repressive, corporate, poetic, real, fake, and liberating. Therefore I think it’s safe to say that it is not for everyone but if you have the capacity to feel it then you really feel it.

So to all the critics “Don’t talk no shit won’t be no shit!” LOL.

A Violent Game

Roger Porter

May 12, 2011

It’s really strange how violence is so woven into the social fabric of manhood.

Yesterday was my little cousins 9^th birthday and since he thinks he’s practically grown I wanted to get him something memorable. So I paid for him to try out for the local youth football team. It made so much sense to me because he’s already been playing baseball for three years and he hates it. He can’t really explain why he just knows that he doesn’t like the sport. Then there is his living situation. He lives in a house with my aunt (his mother) and his 4 sisters. Needless to say he feels very alienated at times, therefore when I pitched the idea to my Aunt she thought it sounded great and he did too. But now that I’ve given them the gift I’m having serious reservations.

I can remember the first year I tried out for football in the 6^th grade. I remember showing out in practice, instantly being one of the fastest players on the team, and having ambitions of being a star running back, until we actually got the pads that is. Once we got those 8 lbs of gear— which in my case included a helmet that was way too big with a bar going down the middle of the face mask that was awkward as hell, and not to mention big bulky shoulder pads that bounced every time I ran—and started hitting it was like a completely different game.

The first day of tackling practice coaches noticed that when it was my turn to run the ball I would avoid contact by slowing down or stopping right before my teammate hit me instead of lowering my shoulder and trying to run him over. It was a basic instinct for me. I mean why would I just let some kid plow right into me? After about the third time I did this I overheard one coach whispering to the other that I was soft.

“That’s O.K.” the other coach responded. “I got something for him.”

With that he made all the boys on defense get in a single file line so that the line leader was 5 yards across from me staring me dead in the eye. He instructed the other players to run at me full speed each time he blew the whistle. Then he instructed me to make each tackle. Before I could fully process my fear the whistle blew and the ball runner knocked me flat on my back. When I got back to my knees he blew the whistle again and I was back on my back.

“Faster! Faster!” He screamed before blowing the whistle again.

This time I grabbed the runner’s jersey but before I was able to wrestle him down he blew the whistle again and a player rammed his helmet right into my shoulder knocking me backwards but I didn’t fall. I grabbed my shoulder in pain and he blew the whistle again. He blew the whistle again, and again, and again, until he felt like I was no longer afraid of contact, that I could tackle, that I was no longer soft.

 After that practice my shoulder was purple and my neck was aching. I kept at it and eventually I became a pretty solid little hitter. I impressed the coaches so much that they gave me a spot on the starting defense. In retrospect I’m still glad that I made the team but I can’t help but to think that on that first day of hitting I lost something that I have never gotten back.

Now I’m stuck wondering whether or not it’s the best decision for my little cousin to lose the same thing at an even younger age?

Attack of the Mind Controllers

Roger Porter

May 11, 2011

I read an article in USA Today last night entitled “More families hungry in post-recession America.” The article was about blue-collar working class families going without food because they aren’t aware of the government resources that are available to them. Like just about every article in USA today it was a very well written piece. It was engaging, it flowed well, and it seemed to be thoroughly researched but to be honest it took me longer to get past the title than it did to read the article.

“Post-recession America,” who comes up with this stuff? That’s only slightly less ridiculous than the term “Post-racial America” which was used in the months after President Obama was elected. I’m not sure what economic formula was used to determine that the recession is over but it really doesn’t matter. What matters are all the foreclosed homes that I see around town, and all the businesses that have closed their doors. What matters even more than that is the dejection in the eyes of first generation college graduates as they take baby steps through the unemployment line.

When I walk downtown, uptown, on the east side of town, anywhere in town it is obvious to me that there is still a very serious economic problem. Who are these people who come up with this propaganda? How can they tell me that I don’t see what I clearly see?