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.

A Black Man Scorned

Roger Porter

May 19, 2011

Relationships are very difficult in general. Being in a committed relationship with a black man probably makes that task 10 times more difficult—Ok sisters I get it. As a black man I am the first to admit that sometimes we make it impossible to love us. For a lot of brothers the issue is that it is hard to love someone else when you do not love yourself. For this black man it’s trauma and baggage. After all being hurt really hurts, what else can I say.

So now with all of that being put out there, I would like to ask all of the scorned black female lovers of America to please tone it down a little bit. I’m getting so tired of hearing women talk about all black men being dogs, and how it’s so difficult to find a good one because of “the shortage.” Black men are in prison, black men are gay, black men have multiple babies, black men are abusive— damn hearing that crap seriously makes my head hurt.

As always the media is a huge part of the blame. It appears that the fallout from the exposure of The Down Low will never subside. I understand the fear and paranoia which stems from it to a certain degree—I mean the thought of being exposed to HIV would freak anyone out—but at some point we have got to get better and move on.

And I’m sorry to say it but if 2 people are in a relationship and it doesn’t work out then it’s a collective failure. When I’m in a situation with a woman and it goes terribly wrong (which is almost always the case) I can’t blame it on the state of black women as a whole, as a matter of fact that would be very counterproductive. All I can do is gather myself and mull over the question, “What did I do wrong this time?” It is only after I figure this out that I can move on.

The shortage of the black-man thing is used as a cop-out far too often. When it comes to the abysmal state of black male/female relationships both sides need to share the blame equally. I will take accountability for what I’m doing wrong as long as you do the same. Is that asking for too much?

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.

Litseen presents the best SF reading of the week. (via We Who Are About To Die)

Something from the archives.

We’ve asked our friends at Litseen.com to present our readers with their pick for the best reading of the week. The writers at Litseen cover the majority of the reading scene in San Francisco and we want to give you guys the cream of the crop, so Evan Karp has selected one reading that happened last week and one reading happening this week. His pick from this past week is Roger Porter reading his short story The African Dead: [youtube=http://www. … Read More

via We Who Are About To Die

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?

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.

Ms. Hershey’s Kiss

(Fiction)

Roger Porter 

Note: This is a short story taken from The Souls of Hood Folk (2010), now available at www.lulu.com.

            I must say I like all the girls on your website but if I could only be in a room with one of them it would have to be Ms. Hershey's Kiss, so baby this letter is for you. I love your style, your presence in the bedroom, and the way you carry yourself like you’re not the slut that you are. You’re the type of broad that I would be willing to spend a lot of money on- even more than I do now. I am a member of every website you regularly appear on, I have all your magazine shots on my wall, and I own all your movies including Wet Monkey, Cocoa Abyss, Ghetto Action 4, and your first leading role Melts in your Mouth. I feel like I have a good knowledge of your character on camera but I want to know how you are off screen. I want to know how good sex feels to you and why you can't get enough, I mean what makes a whore like you tick? I plan on hooking up with you one day so guide me through a day in your life and let me know every slutty detail so the letter will get me through a lot of lonely nights. Also be sure to let me know the title and release date of your next film.

Love Always,

Thomas Goldstein

Dear Thomas,

                       I have to admit when I first read your letter I wanted to put it down but I couldn’t. I have never read anything from any fan before I read what you sent me. I normally would have ripped it to pieces after the second sentence however something empowered me and allowed me to get through it. When I think about it, what happened to me yesterday gave me the strength to endure you. So you want to know what makes me tick? You want me to take you through a day in my life? I hope you’re ready baby because I’m about to purge.

            When I woke up yesterday I was very sore because I had been shooting the previous day for about an hour. I don't know why they make us film for so long when after the edit the scenes are never longer than eight minutes. I think it is so all the fools behind the camera can get off. I hate that because I have to make all these punk ass noises and act like I'm having the time of my life when in actuality I think about everything else in my life except what I'm doing. Like the song in the background, how much I'm going to get paid, how many people will see this movie, the good people I used to know, how I remember when I was still a virgin, and how much I must be letting my mother down.

            After a while they turned the cameras off to change positions. They asked me if I wanted to do a facial for $300 extra. So I said hell yeah- the guys got a kick out of that. During the climactic scene my mind started drifting. I started thinking about this field trip I went on in the 5^th grade to the Legion of Honor in San Francisco. It was exciting for me; even at the age of eleven I could appreciate Picasso and Monet. I think I held up the whole class for ten minutes when I first saw Water Lilies and Japanese Bridge. It tripped me out how it seemed so enchanted but real at the same time. When I saw that painting I didn’t want to leave –it was really talking to me. Besides that I had been a good girl the whole day- until it was time to get back on the bus. When we got outside it was so foggy that all you could see were the tires on the bus. It looked like the clouds had descended upon the earth so we could walk through them. So I said to my best friend Taylor who lived down the street from me and caught the bus to school with me everyday "Let's run through the sky." So with that we ran through the parking lot until Mrs. Jackson screamed after us. Taylor got scared and ran back but I didn't I turned my face up toward the sky and smiled. Then out of nowhere drops of rain began pelting my face.

            After I took a shower and got dressed I walked as fast as I could to my car, by the time I got to the parking lot however some of the actors were already outside waiting on me. Some fool was smiling talking about "What's up Ms. Hershey's Kiss. Later on tonight the fellas and some of your home girls are going to rent a hotel room and have a party. We figured we’d do some practicing for our scene tomorrow. I got pills, drank, smoke, powder, whatever you do we got it— so what's hapnin?" I told him straight up, "First off them bitches ain’t my home girls, I don't kick it with them hoes. Secondly hell naw I aint kickin it with you. You don't even know my name." Then I smashed off.

            I can't remember the last time I had sex off camera. I was about to get down a few weeks ago with Will this dude I've been dating for six months, I guess you can say we’re in a relationship, well technically we are but it just sounds awkward saying that. Well at any rate I was hella bored and hella drunk one night so I decided to call him over. So he came through and he was acting like he didn't know why I called him over so I decided to get things crackin then he started pulling away like I was the dude and he was the woman. After that he started talking about this is just the wrong situation and our first time should reflect our feelings for each other. Finally he gave me a kiss on the cheek and left. Yeah right I heard that game before all he is trying to do is get me sprung before things get serious so when they do he'll have the upper hand. That's the same shit Taylor tried to pull when we started talking in the 10^th grade. I was a virgin then and he was acting like he didn’t want to be my first. He would say he was waiting for the right time, and I was too smart for him, and I deserved better than him- like we wasn’t from the same hood. We had been together for a year when Junior Prom came around and he said that would be the night. But the week before the Prom he got in an argument with someone during a dice game and they shot him through the heart. The prom was the day of his funeral so needless to say I didn’t go.

            The funeral was full of crying pretty girls one of whom claimed to be pregnant with his child. I guess she wasn't too good for him. Everyone there was crying, males and females alike. Everyone except me because I didn't give a fuck, or at least I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t. Anyways, that’s why I tried not to bother with dudes unless money was involved because they are raised to lie. Deceiving women is part of being a man so I decided to flip the script and have the actor in the scene with me and all the people watching at home believe I am in ecstasy when the truth is if I could commit suicide and still go to heaven I would have done that shit right after my mother had that stroke and passed away my first year in college     

            I was on my own after that so I had to get the bills paid and to be truthfully honest going back to school was the last thing on my mind. I have always been an artist at heart so I auditioned for every ballet in the area but for whatever reason I couldn’t get on with any of them. I think it was because I couldn’t erase the death of my mother from my mind, which made my dancing look really forced and unnatural. A few of my friends at the time were strippers so I justified it by saying to myself it was dancing and dancing is an art form. I auditioned and got a job. I hated it but the money was good. Every night there would be recruiters from various magazines, websites, and adult film companies. I never even accepted a business card until the club got shut down because a few girls were engaging in illegal activity on the job. By then my credit card bills were sky high so I told myself I would just do one movie to pay them off. But after I did it a few times I came to the realization that no other job would pay me as much as I was getting paid so I kept doing it. That was two years ago. I ain’t slept with a man off camera since.

            I met Will in a library. He was a librarian and while checking out my books he noticed I chose America, and The Trial. He said, “So you like Kafka huh?” At first I thought he was a fan trying to make small talk and then ask for my number real smooth like you guys always do. That was until he started talking about existentialism like a college professor or something. He was going on about the battle between the individual and an oppressive society and everything, and I responded to every idea he threw out there which shocked the shit out of him I’m sure, but then it worked pretty well because I like shocking people. We ended up talking for almost an hour and it turned out he had to drop out of college for financial reasons too. The connection was so intense it scared me. So without him even asking I gave him my real number and my real name.

            Through our many conversations it occurred to me that he had no idea who I was or what I did. So one night during the third hour of our telephone conversation I blurted out “You know I’m a porn star right?” At first he thought I was joking, then he was disappointed that I waited so long to tell him, then as strange as it may sound he accepted it and he accepted me. He is the only person in my life right now that accepts me. And I swear I didn’t even believe him until I got off work yesterday. We had planned to meet up for dinner at 8:00 and when I got to the restaurant he was already there— early as usual. But something was very peculiar; he was sitting at the table sweaty and nervous looking.

            He looked as if he were about to vomit. So I sat down and we began talking but he was stuttering and mispronouncing his words so I asked him what was wrong. Then as if that were his cue he got down on one knee and proposed, and I said damn. I wanted to cry so bad but I couldn’t. All I could manage to say was yes. We’re getting married in May.

            So to answer your question my next movie should be coming out in a few months I don’t know what the title will be nor do I care because it will be the last movie I will ever appear on. I figure with his library job and if I get a nice quiet office job we will make out just fine. Hell, I might even be able to go back to school and get my BA in Art History. I know that it would be naïve to think that I will ever be able to leave that life completely behind because of loyal fans such as yourself, however I am now truly ready to live. I’m not trying to be a celebrity and I’m not about to run anymore.           

                                                                                                    Sincerely Yours,

Mrs. Hershey’s Kiss

P.S. I hope this gets your rocks off.