Brief Thoughts on the Occupation

 

October 12, 2011

                It’s easy for me to forget that I’m a writer when I’m at my job working all day. It’s easy for me to let my best thoughts evaporate into the idleness of my mind. It’s easy for me to become blind to beauty. The world is dramatically shifting all around me; therefore I cling to employment so I don’t lose my balance. But then again maybe I need to be pushed down like a wooden domino. Perhaps I should allow myself to get swept up in all the change.

                Lately I’ve been wondering if I have become a bit of a hypocrite because I only write about my radical ideas as opposed to running out in the street and screaming about them to whoever is listening. It’s been several years since I’ve participated in an organized protest. It’s been equally as long since I’ve collaborated with like-minded luminaries. I’m concerned that I have grown to rely far too heavily on the tactic of guerilla warfare that is my writing. It may be time for me to join the disenchanted masses.

                At present I don’t know what to make of the occupation of big cities across America. I mean I know I agree with just about every homemade banner and sign that I have seen (raging against unemployment, corporate greed, bailots, etc), and lord knows that I support drastic change in this country. I just feel like something else will need to happen in order for me to be reeled in. Forgive me for what I am about to say but when I see footage of the unrest; I see a lot of white boys with bull horns. I see white guys leading chants, and blocking freeways. I just see a lot of white males— period. All of this makes me wonder whether or not we can we really call what is happening around this country a revolution if is led by the world’s most privileged demographic.

                I am not trying to be overly simplistic nor do I intend to come off as being too caught up on race but this is what’s making me hesitate. This is what keeps me wrapped up in my own occupation instead of jumping head first into theirs.

-YB

Success

 

October 7, 2011

I never know how I’m feeling until I start writing, which goes to show how truly numb I have become. What good are feelings anyway? There is always something to be depressed about and there is always something to be happy about, it’s up to each individual person to decide which end of the spectrum they would rather live on….Well isn’t it?

It’s amazing to me how mankind can spend billions of dollars probing outer space and analyzing rocks from the moon when we know so little about what happens in our own heads. People master the art of suppressing their own emotions in order to thrive in a culture that fails to acknowledge the human spirit. Everyone wants to stand upright, get a high quality education from a prestigious school, make a lot of money, get married, and die wealthy. The whole notion that there is a formula to success always struck me as being preposterous. After all how can one develop a formula for something as ill-defined as success?

Success is happiness; therefore it can mean a million different things to a million different people. The man who walks down the street mumbling to himself while pushing a shopping cart may be experiencing complete internal bliss while the wealthy man with a mansion on the hill may be suicidal. A major problem with western society is we value the worst ideals. How can we thrive as a people if we place the pursuit of capital above the pursuit of love?

A few years ago I read a book entitled; Bombay-London-New-York by Kumar. The book is a kind of literary autobiography that also speaks on the Indian Diaspora. During one nostalgic passage Kumar writes about the good old days in the Indian country when—and I’m paraphrasing here—, “A man could look forward to dying in the same house that he was born in.” I can’t exactly tell you why but to me that is peace, that is fulfillment, and that is success. I can’t imagine anything better than to be able to have it all end where it all began with your grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and children all around you. When it is my turn to perish I want to go out surrounded by love so that all of my descendants will be assured that capital is ultimately irrelevant, and then hopefully they wouldn’t be tempted to die for something that doesn’t really matter.

-YB

Shame

October 4, 2011

Shame on me for lying down with a woman who I hate simply because I knew that I could. I despise her apathy as well as the abundance of inherited ignorance that she flaunts so carelessly but she was there and I was weak. It becomes funny when one thinks about all the immorality associated with manhood; how we are raised to honor conquests over love, and how we are always willing to risk everything for what we don’t need.

Shame is what I felt when I realized that the game that I used to live by is a complete and utter distortion of what’s really real. Shame is that look of disgust that soiled my face when the original player that I once idolized asked me for a dollar. When I saw that he was homeless, addicted, and lonely. He had no hoes on his arm, ragged clothes on his back, and no roof over his head. This is what happens to those who never learn how to love.

The rain pours outside my door with great consistency indicating that autumn is upon us. I look out of my window and wonder what it will take for me to unlearn all of these selfish practices.

-YB    

Don't Believe the Hype

October 2, 2011

I love Michael Jackson and I miss him dearly. With that being said I also know that the conviction of Dr. Conrad Murray will not bring him back. I must say that I’m a bit dumbfounded by the trial and the emotional frenzy that is taking place right outside the courthouse.

I don’t know what it is about our society that makes vengeance mandatory in situations where it makes no logical sense. The truth is that Michael Jackson was a very wealthy and powerful man who was addicted to the drug propofol. He felt as though he needed it to sleep. Several other doctors prescribed propofol for Michael Jackson and if Conrad Murray refused to do so then Michael would have simply hired another doctor.

As I listened to the radio yesterday I couldn’t help but to notice hearing some of my favorite MJ jams on almost every radio station. I was elated to be able to groove to all of these songs on the way to work— especially Billy Jean— until I thought about why they were suddenly put into heavy rotation on the radio playlists. Capitalism is about making money by any means and I believe the sole purpose of this trial is not to seek justice but rather it is just another example of corporate greed, brainwashing, and manipulation.

It’s no secret that even though the King of Pop is deceased his fans are still the most loyal on the planet. We know that thousands of them will flock to Los Angeles from all over the world and spend thousands upon thousands of dollars while in town, we know that millions of them will follow the trial by watching the news thus boosting television ratings on every major network, and we know that millions more will spend millions of dollars on MJ music and merchandising. American businesses will net a grotesque amount of money from this absurd trial, and all they have to do to get it is put a black man in jail for murder. Well hell they’d do that for free.

Pshhhh! It’s so ignorant. Please don’t believe the hype.

-YB

Notes on the Execution of Troy Davis

 

September 24, 2011

Troy Davis is dead and I must confess that while he was alive I participated in no protests concerning his execution date, I did not write one letter to any politician in the state of Georgia or anywhere else, and to be honest I barely stayed informed about his plight. I hate to say it’s because I have given up on justice but the truth is that I believe I have.

I put everything that I could into making sure that the police officer that killed Oscar Grant on January 1, 2009 was prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Johannes Mehserle killed Oscar Grant on a crowded BART platform, only to have his deplorable actions caught on a camera phone and shown on news stations around the country yet he still wound up serving about 9 months in jail. At the time of the verdict certain journalists and legal experts were claiming that we should be happy that the police officer was convicted at all. And that a police officer going to jail for such a thing as murder was unprecedented and therefore justice was served.

Unlike with the recent Troy Davis execution, during the Oscar Grant situation I did attend several protests. I did write a few articles that were published; I did engage in passionate debates, I went to town hall meetings, and I did stay informed about the trial up to the minute, but in the end there was nothing. I still haven’t recovered from the spiritual blow that was delivered by that injustice. I did not put my faith and energy into seeing that Troy Davis got a retrial because I cannot give what I don’t have.

When the officers who beat down Rodney King were acquitted we burned things, when Mark Duggan was killed we burned things, yes we riot, we fight, we are warriors, we have determination, we have heart, but we still do not have justice.

One thing I have learned to do is to choose my battles carefully. Troy Davis was put to death and that is a travesty, however, I can’t say that I feel let down. For as a black man I have come to expect this kind of thing to happen.   

-YB

Time

 

September 20, 2011

You can’t meditate forever. Sooner or later you have got to get back into the real world and deal with all of the temptation, all of the betrayal, and all of the pain. No one is going to be there to protect you from being hurt. For even recovering drug addicts can't spend their whole lives in rehab.

 But once you get to be a certain age it seems impossible to trust people completely. And when I say trust people I mean to have faith in their ability to assist you in the journey of life. And when I say you of course I am talking about me.

I am not as resilient as I would allow people to believe. Sometimes I need time to recuperate from a loss. So how long will it take this time? I honestly have no idea.

-YB

A Cheap Knock Out

September 18, 2011

It’s been several hours now since the welterweight fight between Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Victor Ortiz ended and I still don’t know what to make of it. I’m still very puzzled as to why Mayweather behaved the way he did in the ring tonight. I’m even more perplexed by the sheer volume of journalists and regular people who have justified his actions via social media.

 

I understand that Ortiz head-butted Floyd and it was one of the more vicious head-butts I have ever seen, however, I can not justify Floyd’s cheap knock out of Ortiz on a left hook right hand combination that followed. And hey I understand the rules; “Protect yourself at all times” but to feign as if you are accepting someone’s apology by giving them a hug then taking a quick step back and unloading on them is just trashy.

 

This is boxing. This is not a fight between two inmates in a maximum security prison, or between two drunken college students in a bar. As a fan of the sport I expect a fighter to have a certain amount of class, and I expect for one of the greatest fighters of my generation to show some professionalism.

 

Referee Joe “Fair but Firm” Cortez had already taken away a point for Ortiz’ egregious foul so I figured Floyd Mayweather, who was already seemingly well on his way to a unanimous decision victory, would appreciate his ruling and get back to work. But Mayweather failed me. He failed the sport of boxing and he failed himself.

 

I’m really disturbed by what “Money May” did tonight. Tonight he lost at least one fan.

-YB

Pride

September 16, 2011

….and then it’s like everything that I put in still wasn’t enough. I tried to humble myself for those cowards and I still wound up nowhere, feeling like a nobody. I changed myself to fit in yet I still remain an outsider. I knew from the beginning that the game was rigged but I stilled played it and now I have solid proof.

I’ve already felt the sting of the blow and tasted the blood that has flowed onto my tongue. We are much stronger than they will ever know. The average man would have crumbled beneath all of this weight. A normal human being would have taken his life with his own hand but not me, for I come from a very resilient bloodline.

I have never shown them any weakness. I would never allow them the pleasure of saying that they have institutionalized me. As a child every now and then a mouse or two would make its way into our home. They would move about frantically underneath my bed as I tried to sleep and, needless to say, it was quite unsettling. The only effective tool we had against them were sticky traps which are basically small plastic sheets filled with a layer of glue.

Every now and again when my siblings and I would check the trap we would find a tail, some fur, a paw or some evidence of a critter that had escaped but most of the time we would be woken up at 4:00am by an ungodly shriek. To this day the sound of a mouse on a sticky trap remains, by far, the most grotesque noise I have ever heard. I remember being utterly repulsed by those disgusting little creatures that would yell until one of us—mainly my older brother—would put them out of their misery with the bottom of a bucket. I refused to ever die that way.

If pride is a sin then the fate of my soul is sealed.

I will never beg them for entry into one of their wretched institutions. I will never live my life like a sucker and I will never die like a rodent.

-YB

The Happy Plant

September 15, 2011

 

On days like this I wished I smoked weed. I always admired my professional friends who were able to be really productive throughout the day and then come home and smoke an elegantly rolled blunt. It annoys me when I think about all the lies that were fed to me regarding marijuana when I was growing up. I remember being in the 6th grade and thinking that if I take a hit of the joint one day then I would be smoking crack the following week. Now I know so many intellectuals, doctors, and even teachers that smoke weed its absurd.

What’s even more absurd is all of those over exaggerations actually worked on me. I was extremely afraid to smoke weed during the height of the peer pressure days (also known as high school and college). I never wanted to be one of those people who had to smoke at least five times a day and had ashy gray lips and no ambitions. Which is very ironic indeed considering the last three presidents of the United States smoked weed at some point in their lives, and two of the last three even admitted to doing cocaine.

Because of these truths lately I’ve been wondering if my anti-marijuana attitude is what has been keeping me from writing my novel. Perhaps if I puffed on the ganja I would sleep a lot more and stress a lot less. In these hard times everyone is looking for a miracle drug and I am no exception.

Mama never told me there’d be days like this; my god. I really need prayer.  

-YB

How Far?

September 12, 2011

Finding the time to do what you love can be hard but giving up on your dreams is harder. It’s refreshing to be able to create something in a world where I have very little control. My thoughts do me no good when they’re fully contained. It’s not as if they’ll ever go away so why not let them out systematically and creatively?

 

I just listened to Sinnerman by Nina Simone for inspiration. It’s probably the most powerful song ever recorded. In that performance Nina’s voice transcends words, rhythm, and melody. By the end of the record it sounds as if Ms. Simone herself has been transformed into a musical note.

 

I don’t know that I have ever been caught up in anything in my whole life as much she is completely absorbed into that piece; not in any relationship I've ever been in, not in the gospel, not in writing, not in boxing, or anything else I hold sacred.

 

I do believe that sooner or latter every true artist has to pay that price. At some point one must give up everything that one has ever had in order to get everything that one thinks he deserves. I question whether or not I’d be willing to put everything on the line for my craft. I wonder how far I’m willing to go.

-YB

 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bn5tiuZU4JI]

Empty

 

September 7, 2011

 

I’m in need of a muse right now, but not a distraction. Lately I’ve been thinking the solution to my problem would be to sit down and write with a woman who I’m not attracted to. A stern but loving young artist who will force me to do what I think I can’t.

It’s crazy how I speak so negatively about women sometimes knowing that I love them so dearly. I love the beautiful ones, the ones that are hurting, the ones in denial, the intelligent ones, the women who are overweight, and the arrogant ones. And the whole time I just keep it moving. I no longer slow down for long enough to open up; I have developed the bad habit of running before things get too difficult. I run because I am scared. I fear that she will become just as deceitful, conniving, and untrustworthy as I am and it will break my heart.

I don’t have any mirrors in my house and I don’t have a woman here either. I have a roof over my head, the floor beneath my feet, and nothing else worth mentioning in between.

-YB

Sacrifice

September 5, 2011

Entering my 7th year of fatherhood I am becoming more and more concerned about this thing called sacrifice. I have been questioning what the word means exactly and how consumed should I be by my own daily sacrifices. I have been wondering to what extent, if any, should I allow the sacrifices that I make for my child to move me off of the path toward my dreams.

Sometimes I feel like I’m using parenthood as an excuse to not dive head first into my literary pursuits. I once read about the great writer Terry McMillan taking her infant son on road trips up and down the Pacific Coast while selling thousands of copies of the then selfpublished book Waiting to Exhale.  Also the award-winning author Toni Morrison once admitted during an interview that on at least one occasion her baby son vomited on her manuscript while she was in the process of writing. She went on to say that she did not get upset nor did she throw the paper away, she just wrote around it.

My daughter is far from being a baby so I can’t say that she’s impeding my ambitions at all. I mean yes I am working, going to school, and trying to plan for her future but so what. I can’t let that be the reason why I don’t do all I can to share my gift with the world. The only person holding me back is myself. Now I just need to figure out how to get out of the way.     

-YB

A Breath of Silence

September 3, 2011

It’s very rare that I get a breath to breathe; that I get a chance to completely relax. I’m not exactly sure what I mean by that but I keep thinking about this moment I had a few years ago. I was at Yosemite National Park with a lady friend walking a rather boring and unchallenging trail, but we kept on it until it became secluded and isolated. We kept on the path until it led us to an abandoned stable which had been almost completely reclaimed by grass and vegetation. It was there that the trail ended and gave way to total silence.

There was no sound of speeding cars coming from a freeway in the distance, there were no other people talking, we got no cell phone reception, and there weren’t any birds chirping either—the only thing that we could hear was our own breathing. I have never experienced silence like that; not before that moment and not since. It was almost overwhelming to be engulfed so suddenly by something that I didn’t even know existed. It took me a few minutes to let my guard down enough to appreciate what I had stumbled upon. Then of course once I realized that I had discovered peace I didn’t want to leave.

I found myself in the throes of a powerful silence that made a mockery of everything that I was raised to respect. As adolescents we all dreamed of driving big expensive cars with loud engines and a pounding sound system. As little boys everyone wanted to have the biggest voice on the playground so that he could tell everyone else what to do. As college  students we were expected to make connections with influential people in order to network and make a positive change. The idea was to join the team that was making the most noise so that one day you yourself would be heard.

It was wild because all of the politicking, all of the networking, all of the set claiming, all of the turf banging, and all of the pledging that people become so obsessed with felt like a whole lot of noise pollution as I stood there in perfect silence. I was content with hearing only the faint sound of my own breath and the breath of the woman I was with; and everything else, including the shouting of my memories during that moment, struck me as being excessive.

-YB

A Different Kind of Summer

August 31, 2011

Summer is just about over, which is funny because I barely realized summer was here in the first place. I haven’t taken a vacation, I haven’t gone camping, I’ve still had to pay my bills, and I’ve still had to handle all of my responsibilities. Life for me has remained exactly the same and perhaps the worst part of the equation is that I’m not even mad about it. Hell, I didn’t even realize how dull my summer has been until I found out that I had Monday off of work because of Labor Day. I was like wow, Labor Day is here already.

I guess life as a grown up can be that was sometime. It’s kind of funny when I think about what the month of August used to mean to me and my loved ones. Back in the day when we used to get so drunk we would cry for no reason. Back when we would ride the strip until 4:00am looking for the sideshow. Back when it was mandatory to have a pocket full of phone numbers by the end of the night. Back in the day when I used to actually look forward to eating at restaurants like Jack in the Box and Denny’s. But time most definitely moves in a hurry and time moves for a reason.

I really enjoyed all of those moments but I don’t want to relive them. When I was younger I did everything I wanted to do. I took all of the chances that I wanted to take and I survived. I had fun and I got through it. This summer was all about moving on while staying put.

-YB

What is Real?

August 30, 2011

I’ve wasted so much time obsessed with what I can’t do that it’s hard to believe. I have been so consumed by the trap that I was raised in that I don’t even think of freedom as a viable solution. I no longer need anyone to oppress me because I destroy most of my own dreams before they are ever even conceived. The mind can be a terribly wretched thing when it works the wrong way. Can anyone ever truly be inferior to another person? Can anyone ever really be hopeless? How often is a human being ever actually trapped? Even in prison a person can still dream. A person can still read. A person can still compose timeless letters. A person can still be in love.

 

I see men on the streets of Oakland, Berkeley, and San Francisco talking to them selves. I saw a friend of mine at the gas station by my house a few mornings ago looking beat down by life. I said hello and he asked to pump my gas. I was utterly crestfallen but I allowed him to do so. We talked. It was awkward. Even though I’m broke I gave him money. He smiled. I drove away and I vowed to never go back to that place again. A lot of these brothers appear to be too young and too strong to be out on the streets. The problem is that each one of them believed the hype. They believed that there lives were really hopeless and that their minds really weren’t worth holding on to.

 

I have staggered before and I will stagger again. At times I feel too jaded to shine and far too content with just getting by. It’s a proven fact that life can be very cruel and malicious but what other options do we have. If we are not living then what are we doing?

 

YB

Move the Crowd

August 28, 2011

I had the opportunity to share some of my work at a reading last night. It was just a few small pieces that I had written while in self-imposed exile so I didn’t really think too highly of them. And this is not because I thought they were poorly written or inadequate. It was only because I didn’t know.

There was no teacher that put a big “A” on the paper that I had expressed myself upon, and there were no passersby who stopped in their tracks while I was writing it and told me what a gorgeous piece it was. No, there was nothing close to that; these children were born deep in the country with no midwife or witnesses present to confirm their existence. Therefore there was no way of knowing whether or not they would be accepted by their peers on the first day of kindergarten down at the schoolhouse.

I stood there nervous as hell in front of about 30 people behind a microphone that was set up just a little too high for me. The reading was being held in an art room in the somewhat gentrified but still very hood Mission district of San Francisco, CA. The space is very loving and the people present appeared to be positive and nurturing but I was still scarred—scared that I would stumble over the words written on the page before me, scared they just wouldn’t understand, and scared they would tease my babies mercilessly about their country accents and their strange ways.

I got over it.

Then shockingly enough when I spoke they listened, they laughed, and they were engaged. Yes, I had moved the crowd. And when I say moved the crowd I don’t mean I made them “Throw their hands in the air/ and wave them like they just didn’t care,” I only mean that for that small five-minute interval they followed my words. They could feel them, they could see the images I had created, and on some level they could relate to them.

It was such an exhilarating moment for this writer to know that I had not toiled in vain. To know that the craft that I have sacrificed so much to learn how to do is still appreciated by a select few. When the event was over a stranger who was in attendance approached me. He looked me in the eyes and said; “Hey that was good stuff.” I gave him a generic response about how I was glad he liked, but he wasn’t having it. “No,” he responded to me slightly annoyed. “I’m serious that was really good stuff.”

I smiled and took a few seconds to soak it up.

“I really appreciate that,” I told him.

God bless my little country children. They made me so proud.

-YB

Feeling Good

August 21, 2011

There is nothing like heading outside early on a Sunday morning and letting the sun touch your skin. I have grown to appreciate going on morning runs. When I workout first thing in the morning with crust in my eyes, bad breath, and dry slob on my cheek from a good nights sleep it enables me to recognize what’s really real. Way too often I become caught up with my own appearance, and my own hardships. It’s a shame that my vision can be so easily clouded by issues that aren’t nearly as significant as I allow them to become.

Yesterday my daughter scored her first goal in soccer and although I couldn’t see it due to my day job I’m glad I had the opportunity to share the elation with her as soon as I got home. Also today I will be able to attend the very popular Art and Soul Festival in Oakland, CA. It’s always a beautiful, eclectic scene with an array of local dancers, musicians, artists, and singers. It’s truly a blessing that I will be able to attend with my family and hopefully see other friends in attendance that I haven’t seen in years.

The thoughts that come into my mind while I’m running in my beat up old running shoes and old sweat pants can be very uplifting. On this Sunday morning I’m feeling good. On this day I feel like a champion.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfJRX-8SXOs&feature=related]

-YB

Forward Motion

August 18, 2011

It used to be so much easier to take chances when consequences meant nothing. It seems like just yesterday I had no fear of failing anything and now it’s almost as if I’m afraid to try. It’s only the big things that make me hesitate. You know the tasks that require long-term commitments, or for me to open up for an extended period of time.

Repression is a beast that we have all learned to live with. No matter how uncomfortable it makes us it’s very rare that we let everything out. It is an unfortunate fact that we nurture our pain like we nurture our children until it becomes unbearable. We only deal with it when we have no choice and I am no exception. I would like to change however. I need to take that chance.

-YB

The Ones I Lost

August 17, 2011

At this very moment I lay on my couch with a pillow under my head thinking about all of those lost pages. All those sheets of paper that I’ve balled up, torn apart, and thrown away. All those deleted files. Out of all those half written stories, plays, and poems that I couldn’t bear to finish what if I made the mistake of throwing away the wrong one?

Writing is such an isolated undertaking and I’m sure if I had the right person looking over my shoulder while I composed a story and whispered into my ear that it was amazing before I got the chance to hate it and tear it to bits, then my life would be completely different by now. But there are no cheerleaders for obscure writers. There are no groupies that like our hip lifestyle. There is only the writer by his lonesome and if he does not believe in himself then he is left with nothing but an aborted thought and a thousand pieces of paper scattered about the ground beneath him.  

-YB

What has become of us?

August 15, 2011

Early yesterday morning I had the opportunity to listen to Mr. David Starkey, a white British historian, speak of black culture invading London to the extent that “The whites have become black.” Starkey further elucidated that the rampant materialism and embracing of a gangster code of ethics during the recent riots in that city was due, at least in part, to the proliferation of hip-hop music.

It was a very intriguing point of view that I hadn't heard before. I’m not here to disagree with Mr. Starkey because at present I believe it would be counter-productive. After all I don’t think he was trying to be racist, overly simplistic, or malicious. All he was doing was speaking his mind based upon the bleak images of black people that he has been exposed to via the internet, television, and radio.

I’m aware that a man of his academic stature should have done more thorough research before he spoke so ill-advisedly to the entire planet, but the point I’m trying to make is that most people don’t. The vast majority of people in the world make assessments based only on what is presented to them, and when one considers how black folks are portrayed in the media this reality becomes extremely problematic.

In addition to this issue there are also a couple of local bay area rappers who just so happen to be white females (I won’t say their names) that have caused major controversy over their refusal to stop using the word nigga in their rhymes. They claim that they were raised around black people all of their lives and that’s how they talk. Although I believe they’re trying really hard to be disagreeable for the sake of record sales, the truth of the matter is it’s a lot bigger than that.

For almost this whole day I’ve been sickened by the thought of what has become of our race. At some juncture in time we became walking, breathing sources of entertainment instead of human-beings. We lost our dignity during the middle-passage and along with so many thousands of bodies thrown into the sea, we never got that back.

It bothers me to know that blackness is manufactured, marketed, and consumed by the masses. Which means that we seem to have very little control over what we actually are. Anyone can listen to the right records, dress in the right fashions, and use the right slang, and be transformed into a black person. Because we all know that being black is cool, being black is fly, and being black is so desirable—until the police need someone to victimize that is. Police brutality always separates the real black people from the imposters. Contrary to what David Starkey said no white person wants to be black like Oscar Grant or Mark Duggan. Please believe that while being black is fun it’s definitely not worth dying for.

Yet so many people have died in order for us to live. There have been so many Medgar Evers’, Patrice Lumumbas’, Bobby Huttons’, and Malcolm X’s. There have been so many hardworking, humble, righteous social servants that have been murdered for representing black people in a positive way in the past 50 years alone that I can’t even count them. So why is it that these people have not come to define what it means to be black? Why is it that in times of woe everyone seems to forget what these individuals stood for? It’s strange how these brilliant people are always depicted as anomalies as opposed to general representations of black resilience and self-determination. I wonder how that came to be? I would like to know if that’s our own fault as black people for not teaching our young properly, or is it part of a grand plan to systematically oppress us? Or maybe it’s both.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5UcFdY-u0U&feature=relmfu]

-YB