Et tu, Brute?

Friends!

How many of us have them?

Friends!

Ones you can depend on!

...you can look it up again and again, but the dictionary doesn't know the meaning of friends.

Those are the immortal words of the legendary hip-hop group Whodini. I've always loved that song. Whenever I would hear that song, my shoulders would get to bouncing, my head would start swaying, my arms would begin to move as if I was on stage as a part of the group with a tight sparkling suit and wide-brimmed cowboy hat. I would rap all the words:

Homeboys through the Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall And then there's some we wish we never knew at all. And this list goes on, again and again. But these are the people that we call friends

But it's not until recently that I started to reassess those words. See, I've always kept a small circle of people that I call friends. There are people that I'm cool with. There are people that I kinda like. There are those that I tolerate and those I don't entirely hate. Now, I can be friendly to all of these people, but that doesn't make them my friend. The majority of my friends are old school. We have memories of being middle-school kleptomaniacs stealing boxing gloves out of sporting goods stores. We can laugh at the memory of me tossing a basket of ketchup drenched French fries in the face of a rude bowling alley employee. We have recollections of college days that I dare not mention in this post. (People have real jobs now.)

And while it takes me a while to truly trust someone, I felt that 10, 15, 22 years might be enough. Well, some events that transpired recently have caused me to question those seemingly unbreakable bonds.

I should have listened to Shakespeare. He told me all about friends in Julius Caesar. I mean Julius' best friend Brutus put that final dagger in his back. And Othello...oh, Othello! Othello's boy, Iago, whom he trusted, cased him up something awful. And the scary thing is that you never really find out why Iago was so evil.

And like Othello, I trusted these friends, these allies, these confidants to no end. But much to my chagrin, they treated me like they didn't even know me. Better yet, they treated me with anger and contempt: total disrespect.

And disrespect is not usually tolerated. Just ask the guy with hot fries in his face at the bowling alley. But I guess my reaction to the infraction was kinda like being a kid and your uncle hitting you really hard in your chest or your mom putting all her might into that last swing of the belt. You wanna scream. You try to make the sound come out, but the only things you can produce are breaths and ugly faces. You squirm and move and a single tear traces your cheek. You want to, but you can't speak. You wanna play hard and take it. But it hurts too much; you can't fake it. But you can't respond the way you want in your mind; you just endure the pain until it subsides. (My bad. Unintentional poetical tangent.)

Because I didn't expect it, it cut me deep. And had it been someone I didn't call my friend, my boy, Marlin, might be using his Florida Bar card to come get me out of the County.

But I've matured and realized that the beautiful lady we all know as Karma will take care of things.

And, from this wonderful situation, I've learned a couple things.

1. To paraphrase JT Money of the Poison Clan, "Put shit past no one." I doubt if I'll ever be completely caught off guard again. Unless I find out tomorrow that my mother is a lesbian devil-worshipper. That might get me.

2. Even between friends, you have to sometimes be ego-centric. As friends, you think that you should be more selfless. Well, in situations like mine, that selflessness left me by myself.

3. Whodini is still one of the hardest hip-hop groups to ever do it. The Freaks Come Out At Night, One Love, Big Mouth...classics!

So, I'm not saying that you shouldn't trust people. I'm not even saying that I won't get over how dirty they did me. I am saying...REMEMBER JULIUS CAESAR!

I Rise, I Rise, I Rise...

Question.

What is the one poem that every black person in America, no matter the age, region, or socio-economic status, is all too familiar with, even though they may not know every line?

Think about it.
You've heard it in movies. Maybe you were compelled to read it in English class during Black History Month. You've seen seen a hundred way-too-grown eleven year-old girls in Sunday dresses schashay knock-kneededly across stages, snapping their fingers and twirling their hips while reciting it. Ahhh...now, you know. What else could it be?

Still I Rise, by Maya Angelou, is a classic piece of literature that addresses the resilience and pride of a people that have been continuously oppressed. This powerful poem suggests that even though someone, or a group of someones, has been looked upon with scorn, that they can walk with their heads held high because there is a greater spirit that is within them. Powerful stuff, right?

Of course. Even if they say you're not good enough and get upset when you behave as if you're not only good enough, but better than they ever imagined, don't let that keep you from continually rising: rising above oppression, contempt, and doubt.

This poem is an anthem for confidence and self-realization.

So, my next question is: since so many love and appluad this poem, why do they behave like those antagonistic oppressors in the piece?

Basically, I'm talking about haters. Not your run of the mill haters that litter the verses of every rapper's song. I mean genuine, real-life people that seem to get angrier with each second of your happiness. I'm talking about people that shine when they find out that things aren't floating smoothly on your end. I mean the ridiculous people who would prefer that you walk with your chin in the middle of your chest instead of your helad held high. Damn them!

I've been told on more than one occasion that I'm arrogant or conceited. I've always disagreed. I simply say that I have a healthy dose of self-confidence and a high opinion of myself. And why shouldn't I? After all, I am the hope and the dream of the slave. Aren't I?

In elementary school, 90 percent of the fights I was involved in started off just like this:

A nice, well-groomed, curly-haired and chocolatey little boy is walking down the hall. Then, out of nowhere, a few menacing figures appear. One of these disheveled hooligans growls, "You thank you cool, huh?" or "Oh, who dis nigga thank he is?" And the ensuing brawl usually results with the cute one on the receiving end of blows from the few less fortunate ruffians. But, still I rose.

But even today. People tend to get upset at my level of confidence.

Does my coolness upset you? (I replaced sassiness with coolness. I've never been sassy a day in my life.)

I do have to admit: I think I'm cool as hell. But it's not that I try to be; I think the combination of my DNA and specific factors in my upbringing put a sort of Billy Dee factor in my blood. It's kinda like a cool evolution. Only the suave survive. I now some other cool people. But some wear a facade of cool that you can see right through.

The way I walk and talk seem to upset some people. I must admit, my walk is special. I don't even remember where it started, but I remember people commenting on it during the 5th grade awards assembly. And even then, I had parents making slick comments about me winning a bunch of awards. "Why he winning so much?" "There are other students out here, you know." "I took off of work to see somebody else's child win everything?" How you gonna get mad a kid because he's a better student than your child? You should be mad at your child for not doing better or yourself for not motivating your dumb ass kid like my mama motivated me.

And I'm sure that this blog may be interpreted as another example of the size of my ego. But what did you expect?

Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, weakened by my soulful cries?

Too bad. Because like the Phoenix from the ashes; like the constant price of gas is, like what high heels do to asses,

Dumb Da-Dumb Dumb!

So, an interesting thing happened on the way to creating an amazing independent film. We had to deal with people!!!

Writing for me is definitely a labor of love. I'm very passionate about it, and like most people, if I'm passionate about something, I put my all into it. But with writing, the only people I have to deal with are the ones in my head. And while they can get annoying and scary sometimes, I'm usually able to handle them.

However, adding real live human beings to the equation entirely changes things. It's kinda like making a sandwich. Imagine some fresh, warm multi-grain or wheat bread patiently awaiting succulent slices of turkey. You place the poultry perfection on one side, followed by juicy tomatoes and fresh Romaine lettuce. On the other side, you spread just enough mustard, regular or the honey variety, then add a slice of cheese or two. Perfect, right? Then, imagine that someone walks up and piles two heaping spoonfuls of mayonnaise right into the middle of your sandwich. After you beat them down, you'd just stand in awe of how what once was so beautiful has become a monstrosity. Adding people to the mix is like like listening Marvin Gaye's Let's Get It On and right when Marv's about to lay on a "oooooooh, baby", the DJ mixes in the infamous Brrrr, from Gucci Mane.



We've come across all types of people trying to do this project:

• The shady business owner who wants exorbitant amounts of cash for us to use his venue
• The nothing-on-their-resume divas who don't understand the concepts of independent
• The unprofessional actor/actresses that simply disappear from the project w/o saying a word. (Damn, if you don't want to or can't do it, cool. Just let a brotha know!)
• And the adults that come to audition that seem to only read books with pictures in them
  

One of the major things I've learned from this project, thus far, is that the rumors of the U.S.'s shortcomings in education are grossly understated. People can't read. And it's funny and sad at the same time. During the casting, when the potential actors had to read lines that I wrote, I had to bite my tongue while listening to them fumble and stumble over simple sentences and words like fruition. That word has three syllables. Oh, sorry. Syllables are the distinct, I mean different sounds that are in a word. The word is pronounced froo-ish-uhn, not froo-shoon, or froo-tee-yun.

It was hard sitting there and trying to keep a straight face. I am a pretty decent actor, but people that truly know me know that my face is window to what I'm thinking. I had to pull out some Sydney Poitier skills a few times.

Some people were nervous and I get it. And there were a couple of words that might have been new for some of them. Okay. But damn, my seven year-old cousin, Brandon, could have done better than a lot of them.


It's no wonder that U.S. students ranked 32nd out of 35 countries surveyed about positive attitudes toward reading. Somewhere along the line we stopped reading. Growing up, I learned a lot from Sesame Street and The Electric Company, but they supplemented my learning. Today, many parents depend on the teachers entirely too much and allow Nickelodeon to do what they should be doing. My mama kept my face in a book.

So, that leads to me to a serious question: How dumb can we get?

If you watch TV, you'll think that there are no limits to the depths of our dumbness.

I tell those I know who watch that bastion of intellectuality, Jersey Shore, that they are probably losing ten brain cells for every minute Snookie and The Situation are on air.




Who's to blame for proliferation of ignorance?

The parents? The teachers? The media?

Absolutely. Undoubtedly. And definitely.

So, do we just shrug our shoulders and say, "Since all of those things are stacked against the kids, then there's just no hope for them"? If so, then we doom, not only them, but our own future.

But what can you do? I'll tell you. Go and mentor or tutor a kid. It can't hurt. Maybe you can help make their dreams come to fruzyun. And I highly doubt that you can make them any dumber than they all read IS.

...Lest Ye Be Judged

As he walked out to the cheers of his adoring fans, I mean followers, I mean, parishioners,, Eddie Long pensively paced the stage, pounding his chest seemingly in an effort to tell his congregation, “it’s all good.” Never directly addressing the specific allegations against him, he referenced Bible scriptures that talked about the persecution that the righteous have to go through. The biggest cheers came when he stated, "And I will be back her next week," refuting rumors that he would step down as bishop of his megachurch.

If you don't know, Bishop Eddie Long, pastor of New Birth Missionary Baptist Church, just outside of Atlanta, is being accused of sexual impropriety with four young man who were members of his church and ministry.

When this news first came out, people were shocked. But why?

Oh, because he's a pastor.

And because he is a voice of staunch opposition to all things homosexual.

And I guess because he is well-respected community leader and advocate for uplifting individuals.

Or maybe it's because he drives a car that costs more than I've made my entire life.

I don’t get why everyone is up in arms over this situation. He’s just a man. Yes, he is in a position of shepherd to a flock of ‘believers’, but ultimately, he is still a man. We have a tendency to elevate people beyond human being status, and when blemishes appear, it's hard for some people to believe them.

For instance, you may never find a bigger Michael Jackson fan than me. Let me rephrase that.
you may never find a bigger SANE, not willing to commit suicide because I don't want to leave in a world that MJ isn't in Michaled Jackson fan than me. But even I had to admit that there was something a little shady about Mike's affinity for sleep-overs with pre-teens.

Mike was a man. Bishop Eddie Long is a man. A man who apparently likes taking teenage boys on trips around the world and sending them pics of him in bathroom mirrors donning extra-tight, spandex sportswear.




But hey, who am I to judge?

Judgement. Now, that's an interesting topic. That's what this entire situaton is about, judging. The same Bible that the bishop preaches from speaks at lengths of the dangers of passing judgement. You know, the whole speck in someone else's eye when you have s big stick sitting in yours. It also says, "judge not, lest ye be judged." And undoubtedly, that's what people are doing right now; judging. They see the preacher living in a mansion, driving expensive cars, flying in private jets, and wearing custom-tailored suits. They judge. They photographs that he allegedly sent to these young men. And they judge. They see his hair and wonder why Jheri curl makes wigs. And they judge.

Okay, maybe that's just me.

But the judgment being passed has supporters of Bishop Long furious. They want everyone to just be patient, let all the facts come out, and stop being so judgmental. Wow! That's refreshing.

Isn't it ironic that when faced with turmoil, people want everyone else not to judge them. However, whenever they have a chance they are passing judgment on every sinner, heathen, and hell-bound person they can find.

More ironic is that fact that the Bishop has long been a vigilant fighter against gay marriages and everything related, but here he is being accused of not only an abuse of power, but with boys. Why do most churches seem to be delusional about homosexuality? The same church that preaches that it's a sin, usually has a choir directed as straight as Little Richard.
But more importantly, why is everyone acting like there’s no homosexuality in the church?

Come on, anybody that attends a black church, grew up in a black church, or ever attended a black church, knows that they have questioned the sexuality at least one person in that black church: the choir director.

But that's okay. He needs love, too. Maybe this whole situation will be able bridge that divide. Ultimately, only Bishop Long and the Longboys know what or who went down on those trips. But these accusations could end up serving a greater purpose.

• Let it be a lesson to people of all faiths to stop deifying men and focus on a personal relationship with whatever deity you chose to or not to serve.
• Maybe looking at the whole person and not simply pick a part of him/her that we don't like or understand, then accept them with love. Maybe then the choir director will feel completely free as he leas the church in Blessed Assurance.

And as for Long's innocence. The Bible also says, "what's done in the dark will eventually come to light." Or was that my grandma?

Family Affair

Every once in a while, there comes a time when you look at things a little differently. You know, a light bulb goes off...an epiphany. I call it a Kick In The Ass(KITA) moment. More often than not, the moment comes as a result of a negative experience.

• I lost my job...damn, maybe I should try to be on time and actually do work instead of chatting on facebook.
• My wife left me...Oh, maybe it's not a good idea to complain about her cooking, sleep with her best friend, and leave dirty drawers everywhere.
• Doc said it's incurable...I should've worn a condom.

I had a KITA moment recently. My great-grandfather, Mr. Henry Brown, Sr. passed at the tender age of 98. Yes, 98. He lived through segregation, two world wars, and Soulja Boy. If a black man makes it to half that age he's doing pretty well. Pop Brown's legacy? Besides the principles of hard-work and faith, he left a family tree that sprouts over 380 branches. That's right! Between his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, etc, there are nearly 400 of us. Daaaaaaamn!

No, my KITA moment was not that I need to hurry up and get started on my family if I want a tree like his. One of my aunts has 23 kids, so she's well on her way.

My moment occurred while sitting at the funeral service, partially listening to the eulogy. I began to look around at my family. Those I knew and those I didn't. It was then that I realized how hypocritical I am. People that truly know me can say how much of a family man I profess to be. It's true. But I had to ask myself, "do you really show it?"

For the past year, I've lived less than 2 miles from my grandfather. How many times have I gone to visit? Once. Are there legitimate reasons? There are reasons, but they really equate to excuses. And while I often quote the phrase, "Don't make excuses, make improvements," I wasn't taking my own advice.

I would say that I'm busy, which is true. But everybody's busy, and nobody's that busy.

It's a natural thing to be self-centered. We HAVE to do this and we MUST do that, and more importantly, we WANT TO do these things. The question is, how important are those things. And how much time does it take to pick up the phone, share a hug, or say I love you?

So, as I sat in the funeral, tears dropping on my fitted lilac shirt that was so very smooth, I took out my Blackberry and started writing a poem. Sidenote: There were these gentleman behind me that were talking junk about me as I began to type on my phone. The old cat in with salt and pepper hair had a brief convo with the somebody's uncle next to him.

Old Cat #1: Man, some people got no respect.
Old Cat #2: No reverence. You gotsta have reverence.
Old Cat #1: This is a funeral, ain't it? Sometimes you gotta stop some things. Leave some things at home.
Old Cat #1: I don't know what's wrong with 'em.

So, I politely turned to make sure they were talking to me. I wasn't gonna fight this old dudes at my great-grandaddy's funeral. Hell, I'm sure they were my cousins or uncles or something. I just turned around to make sure they were talking about me. Well, one darted his eyes toward the minister giving the eulogy, never breaking his glance to acknowledge me. The other, #2, looked directly at me, as if to say, "Yeah, I said it? And what? Whatchu gone do, Youngblood." Youngblood turned around.

I couldn't tell you much of what the minister was saying at the end of the eulogy; I got lost in the words of the poem I writing to myself. the words I was typing mixed in with glances of grown men crying caused me to have to shield my Blackberry from my tears.

This is the poem. Read it. Maybe it'll be your KITA moment.

Yesterday's Promise
Darius D.
Written 9/18/2010 @ around 1pm, inspired by the legacy of a great man, Henry Brown, Sr.

As we sit and reminisce and tears fall down our faces,
We recall those dear moments, sweet times, special places.
Our minds travel back to the tender memories we shared,
But we inevitably focus on the times we were not there.
All of the missed chances to share stories, opportunities to show love
No matter what we did, it could never seem enough.
But let's not focus on the misses, but concentrate upon our makes.
And look towards tomorrow and not repeat our mistakes.
So, that mother uncle, cousin, sister or grandfather
That you say you'll call or go and see tomorrow,
When you're too busy with the oh so busy business of your own,
Take the time to make that visit, send that letter, pick up that phone.
Cherish those you love, be it family or friend;
Use this moment to show you love them; you might not get it again.

We Love You "Pop" Brown

On Goal Lines and Ground Zero

There are only a few things that bring Americans of all races, ages, and socio-economic statuses together and can equally divide them at the same time: SPORTS, RELIGION, and, POLITICS. This past weekend marked an unlikely mixture of all three entities.

Both college and professional football seasons commenced this weekend, much to the joy of millions of fans across this country. It’s weird. The passion for a particular football team has the ability to unite people that may otherwise be mortal enemies. A simple combination of colors or a school fight song led by some pimply-faced coed in a sweaty, non-hygienic mole or polar bear suit can cause the fellow who just got his car repossessed to high five and fist pump the repo man.



Look in any stadium stands, except maybe an Ivy League or MEAC game, and you’ll undoubtedly see the veritable “salad bowl” that America espouses to be.

But football season also serves as a great divider. Even I occasionally succumb to the madness that is football fandom. While I proudly bleed the Orange and Blue of the University of Florida Gators, a few of my friends made disheartening decisions by attending Florida State University. And though I know better, there’s always a bit of a divide between us when football season rolls around. Hell, my good friend, Alexis, put our friendship on pause because her USF Bulls, a grossly inferior opponent, was playing against UF. Good thing the game's over; we’re friends again.

Just like football, a person’s faith or political persuasion immediately aligns them with a million strangers. I was reminded of this during all of the fuss around the so-call Ground Zero Mosque.

On September 11, 2001, men claiming to be doing the will of Allah were responsible for nearly 3,000 deaths when commercial planes were hi-jacked and crashed into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. (Unless you believe the conspiracy theories.) This catastrophe seemed to unite all people in America for a fight against a common enemy: terror. Unfortunately, this fight against tyranny became an attack on all things Islamic.

And while Ground Zero is being reestablished, there have been many discussions about placing various monuments and memorials to the victims in that spot, but the possible placement of an Islamic community center two blocks away from Ground Zero has gotten all of the publicity. With that, the line was drawn in the sand again. Either you are against the center being built, or you’re for it. You couldn’t have an insightful and rational opinion. That’s like being an Ohio State and Michigan fan, or a simultaneous Miami Dolfan and New England Patriot enthusiast. It’s impossible. In protest to the center, which includes a mosque, a complete imbecile disguised as a Florida preacher threatened to burn the Koran. Really? He’s since backed off the threat, but come on.

Is this WJWD?

It’s amazing, but not really surprising, that this is even a debate. With noted intellectuals like Sarah Palin leading the charge, many would have the U.S. ignore its own tenets of freedom. I’m not sure, but I think I remember reading something about freedom of and from religion. If I’m correct, then if I wanted to build a church where I could worship cabbages, then I should have the right to.

Now, I understand some of the genuine sentiment regarding the whole situation. I think a certain amount of respect should be given to the victims and their families. There should be some sort of honorarium for them at the place so many lost their lives. They should show that from the ashes of terror rise bonds of strength. Building anything that doesn’t memorialize them and promote peace would be an injustice. But the fervor regarding this situation is unfounded.

First of all, there isn’t a mosque being built directly on the hallowed grounds where the Twin Towers once stood. It’s about two blocks away. Some say that’s too close. Oh, okay. How far should they go? Jersey? Connecticut? Oh, maybe they should just build it back in EvilIslamland. That is a country, right?

And like I mentioned before, it’s a community center. Yeah, there’ll be a place of worship there, but there’s also going to be a basketball court. I guess they fear someone might throw a lot of Allah-oops…I couldn’t resist.

It’s just like those commercials that DirecTV has been running to promote their NFL packages. In these commercials, fans of a particular team extol the virtues of their team and city while lamenting over the fact that their neighbors can watch and cheer for their rivals anytime they want. A waitress spits in drinks, snow gets shoveled onto someone’s door, a dog even leaves his mark in someone’s house. All of this happens because someone with a minority opinion and set of loyalties is close to the majority's territory and they don't like it.

Hmmm…

If I can maintain friendships after some of the historical battles between the Gators and Seminoles, then those who profess to be loving, caring Christians should be able to open their hearts and see the God in all people, even those from EvilIslamland.

Labor Day???

I eavesdrop a lot. Well, it’s not really eavesdropping; I just hear extremely well. As a writer, this “skill” is a tool that aids me in understanding people: the things they do and how they interact with others. It’s annoying at times, though. Sometimes I feel like Jim Carrey in Bruce Almighty hearing all of the world’s problems at once. Who wants to hear strangers trade STD stories?

The other day, I “overheard” a couple teenagers talking:
Kid 1: I’m glad it’s a three day weekend; feel me?
Kid 2: Yeah, for real. I’m tired of school already. What’s Monday? Why it ain’t no school?
Kid 1: I think it’s Labor Day or sumthin; feel me?
Kid 2: Labor Day? What’s that shit about?
Kid 1: I think it’s to celebrate when women be pregnant and it’s hard to have dem babies, so they go into labor; feel me?
Kid 2: True, true.

My first thought: These are some dumb ass kids.
Second thought: That’s some rather creative reasoning.
Third thought: No, I don’t feel you.
Forth thought: What the hell is Labor Day?

I consider myself a pretty learned individual. I tend to think I could at least make it to Jeopardy’s Final Round with $100 left. And you don’t wanna see me in Taboo. So, I know that Labor Day has to do with celebrating the work force and unionized labor; feel me? Ooops. But I still don’t get the point of celebrating Labor day.

Why the national holiday? Everyone isn’t in a union. Hell, how many people wish they had a job so they could get Labor Day off? And how about the percentage of the workforce that lose money by having the day off?

Really, isn’t the day just another reason to have a BBQ? I’m not complaining, because you can never have too many reasons to have BBQs. My friend has a BBQ every time his HIV test comes back negative. He hasn’t had one this year, though. I hope it’s just the economy.
Labor day was established in 1882 in support of an eight hour work day, as opposed to the 12-hour days commonly worked.

Other major events in 1882:
False teeth were patented.
Chinese Exclusion Act was signed, preventing Chinese immigration.
The real Hatfields and McCoys feud. Over a hundred people wounded and killed.
Blacks were being lynched at an astronomical rate.

Why are we holding on to this archaic holiday? Get rid of it. While you’re at it, get rid of a few more holidays as well.

Columbus Day – We should all celebrate him. He was should a fine, upstanding individual.
President’s Day – I don’t get it. Yeah, I commemorate a shrine to Washington and Lincoln on that day. No, I don’t just sleep until noon and go to the mall.
Halloween – After about 12 years old, anyone wearing a costume should be detained and evaluated, unless she’s a woman and the costume is extremely revealing.

Everyone always talks about the state of education in the U.S. Well, maybe if the kids were actually in school instead of always out for some bullshit holiday, they would know more. Feel me?

Oh, and I’ll wear white whenever I feel like it.