Not Guilty...Now What?

As an African-American man that has spent his life just a few hours away from where Trayvon Martin was killed and George Zimmerman was subsequently acquitted, I am saddened by the verdict, but I am not surprised.  I am angry, but not amazed.

At age six, I was overtly shown that my value had limits in this society.  I was man-handled and handcuffed, thrown into the back of a police car, and told "shut your little black ass up."  That incident, along with countless others over my decades of living, leaves me cynical regarding the ideal notion of true equality in this country.

Yes, the klan isn't lynching black men for the egregious act of looking at a white woman, anymore?  And that's a good thing.  But how far is that practice of yesteryear from happenings surrounding Trayvon Martin's murder?  Not very far.  How far is that practice from the outrageous "stop and frisk" practice implemented by the NYPD?  Not very far, at all.

And while these overt, unconscionable incidents occur far too often, much of the country's racial problem is of the implicit, subconscious variety.  These implicit racial biases permeate America and result in countless incidents of horror.  Should we be ANGRY?  Yes.  Should we want to be HEARD?  Yes. But the real question is, "NOW WHAT?"

Whether Zimmerman's acquittal reinforced or shattered your belief in justice or the system, what are you going to do about it, now?  And tomorrow?  And next month, two years from now?

Are you going to become a informed voter?  Are you going to follow what's going on in your community, city, state, AND the nation?  Will you seek out information to make knowledgeable decisions?   Will you make wiser decisions with YOUR life to make sure your RIGHT to vote isn't taken away by doing some dumb shit?

YOU MUST!

That is where the change will take place.

Will you vow to be a father to your children?  Will you sign up to be a mentor to any of the young people who are in dire need of some direction?  Will you be an active member of the educational community to ensure the success of our children?  Will you put as much time into the possibility of your son becoming a Supreme Court Justice (Thurgood Marshall) as you put into the idea of him becoming the a supreme athlete (LeBron James/RGIII)?

YOU MUST!

That is where the change will take place.

And remember, this is a capitalist country.  Your money has a voice.  If you do not like the stereotypes many people have of your cultural group, then stop watching the shows that perpetuate those stereotypes. Stop watching those channels: they cannot survive without the advertising dollars. Stop supporting the artists that rap/sing these stereotypes into the ears of EVERYONE.

And what about the athletes, entertainers, moguls out there?  Will you use your voice to inspire a movement?  Will you use your dollars to demand a change?  Will you use your platform, influence, status and contribute more than an Instagram photo donning a hoodie?  Or are you more concerned about your brand or your bottom line?

You've tweeted about it; now what?

This is a deeply emotional time, but it is not a time for aggression.  However, it is a time for AGGRESSIVE ACTION. Be diligent in your work to make improvements.

So I ask you...NOW WHAT?

Ahhh...to be Young

I have always echoed long-standing platitudes like "Age ain't nothing but a number" and "You're only as old as you think you are."  And I do not feel "old" by any stretch of the imagination.  However, there comes a time in every man's life when he realizes that he isn't as the spry young man he once was.

Recently, I engaged in a few events that reminded me that I was no longer 18 years old:

1)

So, because I am such a giving person and noble friend, I agreed to take part in a charity basketball game.  My team was comprised of a group of men who remember when NBA players' shorts looked like they came from Victoria Secrets.  And our opponents were a bunch of 16-19 year-old boys hyped up on Red Bull and Lebron/Blake Griffin dunks.

Now, while I was never NBA-caliber with my skills, I could always hold my own on the court.  I won intramural championships in college, and played basketball on, at least, 80 percent of my days as an undergrad.  But that was a few years ago. 

Now, I make it a point to keep myself in pretty good shape.  However, as the game began, I realized my "grown man" shape is quite different than "young man" in shape.  The first few plays were cool.  My team was scoring and defending well.  We were getting back on 'D' and contesting shots.  But then it happened, and it apparently happened to the entire team at the same.  I suddenly became "Old Dude at The Park".  You know, the guy on the neighborhood basketball court who is years past his prime and results to bully techniques- grabbing, pushing, holding; rather than using skills.  On my childhood court, "Old Dude at The Park" usually played with 40 oz beer in hand or within reach.  I became him.  I pulled t-shirts instead of making it past half-court.  Attempts at blocking a shot were replaced with forearms to the mid-section.  And you could easily find me "resting" and waiting for an easy basket to come my way.

Needless to say, after a bevy of bricks and air balls, and a virtual track meet by the youngsters, we loss.  And the pain of defeat was nothing compared to the pain that permeated my body when I woke up the next morning.  This ain't college.

2) 

A friend of mine gave me a call on a Saturday afternoon.

Friend:  Yo, what's up?
Me:        Chillin'.  You?
Friend:  Nothing much.  What you got going on tonight?
Me:       Man, I dunno.  What's up?
Friend:  I have these concert tickets wanna slide?

The only concert that I was aware of was the Alicia Keys concert.  So, I was a little hesitant to respond, because I couldn't see the two of us in the arena belting "This Girl is on Fire."  Before I could ask whose concert it was, he allayed my concerns but sparked more confusion by saying, "It's Busta Rhymes and Kendrick Lamar."  He furthered his perplexing invitation by adding that the concert was open to college students only. One of his wife's friends happens to be the event planner at the university and gave tickets to her friends.  Well, after a little convincing, I decided to go.  What else was I gonna do?

Fast forward to the concert - well, before the actual concert.  As I walked to the venue.  I found myself constantly looking away from the scantily-dressed teenage girls around me.  I felt like that older guy hanging out in a club or party that was at least a decade to young for him. Wait...that's exactly what it was.

I'm old enough to remember the spry, rambunctious Busta Rhymes with dreadlocks and over-animated gestures. This Busta was a little more Barry White than the Busta I remember.

TANGENT:

The new Busta reminds me of wrestling icon Junkyard Dog (J.Y.D.).




Busta Rhymes and his hype-man, Spliff Star did about a 40 minute set.  Ten minutes of the set was yelling at the sound man to "fix the mic, Son."  Ten more minutes went to general conversation between the Busta and Spliff and the audience.  The rest of the time was devoted to performing parts of his hits and misses.

I think maybe the older you get the less sense Rap concerts make to you. When Busta was rapping, I had no clue what he was saying until he got to the chorus. I'm thinking there must have been a dog whistle effect going on, and rap concert lyrics become inaudible after a certain age. Because I, and everyone I was with, was clueless.

And Kendrick Lamar's performance was like listening to a speech by unmotivated motivational speaker with loud music in the background and everyone yelling the speaker's word back to him.
He didn't have live music, a booty shaking crew, or even a hype man.  It was just him.  All 4'7" of him.

I've enjoyed Jay-Z, Kanye, and the Roots in recent years. Jigga and Mr. West have expansive catalogues and engaging energy on stage; the Roots are a tour-de-force in a category of their own.  But give me Jill Scott, Ledisi, or Kem, any day.  You couldn't have gotten me sit at a Kem concert when I was in college, but I've matured.

So, what did I learn? 

Most of my basketball games from now on will be with a 30+ league.  Nothing makes you feel young like a mean crossover on someone who's had hip replacement surgery.

Ahhh...to be young...

Relatively speaking.

I Resolve

I know it's been  a while since I've posted, but I've vowed to do a lot better this year.  And this post is about just that, vows for the new year, more widely known as New Year's resolutions.




The last few days of December are filled with people making lists, typing 1, 5, or 10-year plans, and updating their vision boards.  Inevitably, getting in shape or losing weight is at the top of most of those lists.  Just ask the membership counselor at any gym.

But why do we make these resolutions at all at the beginning of the year?  It doesn't make much sense.

Allow me to propose a few scenarios:

#1

A young woman sits at home with her three-year old daughter on a lovely afternoon in October..  The daughter approaches her mother and says, "Mommy, I'm hungry."  No response.  The little girl tugs on her skirt and with more desperation laments, "Mommy, I'm soooo hungry."  The mother looks down at her starving little girl and smiles. 

"Hold on, baby."  She gets up and walks to the kitchen.  She opens a drawer and pulls out a piece of paper and a pen.  As she scribbles onto the paper, she looks at her daughter and says, "I know you need to eat.  I'm gonna make sure I start feeding you at the beginning of the year."

#2

A bachelor, let's call him Joe, sits in his apartment watching ESPN .  Joe is a bit of a Renaissance man, therefore he has prepared a meal for himself: fettuccine with a seafood alfredo sauce.  After the delicious dinner, he falls asleep watching the game.  When he awakens he rushes out to work.  When he arrives home that afternoon and opens his front door, he is greeted by the wonderful smell of all the preparation of last night's dinner that he forgot to take out.  What does he do?  Does he immediately take out the trash and douse his with Febreeze?  No.  He goes to his vision board and looks at a picture of a pristine kitchen that he cut out of Better Homes and Garden and thinks "January 1st...January 1st."

My point is - if you know that there is a change you need or want to make in your life, you should start working the very moment you realize it.  Imagine the progress you can make between the time you you know the changes you want to make and the beginning of the year. 

There is truly no time like the present.

So, I resolve to better myself sooner rather than later.

Happy New Year!
(When is it too late to say Happy New Year?  I'm thinking after January 4th.  So, I take it back.)

Happy New Year! 

Hello there.

My 2 Cents on The Extremely Suspicious Case of Trayvon Martin

Trayvon Martin was shot and killed by George Zimmerman.  Trayvon was a seventeen-year old black kid wearing a hoodie and carrying a pack of Skittles and a can of iced tea. 
Zimmerman was a neighborhood watchman.
Trayvon Martin is dead.
George Zimmerman is free.

This is what we know.

The passion for this case is like little I've seen in my lifetime.  Young and old have donned hoodies, staged protests, participated in rallies, and vented vehemently all over social media.

Professional athletes have shown their support.



Politicians have stood up for the "movement".




Of course, the usual gamut of black leaders and intellectuals have grabbed the mantle and bullhorn and shouted for justice and blood at the same time. 




The New Black Panther Party has offered a one-million dollar reward for bringing Zimmerman to justice.

"I am Trayvon Martin" has become the new "Yes We Can!"

Even the president of the United States made a personal connection to the tragic shooting by stating, "If I had a son, he would look like Trayvon."

But as more and more time goes by without "justice" and George Zimmerman walks the street, probably wearing a hoodie to conceal his identity, I have one question:

What happens now?

I still see some Facebook profile pictures and t-shirts around.  But inevitably, the cycle remains the same.  People prefer sprints to marathons, any day.  The case has taken the backseat to Whitney Houston autopsy reports, Dwight Howard's antics in Orlando, and Beyonce bikini pics. 

Okay, I lied.  I have another question.

What is the aftermath?  If George Zimmerman is arrested and convicted, where does the energy and fervor go?  Is the mission accomplished?  Is the activism no longer necessary? Does everyone go back to their insular, ego-centric lives until the next tragedy can be found in a Google search or twitter feed?  

Trayvon Martin was killed and that is a deafening tragedy.  But all of the rallies and protests and changing of Facebook profile pictures cannot help Trayvon.  It has drawn international attention and hopefully, something positive will come out of the situation, but it cannot change the situation. However, there are millions out there that look just like Trayvon that can still be helped. 
 
People traveled miles and miles to attend rallies, but how many would drive around the corner to volunteer at a school or offer their time to mentor a child in need?

In 2010, the graduation rates for African-American males was 47%.   In Florida, the state in which Trayvon martin was killed, the rate is only 37%.  THIRTY-SEVEN PERCENT!!!  HELLOOOO?  That means almost two-thirds of the black males in Florida DO NOT GRADUATE!

Failure to graduate exponentially increases a person's chances of living in poverty, committing a crime, and going to prison.  That sounds rather tragic to me.  Where are the rallies about that?  Where are the good Reverends shouting about that on TV?

If a fraction of the energy, passion, and resources were put into finding solutions for this crisis, there would have to something done.  Lebron's "every 26 seconds" commercial is a start, but why isn't a Congressman sitting in the house with a dunce cap and handcuffs on?

Don't get me wrong.  I am by no means belittling this tragedy.  Trust me, as a black man growing up in the South, I've experience more than my share of "situations" that could have resulted in my death.  But I also know that without the help of some key people in my life, people that extended themselves for my sake, I wouldn't be where I am today. 

On a daily basis, I see hoards of young men and women simply lost. They have no direction and are being raised by Nicki Minaj and Twitter. I wonder if the parents of these children are the same people protesting and rallying but not attending their own child's parent/teacher conference.  

These children need you.  They need their parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbors, deacons, community members, politicians, activists, entertainers, and anyone that gives a damn about the future to stand up and make some noise.

They need you to care, because if you don't care, we will lose so many more than Trayvon.  We will lose 63% of them.

Now, tweet that!

All Dat Jazz!!!

Blogging is kinda like going to the gym.  When you have a consistent workout regimen, it's fairly easy to remain consistent.  Even those days when you'd rather just sit on the couch and watch TV become days spent in the gym because that's what you're "supposed" to do.  But once you miss a day, it becomes easy to miss two, then three, then you find yourself staring in the mirror, pinching parts that weren't there before, and wondering what the hell happened!
That is exactly what happened to my blogging.  I needed a jolt.  I needed that moment in the mirror that would force my the get back into blogging shape.  Two things gave me that jolt.  The first was the Trayvon Martin saga and the second was Jazz in the Gardens.

The Trayvon case is taking me a little longer to write about.  That will be coming soon, so, on to Jazz in the Gardens.

If you don't know, Jazz in the Gardens is a 2-day music festival in Miami Gardens, FL.  From its name, you might expect it to be all about jazz: WRONG!  The list of artists included Jazz stalwarts: Ramsey Lewis and Kenny G., old-school heavyweights: Doug E. Fresh and Patti LaBelle, and soul singers: Ledisi, Kem, and Jill Scott. (Patti Labelle and Mary J. Blige performed on the second day, but I didn't go.  I had stuff to do.)

One of the most exciting aspects of the event was the overall energy.  Thousands of people gathered together from all walks of life and transformed a "show" into a party!  It wasn't uncommon to see hundreds off people line dancing, Cupid shuffling, or "wobbling" at once.  Everyone was just having a good time.  After all, isn't that what life is all about? 

Now, to my insights about the performances I saw:

Doug E. Fresh
I want to make enough money one day so that I can hire Doug E. Fresh to put on his "World's Greatest Entertainer " hat for my party.  From the moment this dude stepped on stage, the atmosphere went from "cool" to "outta control".  Everyone was on their feet throwing their hands in the air like they didn't care.  It wasn't rare to catch a sporadic "wop" or "running man" in one of the aisles.  And Mr. Fresh treated the crowd to a continuous beat box set that seemed to last for ten minutes; he even busted out the harmonica.  It's obvious that he's been working on his cardio and I could tell he's been in the gym recently.

Ledisi



In the beginning, Ledisi seemed to have trouble connecting to audience, or, maybe it was more the other way around.  It was clear that a small percentage of the audience really knew her music beyond the few singles heard on the radio.  But I guarantee that they knew her afterwards.  Once she kicked off her shoes and took 'em to church with soul-stirring vocals and stories of perseverance and persistence, recalling encouraging words from her mama, she had 'em hooked.  There are very few vocalists around that can rival Ledisi's skills.  She was amazing!

Kem

Kem was cool.  His performance was...cool.  The ladies seemed to enjoy it.  I listen to Kem's music if I'm at home reading or cleaning.  It may have been  a great performance, but I think my energy was tied up in anticipation for the next artist.


Jill Scott



Jill Scott's performance was legendary.  In her roughly 1-hour set, I felt at times like I was sitting in the pew and she was the preacher speaking directly to me, and other times like I was a teenager sneaking to watch grainy HBO and Cinemax soft porn.  She was simultaneously angelic and hedonistic, spiritual and carnal.  I fell in love with her about four times that night.  She sang and sang and sang.  Her band was hot!  Her background singers struggled to stay in the shadows.  But most importantly, she connected.  When she sang "Crown Royal", every single person in the audience bit their lip, shook their head, looked at the lover they came with or sent a text message to a lover that wasn't there.   

This isn't the performance, just the song.  But take this song and smooth and sexy it up, and you'll get half of what I was lucky to experience.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uguUTOenjxg


If you've never been to Jazz in the Gardens, put it on your agenda, now.  Request time off from work, check Hotwire for flights.  I don't know who's gonna be there, but I know it's gonna be amazing!

Needless to say, I was moved.  I was invigorated.  I was inspired and all that jazz!

And I'm back.

Now, on to Trayvon...

Get Yo Damn Kids!!!

If you've ever read my blog before, you probably know that I am totally in love with my niece, Na'Zyia.  She is absolutely the loveliest thing God has created.  I felt a similar adoration when I was ten and my baby sister was born.  So, I fully understand how people are about their kids.  To parents and grandparents, their little ones are precious.  Nothing can compare to a mother's view of their dear little one.  However, it is painfully obvious to me that not every one shares your love for your little one.  I know I sure don't.
Case in point:

Recently, I was in a wildly popular establishment that specializes in caffeinated beverages.  People come there for various reasons: some come just for a pretentious cup of coffee with a faux-Italian name, some are there to make sure their Match.com first date is in public and doesn't end in a missing person's report, and some, like myself, come to get some work done.  I bring my laptop and plug in my headphones to give myself an alternate venue to write.  So, the other day, a young lady came in pushing her stroller.  As her son's feet scraped the floor, I imagined that this wasn't going to end well.  After she purchased her beverage and sat in one of the plush chairs that were provided, her darling little one damn near exploded out of his stroller.  In a matter of minutes, he was running around the store, dodging unsuspecting caffeine junkies and LSAT studiers, alike.  As he ran from table to stranger to garbage can, the mother sat patiently and whispered "Maximo".  I assumed that she was just reminding him of Russell Crowe's Gladiator because it couldn't have been his name.  We'll call him Gremlin.

Gremlin continued to run around, but that wasn't the worst.  Noooo.  His personal game of "you can't catch me" was accompanied by melodic shrills at the top of his damn lungs!  Ahhh, now his mammy will get up and calm his little ass down, I thought.  I thought wrong.  She stood up and shook her head, then turned to the woman next to her, who apparently has Gremlins of her own, and said, "they're a mess at this age."  What?  No!  You're a mess at this age.  Get yo damn kid!  I had multiple thoughts of mushing him in his face, but I thought that might be slightly over-stepping my boundaries.  I just watched as he ate a cookie from the ground and licked the "wet floor" sign.  Hey, don't look at me like that.  Get yo damn kid!

Now, as much as that bothers me, another situation bothered me more.  Sitting in the same establishment on an entirely different day, poetically dribbling onto some pages, I was approached by a couple little boys.  What follows is an exact transcript of that conversation:

Two young boys, both around the age of eight, walk up to a cool and debonair young man as he writes in a pad.  The boys could have walked right off the pages of any story with main characters from Compton, the South side of Chicago, or Hoodville, USA.  Their clothes were tattered and they carried football helmets.

Boy 1:  Excuse me, Sir.

The gentleman, full of suspicion, removes his headphones.

Boy 1:  Would you like to donate?

Gentleman:  Donate to what?

Boy 2:  To our football team.

Gentleman:  Who knows that you're here?

Boy 1:  We told my mama we was gonna come get donations.

Gentleman:  How far do you live from here?

Boy 2:  It took about a hour to get here from home.

Boy 1:  We usually go 'round wit our coach, but we just caught the bus to get here.

Gentleman:  And what do you do with the money?

Boy 1:  We give it to our coach.

Gentleman:  You don't spend any of the money you get?

Boy 2:  No, sir.

Gentleman:  None of it?

They look at each other for assistance.

Boy 1:  Well, we bought some sodas and we got some pizza from next door, but we save the rest for Coach.

Gentleman:  Yeah, naa, I can't even support this.  Why don't y'all go home and read or something.

Boy 2: (to Boy 1)  That's alright; let's go ask the white people.

Get Yo Damn Kids!!!

I totally believe in the concept of raising children as a village.  But that doesn't mean that you drop your kids off at the village and you go to hit the club.  Please, raise your children right before someone, not me, does more than just think about mushing them in the face.

A Letter To Lebron

Dear LeBron Raymone "The Chosen One" " King" James,

It has been a year since you donned that purple plaid shirt and sat across from Jim Gray to announce to the world where you were taking your talents. All the world outside of South Florida scorned you for it. There were tears and fires ablaze in the streets of Cleveland. There was a letter from Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert that seemed more like a drunken e-mail from a bitter girlfriend. You became despised.


A few weeks have passed since you and your teammates, with your abundance of talents, gave the NBA championship to the Dallas Mavericks. All the world outside of South Beach rejoiced. You became a punchline to fill ESPN airtime and for late night talk shows. TANGENT ALERT!

What happened to late night talk shows? Jimmy Fallon? Are you serious? Well, at least he has The Roots as his house band. And what's that British guy's name? What happened to the likes of Johnny Carson, David Letterman, Jay Leno? Hell, what happened to Arsenio Hall?




Okay, really, what happened to Arsenio? Did he just die after Coming to America?

(Attempt at a tie-in) In Coming to America, Prince Akeem had to come to terms with who he was and what he wanted. He could no longer allow the wishes of his family or those who admired him to determine his future...just like you, LeBron.


So, if you have time on whatever remote island you're on, take a few minutes to read this friendly letter.


Let me start this by saying: I'm here to help. And the first act of my assistance is to say in public what you've probably said in private to all those around the world who prayed and prayed for your downfall and rejoiced at your every air ball, errant pass, and offensive foul: FUCK 'EM!


This phrase, one I use liberally and with no reservation, is the perfect response to all those lonely souls in Cleveland who cried after you left them feeling like the "black girl". You know, the black girl that many black women refer to when talking about professional/successful black men. The black girl that is "there for him when he was struggling, but as soon as he makes it he drops her and goes for the brighter (lighter) option." Kanye referenced her in Gold-digger. But that oh so beautiful phrase isn't reserved for the heartbroken Ohioans. You can use it to address every Monday morning point guard calling sports radio shows, commenting on stories on ESPN, or at Scottie Pippen for allowing his personal feelings of inadequacy to inappropriately state that you might be better than Jordan, in turn, exponentially increasing the pressure you were obviously feeling.

After you've dropped the F-bomb one good time (all you need is one good time; any more than two would be uncivilized), you should do what all professional athletes do in the summer; go some where and have plenty of unattached, but safe sex. I think you need a release. Because in a few of those fourth quarters, you played like a fifteen year-old who just got his first French kiss and feel-up. It was like you were scared to move because you didn't want the world to see the little bundle in your over-sized basketball shorts. You might want to visit King of Diamonds. Nothing cures ills like "making it rain and pouring champagne" on somebody's daughters.



When you come back from Vegas or Punta Cana or Rio, then it's time to work. Next season has to be your season. You have to make a comeback. A real comeback. Not a Michael Jordan comeback. Not a Muhammad Ali comeback. You have to make a comeback like Jason. Jason Voorhees, that is. You know, of Friday The 13th fame. You need to kill EVERYONE, metaphorically speaking of course. You need to treat every team, every opponent like a group of horny campers that know about you but figure that they you are simply a myth and it's okay to desecrate your name.

And when you come back, you need to get some new friends. Your boys obviously didn't have your best interest at heart when they said, "Yeah, dawg, it would be a brilliant idea to go on national television to break the hearts of everyone that has put you on a pedestal since you were seven or eight." Someone should have said, "It's cool as hell that you can get the whole sports world to stop and watch you say where you're going to play next year, but that shit might not be a good look in the end."


Once you get rid of those dudes, then just SHUT THE HELL UP! Don't talk about what happened during the playoffs. Don't talk about how financially distraught all of us are compared to you. Don't talk about cloning yourself or about how you're gonna win twenty championships before you retire. Just play ball.

And if you happen to take my "KILL EVERYONE" comment literally, just move to Orlando, change your last name to Anthony, and claim you were molested.