Hip Hop Revival

So for the past year or so I've agreed with the critics that Hip Hop is dead. Listening to my friend John Morrison makes me wanna apologize to all those Hip Hoppers out there keeping the dream alive. Keep reading and teaching, bro! Check out his music!

Haiku #15: Peach Cobbler

I'm American

My tan skin fits this landscape

This soil I have plowed




So this was inspired by the idea of American pie (apple pie) which is a tasty, white woman's pie lol. The history behind peach cobbler is so rich, much like the contents of that mouth-watering dessert. I think it should be known that slaves took the rotten fruit given to them by their slave masters and turned it into gold. Mmmmm...I feel like Pavlov's dog right now... But anyway, I was imagining a landscape portrait of the American family. And I fit there. I denied being American soooo long. Called myself a displaced African. But when you think of our contribution-- technology, labor, culture-- when you think of God's plan for us, you can't deny what's yours. And America is yours. It's mine. It's ours.

Shhh...

Have you ever experienced a silence so thick
it was deafening?
Sitting in Mediterranean dust
and Gothic lighing

Sulking about all that I am not
Tear ducts at capacity

I cry for me


Verbal cruelty spewed through Avon-coated lips
and I wonder will she ever stop to think
Condemnation through hateful eyes won't change me.


I cry for we


and un-attainability
Settling for physicality
when I'd give my all to love you cerebrally
But there's blockage that leads to your cortex
In daylight I escape your room in silence

Crying for fulfilling harmonies

Sensual
Captivating
True


I cry for you


Won't give one more excuse
Stroking your hair,
I simply whisper into your ear
that I didn't know how to love you

I cry for hue too light and waist too thick
I cry for what I miss


Congrats HU Grad!
Here's a recession and there's your raised fist
Manicured and bleached

Nappy queen cries for in-opportunity

Have you ever experienced a silence so thick it was deafening?
When night came
I sat and cried for me

"Nappy"

"Girl yo hair always been nappy!" said a hair client of mine, as I strung in her silky brown weave. Her brother and long time friend of mine was sifting through the thousands of photographs my family keeps in a old milk crate in my kitchen. He had come across the very last class picture taken of me before my first relaxer and proceeded to show his little sister. In the picture I may had been 7 yrs old, and I had long, thick, curly-kinky hair.

As with most American Black girls with long, thick hair and young, overwhelmed moms, I was given a perm before I was old enough to understand the physical and cultural damage the "creamy crack" causes. All I knew was that it was the early 90s and my previously curly hair was now straight and touching the middle of my back.

The mid-90s and of course girls were mean to me because of how I looked; light-skinned and long hair. "Good hair" is what they called it. But even worse, the girls and boys were mean to the girls who didn't look like me: darker skin and shorter, kinkier hair. (Retrospectively, you couldn't win for losing...) I remember being so hurt when kids made fun of my forehead or my light skin tone.

I found myself delighted when people asked me "What you mixed with?" When asked, I would proudly ramble off the varying ethnicities of my ancestors, conveniently leaving out "African." Hell, I didn't know where in Africa my people were from and I didn't care because they didn't care. But I knew what Native American tribe my family was from, and I knew the English city from which my last name originated. I knew my great-grandmother was creole which means she was French and that even though I had met my daddy only once, he was part Asian...Japanese we think.

Typical and superficial, I easily maneuvered through grades and schools, getting off on standing out from the crowd because of my amazing grades and test scores. Smart but stupid. I was too busy chasing boys to acknowledge or cultivate any depth within myself.

Simultaneously, I was taking a liking to a new genre of music. 1997 and Erykah Badu, Rahsaan Patterson and D'Angelo were singing what my life was lacking: consciousness. Though I vibed to the music, it took a couple years for me to align myself with Neo-Soul's essence as oppose to just riding the trend.

Summer 2001 and I went to the All African People's Revolutionary Party's "African Liberation Day." I was 14. I learned about Pan-Africanism and the New Black Panther Party. I was taught Black pride and diasporic unity. I touched African and Caribbean jewelry. I saw flags and I marched for a cause. I witnessed a sea of raised brown fists and lips sucking magnolia bark. I listened to Fred Hampton Jr speak of assassination and rebirth. I rocked to the words and rhythms of Poetree.

I got my very last perm that August.

High school and college proved to be only a few steps above what I was in grammar school. I fought the good fight for all that is African, natural and progressive. I told people to loose themselves from their slavery chains. I spit poetry and sang lyrics about society and systems and despair and hope. All the while, I still needed validation. Like a little girl... While putting to death ideals and words like "nigga" and "good hair" I still relished in my natural hair being not as kinky as other Black folks. And I pressed my hair whenever I was to see my boyfriend (who very much embraced the ideals of Niggerdom).

(I've since learned MY value and the toxicity of the nigga lifestyle to my purpose. I've also learned that loving yourself is not about comparison. It's about embracing uniqueness.)

It took one statement to shake-up my everything and bring to surface the problem that us Black folks can't seem to escape. "Girl yo hair always been nappy!" is what she said as she looked at my kindergarten picture. A dark girl with kinky hair that I braided in a circle for her weave. Her 14 inch, light brown, silky weave.(Her mom has the same weave in HER hair). She was putting MY hair on the same level as someone straight from Africa. Wait, did I really just think that to myself? Why did the word "nappy" hurt me so much when she said it? I mean, I LOVE African hair.

It was the way she said it to me. She was putting an Indian woman's hair in her own head, telling me how she didn't want any of her hair out because she didn't like the texture. It didn't blend. I don't think she could understand why I liked mine. As I finished the last couple tracks in her hair, I matter-of-factly spoke of the beauty of natural hair, whether it be wavy, poofy, curly or yes, napppy.

Her 15 year old mouth responded with a "yea right." But I kept giving her natural hair positive energy. I only hope that energy, that Qi, would somehow penetrate her heart.

New Song

What started out as a plea to God to send me my perfect mate, ended up a love song and plea to send me Himself. I felt God in the new track I made, so the lyrics just took me there subconsciously.

I originally started the song with, “I’m reading old letters, old journal writings. I must have mentioned him a thousand times at least.” And I changed it to “…I must have mentioned Him a thousand times at least.”

Not much else changed, as He was already in my piece, but I made Him the focus. I did change the last line of the bridge from “…kiss my problems away” to “…mend my problems away.” I mean, a kiss is temporary but healing is everlasting.

Even with the shift in focus, one can sense the allegorical nature of this story. I can’t ignore my original prayer and my original longing for companionship. My heart, however, lead me to the understanding that my loneliness was much more deeply rooted than I realized.

I’m an artist—a profession that calls for me to pull from my life and expose myself as much as I can. I can’t wait to share with you my life…I can’t wait to start recording the song!