A Life in the Day of...

"The present is a gift and I just wanna Be..."

Sunday, June 03, 2007

The Force

How could Hip Hop possibly be dead?!
It’s a force. It’s energy.
A force that began in a land where drums talked and warriors danced.
An energy propelled from strife, oppression and power.
Energy cannot be destroyed. It keeps moving, transferring from vessel to vessel.

Like everyone else, I worry about the next generation of Hip Hoppers. I wonder whether enough of them would be able to see through the smoke screen of bullshit and touch and experience the healing, empowering force of this culture.

A few weeks ago I went to this event called “The Gathering”. This monthly, all ages party, aims to represent Hip Hop in it’s totality; Bboyin, Mcin, Graf writing, Djin. Aside from the fact that I met a really cute brotha there (Score!) this was the dopest get together I had been to in a long while. The energy in the room was kickin! On the stage, the DJ spun vinyl and the Bboys responded with some of the sickest break dancing moves I’ve seen in a long time. One side of the room was breakdancin while the other side got it in with poppin and lockin. Their was a huge wall strictly for tagging. The host, announced the open mic and a sick cipher ensued, 6-7 dudes on the stage, freestylin. They were ill with it, each one pickin up the flow where the other one left off. They were totally vibin. The Bboys popped. Locked and postured . I felt as if I had been transported to a time decades past. One kid would get on the linoleum and do his thing, get up, look his opponent up and down, flexin in his face. Next. Bboy crews sprang up, Flashback to the days of Rock Steady Crew. Kick, jump, spin… Pose.

“A lot of people think [we are] a bunch of rowdy ghetto heathen thugs -No. No. What we are, are oppressed.”

Two poppers face off. A skinny Black kid in camouflage and an Asian kid in a jersey and cap. The Asian kid’s moves have won over the crowd. The brotha next to me says, “Yea, he’s definitely hot but don’t forget, we Black, we was born with this shit, ya’ll had to learn it.” Word. I was so struck by this comment I had to write it down. Homie had encapsulated everything I’d been feeling that night. The Gathering was diverse, everyone was represented; Asians, Latinos, Whites, Blacks. And most of them were damn good. But none of them had what the Black kids had. None of them had the force. When the other folks danced, though it looked fresh, it also looked learned. When the black kids danced it was organic. Like they came out the womb spinning on their backs and doing the snake. An innate spirit fighting to come to the surface.

“This is not just a bunch of people acting wild, it’s an art form. It’s just as valid as your ballet as your waltz as your tap dance except we didn’t have to go to school for this it was already implanted in us… from birth.”

I realized then that Hip Hop can’t be dead, it can’t be killed. This force has been and will continue to pass through the generations of young people yet to come. The way I see it, Hip Hop dying is equivalent to our annihilation. It won’t happen. It’s indestructible, as are we, it’s part of our DNA. Is it what it was during it’s so called “prime” in the late 80’s to mid 90’s? No. Of course not. It has transformed, but so have we. I’m no longer afraid for the future generations. They will pick it up and they will run with it. They/it/we will survive. It’s all we know how to do.

“This is our ghetto ballet, this is how we express ourselves, this is the only way that we see fit of story telling. The only way of making ourselves feel like we belong.”

Saturday, June 02, 2007

Appreciating the Booty.


It's you, my crew don't mind it thick (Uh-uh)
Every woman ain't a video chick (Nah)

Or runway model anorexic

I love what I can hold and grab on

So if you burn it off then keep the flab on


Now ladies, don’t be startled by the title of this post. I too am a sista with a booty and just like you I’m sick and tired of the negative and offensive attention it draws from our can’t get enough brothas. Their nasty remarks and objectifying stares are not welcome and it’s about time they figured that out.

Butt. I am talking about a different type of booty appreciation. Lately I’ve realized that we sistas may be guilty of a serious offense: Booty ignorance. Sistas, we fail to appreciate our own butts! And if we don’t stop this neglect, our booty’s will up and leave. It happened to me. It can happen to you.

My sophomore year in college, I was living off campus for the first time. Times were hard and I was broke. The refrigerator was oft empty as was my belly. One day, while kickin it with some fellow po folks, someone exclaimed, “Damn Marly, what happened to your butt?” Whatchu mean what happened to my butt?! ITS RIGHT THERE! “Naw yo, your butt fell off. It’s gone.” GONE?! I rushed to the mirror. He was right. My ass had bounced (pun intended) on me. I did what I had to do to get my booty back; I ate furiously and became the queen of crunches. I prayed nightly for my booty’s return. Without my booty, I was just another short, booty-less chick! Eventually, after a couple months, my booty reluctantly returned. She wasn’t feelin me though. And she was right. I promised to never again be so neglectful. We made up.

Fast forward, Winter 07. Philadelphia, PA. Hard times hit once again. I had just moved and I was sho nuff struggling. My ass was starving. I begged and pleaded and told her I was workin on it but she wasn’t tryin to hear me. So. Again. She bounced. As we got ready to go out one night, Kin’s eyes looked at me with shock and dismay as my once sexy figure fitting jeans, hung loosely off my hips. I looked at the floor and shook my head. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” Once again, I had offended and failed to appreciate my booty. This time, I wasn’t sure if she’d return. We had been down this road once before. I went online and Googled, “get your booty back”, “how to get big”. Google returned with: The Atkins Diet, The South Beach Diet, The Nuts and Water Diet... WTF?! Where are the resources for those of us who love our round booties and thick thighs? I was lookin for the “Get it Right, Get it Tight for the Summer Plan” and all I found was “How to be Anorexic in 10 Days or your Money Back!” Fall passes, winter ticks by and still no booty. I resigned defeat to Kin and graciously passed on the “Best Booty” crown. Only when I really started to eat for my booty (read: rice, 3 meals a day) did she decide to return… with an attitude, of course. I apologized for my transgressions and she let me know in no uncertain terms that she would be out for good if I didn’t learn to appreciate her.

So sistas this is my testimony. We’ve been blessed. We can’t take our booties for granted. There are people (ya’ll know who I’m talkin about) who are walking around with butt pads to enhance the size of their asses! Our African lineage has blessed us with beautiful, round, bouncy booties. Let’s take care of them! And although men can be crass and disgusting in their ass commentary; at least they’re grateful. Which is more than some of us can say for ourselves. So this is my plea: Feed your booty! Appreciate your booty! Love your booty!

I love it when y'all broads wear it skintight
Make the big panties look like little panties

Tryin to lose that bottom girl you been right

I saw who make ya cookies I should go and thank ya granny
-De La Soul, Baby Phat

Saturday, April 28, 2007

brotherly love?

I'm not gonna front. When I first moved to Philly, I was shook. Too many black folks. Call me what you wanna call me. I'm bein real. I was shook. The soul of this city startled me. Every time I stepped outside, my heart raced. it was like an adventure, a beautifully dangerous adventure. It's hard to describe, but it was a thrilling high. The city is so alive.

I've come to love this city I now call home. Upon arrival, I was in love, sprung like a 16 year old after her first kiss. I knew nothing about it other than that I loved it. These last few months, my love has matured because along with the beauty, I've been introduced to the beast. The spirit of this city is kickin, some nights walkin down the block, I swear I could almost put my finger on it's pulse. it's like it's always on the brink... brimming with emotion.. like a whistle of a tea kettle steaming... or a mothers coffee mug overflowing with her tears. It's always on the verge of overflowing... like someone forgot to turn off the damn faucet!

Man, Philly is an emotional ass city.... shiiit... let me be blunt: Philly is pissed. the fuck. off. 406 homicides in 2006! 406 lives were snuffed out in 365 days. 406. some of these streets look like straight up war zones and i wonder when Oprah will come save Point Breeze or Strawberry Mansions (how come all the roughest neighborhoods have such pretty names?). This years homicide rate is already higher than it was this time last year. On some real shit, at times, it feels like the wild, wild west out here. Most of the victims are young black men... most of the shooters are young... black... men. there goes that victim/offender conundrum again...

Through it all, I love this city. I mean, it's not NYC... not by a long shot. And I haven't quite found my niche yet. But I feel at home... at least for now...open mic at Dowling Palace, the Hip Hop Gathering at the Rotunda, Belmont Plateau... varying degrees of chocolate as far as the eye can see. Oh and the murals.. the bold, expressive, outraged murals... Yea. I'll stick around here for a while. At least until Brooklyn starts screamin my name a little louder.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Last week I went to hear Twin Poets perform at the Philadelphia Free Library. Moved to tears by their powerfully vivid words, I walked away troubled by their poems and rhymes. I realized I've heard those poems and rhymes far too many times.

Poems about... streets bleeding and babies dying
...about baby girls on they backs, legs spread with one eye open and other shut tight

...about daddy's in prisons wishing he coulda woulda shoulda took care of his son, cuz now Jr.s gettin swallowed up by the same streets that put him in the belly of that proverbial beast.

...about the revolving door of baby boys in and out of emergency rooms; swearing that only with death will they ever prove how hard they really are.

...about feigns deciding nightly whether to feed their children or their arms.

Tired of these poems and rhymes.

I know. I know.
the poems must be written and the rhymes got to be heard.
the streets have a story to tell, the people have secrets to holler
you wanna talk to God, tell it to the wind.
I know. I know.
but i can't help but feel like this record is stuck on repeat... like a DJ on a perpetual scratch
like we all stuck doin the same ole two step

How many more poems we gotta write? How many more rhymes we gotta hear?

Sunday, February 25, 2007

appetite for the bean

What I miss about Boston, in no particular order:

1. Urban Outfitters Bargain Basement
The anticipation of what funky treasures await. Racks and racks of "irregulars", off colors, designer oopsies- basically, store rejects. SCORE. I'd always walk away with a cute lil somethin at an extra discounted price and cheese all the way through 'da square.

2. The Original 'tute
From sophomore year 'till the day they put the chains on the doors in preparation for demolition, the tute was my home. Dean Petty served as surrogate mom with comfort and wisdom in her every word and touch; Mr. Kamara- the uncle with an open ear and a word of advice. The tute is gone now but I carry around the sense of security and love it gave me as I try to establish another home.

3. Woody's on St. Stephens St.
Greek Pizza + Quesadilla soup + a great friend= HEAVEN!!

4. Brown Sugar at Fenway
The perfect place to splurge on an orgasmic plate of deliciousness.

5. Caribbean Folks
How I miss the colorful, boisterous extraness of my fellow islanders. The flags, the music, the food, the culture of the Caribbean are loudly missing from my new city.

6. Wally's
I'm still searching for the Philly version. West Coast Wednesdays with Jazz fo dat Azz and Sundays with the cute drummer in Usual Suspecks. Boston's best kept secret was slept on till last summer, when it was quickly adopted and made home.

7. Creativity of Boston finest
Aahhh, Bostons finest. How do they do it? How they managed to find the time and energy to coordinate complete outfits from head to toe, I'll never know. Hats, jackets, shoelaces!! I used to clown them. But I must admit, being away from it, I miss the head to toe Spongebob Squarepants/Celtics/ M&M get ups. A+ for originality.

8. Silver Slipper/ Mikes Diner breakfast
Sunday morning cravings for Silver Slipper. The shuttle to Dudley. Only to discover the breakfast jump off is closed, with no rhyme or reason whatsoever. I swear they never had any legitimate hours! The disappointment. The rage! The #1 down Mass Ave. to stand in line at Mike's Diner.

I know most of the time these list are made up of nice round numbers like 5 and 10 but all I got is 8. So 8 it is. I'd be lying if I said I'd rather be in Boston, but I'd be frontin if I didn't say there are many people, feelings and sights that I truly miss.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Now Hear This.

On the first day of Delaware Sen. Joe Bidden's presidential campaign, he characterized his democratic running mate Barack Obama as:


"the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy."


Wow. '07 has been amazing for us so far ya'll! First the Super Bowl and then finally, after centuries and centuries of being dumb, dirty and ugly...
Our Savior: OBAMA!!!!

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

As far as the brothas go I'd be all set... if they weren't so damn fine.

There's something about brothas that makes this complex game of hide and seek worthwhile.

There's nothing like a brotha... I've been to the other side... I know.

Black men have a confidence and swagger that's simply irresistible. Mixed with a little cockiness and a fuck the world attitude that's inexplicably sexy.

Nobody fills a suit like a brotha, or looks as dope in a pair of jeans, tims and a hoody.

That slight limp, practiced from the time they're able to walk and perfected en route to manhood is imitated by many yet never duplicated... the bass in their voices is enough to start a chill from my big toe up to the tips of my locs.

A shiny bald head, a lion mane of locs, a low dark ceasar, a mean fro... shiiit, even a tapered up high top; midnight black, chocolate brown, or butta pecan; full lips and strong hands... our brothas are flavaful in every sense of the word.

He can be the silent introspective type only speaking to drop knowledge, the audacious funny dude, the entrepreneur always making moves, or the quiet nerd teaching and leading our future.... whatever they're doin, they look damn good doin it.

The streets are mean right now. Dates are obsolete, chivalry is dead, respect and decency are a rarity. The days of note passing (Do you like me? Circle yes, no, maybe) are over. Interactions tend to be overly sex charged. It's hard to meet someone who's actually interested in you and not the idea of you. Through it all, I hang in there... reassuring myself that God is just taking his time piecing my man together. Giving up on brothas is not an option, our destinies are interdependent. We were put here for each other. As long as he keeps searching for me, I'll keep searching for him.

Happy Black Love Day ya'll...