What do you stand for?

2011-04-04T18:11:00.000-07:00

It has a fence to guard from vandals.
This is a graveyard where artists go to die, put themselves out to pasture.
Their scrawls are found on the walls of factories where life used to exist.

A sick joke for an art form that has always been the quintessential expression of forgotten youth who simply said: We’re still here.

And now that building is a graveyard.
It has high fences to protect its residents from vandals.
This is where graffiti artists go to die.

And all that remains of this final conquest are photos that no one will ever see.

Food for thought.

2009-07-17T09:06:00.000-07:00

If you ever make it out into the Brooklyn area, check out an amazing pub/fish 'n' chips joint called The Chipshop. They have two locations about 10 minutes apart from each other, one right off of the Brooklyn Bridge at 129 Atlantic Ave., the other in the Park Slope Area at 383 5th Ave.

Start off with the haddock and chips, indulge with one of the many delicious imported beers on tap, and finish off with a deep-fried Snickers bar. You won't regret it!

Check out their website for more information:

http://www.chipshopnyc.com/

No matter where I am, no matter what I do, I'm always coming back home to you.

2009-04-19T17:48:00.000-07:00

When the moment comes, take the last one from the left.

2009-02-22T14:55:00.000-08:00

You will be on the list of "The Excellent People" this year.

2009-02-01T18:25:00.000-08:00

We all live under the same sky, but we don't see the same light.

2009-01-02T14:37:00.000-08:00

18 Til I Die

2008-12-30T23:13:00.001-08:00

2008-08-25T10:16:00.000-07:00

Blindly she chooses her path with an understanding that everything happens for a reason, and every flip of a quarter reflects every second that ticks that mirrors every passing moment.

But someone dared her to give a fuck. Someone dared her to care, to share herself with the world and with that, she's gone. Disappeared into the atmosphere. If she is to share herself, Earth was the bottom of the pile so the only location was above the petty frustration.

But her actions are not reflective of her behavior. She's coming back...when she's good and ready. You see, under achieving is her forte, her modus operandi, how she rolls. And it upsets those around her off to no end because history shows that underachievers are given all the attention. Although that's not her intention, she can read aggression written across the foreheads of those same silent onlookers.

The silence in the room is deafening, enough to fill the Grand Canuon many times over. And taking the seat against the back wall makes looking over her shoulder difficult, almost impossible. But she does it anyway. Instincts take over when yo're asked to fight or flee. Lucky for everyone around she's a fighter...on her own time. Pick and choose your battles wisely.

This definitely is not a battle she needs to fight, she tells herself. She doesn't need it, she doesn't feel it.

"She said the game's got your heart, the streets have got her soul..."

And for some odd reason, the past and her brain are in this battle of 'tenant and landlord', because someone is late with the rent check and after being evicted, has yet to leave the premisis.

The thing with trying to hide the past, suppress history is that learning from it becomes that much harder. Resentment sets, and that pounding in her chest is amplified and before she knows it, she's on her feet running again. Just like when she was a child. Young and reckless but scared and careful.

There is no relief in sight. Words don't relieve, people don't believe, societal standards deceive, no one can take the heat. Just breathe in, hold, now exhale. It's all gone now, and she's alone. Back to the beginning because winning is overrated, and she's never one to finish too soon. Her only hope each morning? To live and see the moon. Then it starts all over again.

state of mind july one-o

2008-07-10T05:58:00.000-07:00

I learned how to recognize my triggers, idiosyncrasies I must control in order to remain the bigger person.

As a child, I dealt with being teased for my light skin, thrusting myself into a life of thick-skinned defensive remarks and fist fights in city parks. I got over it. I've come to terms with my triggers.

When it came to triggers, I was what most rappers claim to be on their records: fast, unforgiving, and unrelenting.

In my everyday life, I am happy to say that I have control of my triggers...

...for the most part. People ask me, "Jose, when you gonna be done with school? What's up with that degree? I thought you were smart?"

Oh shit (read: a trigger is about to be squeezed).

I draw my brain from its holster so fast John Wayne would be jealous, and inform the person asking me that I"ll be done with I'm good and ready to be done.

When am I going to be done? When the university I attend issues me the most expensive piece of paper an SANE person could ever justify purchasing. 128 course credits later I will still have a dream and more questions to ask. I'll be done with college when the education is worth getting because I can say I learned something and not because it's "the thing to do". I don't need loans that amount into the tens of thousands to occupy my time with hard-heads, dimwits and self-proclaimed geniuses.

The irony of this question is that I find it leaving the mouths of people who:
A. never went to college or,
B. have a degree but live lives that they are unhappy and unsettled in.

As Americans, we have a love affair with statistics. You're either one or the other, and we have to know which one we fall in.

Statistics on rising violence? We need to see change. Homelessness on the rise? We need to see change. Upset with the inflating gas price? We need to see change. Are you willing to change your life? Man, you MUST be deranged...

I know someone who works in an iron mill and has a degree from a prestigious university. The university system has done a great job at selling false hopes and dreams. They oerce you into debt and cut you at your knees.

So when am I gonna be done?
Obviously when I get my degree.
But I could give a fuck about 'making dollars' when it is 'making change' I want to see.

Dislike

2008-05-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

I don't like poetry all that much.

It seems like everyone has something simple to say but exaggerates their experiences for expressionistic gain. Talking about summertime loves come and gone are like seasons that change and I can't make sense of it all.

I'm stuck wondering to and for what we are called.

They tell me, “Jose, poetry is what you make of it. It's one of the few avenues of free speech that we have left and you're criticizing it?”

Yes.

I criticize for the exact same reason people talk of world peace, revolution, change: because I can. Maybe I'll spark change within this instrument of inspiration by following one of the steps to writing a political poem minus the politics.

What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for?

And repeat this question over and over until it causes someone's cellphone to ring only to discover that the person on the other end had dialed a wrong number.

As a writer, what am I called for? Purpose. It's a concept that we all walk with in life, hand in hand, sometimes never recognizing it. The stories we weave with our spindle of words and expressions are great but, what are we called for at the end of the day?

Nothing has changed. I still don't like poetry. But the appreciation I have for those involved is immense. So I hope we can change and make sense of this mess.

Man of principles

2008-03-19T17:43:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in every person's life where things start to make a little more sense to live by. You know, fighting the injustices of this world makes a little more sense than just talking about how messed up the world is. I have decided that this life may bless me with the opportunity to have children, and if I am to be a great father, then I definitely need to be a man of principle. Beyond claiming to be one, I need to do so in action. I need to live it.

So FUCK NIKE AND THEIR SWEATSHOP WAYS. I work with high school kids, and not that they didn't have a legitimate point, but what's the difference between a Nike sweatshop and an adidas sweatshop? My answer was the size (I needed to say something, y'all!) of the sweatshop and how long it has been in operation with said company. I understand that there are battles worth fighting for, and sometimes the battles we take up against one enemy only benefit other enemies we may encounter in the future. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. I am a preserver of excellence and a fighter of the good fight.

Let's keep it real.

Peace and Bless.

Looks can be deceiving

2008-01-19T20:32:00.001-08:00

Looks can be deceiving, and all that you see is a stereotype through the light skin, good English, and different persona.

"Ay, miralo. pinche gringo."

And God forbid my English is almost flawless, speaking with an enunciation that leaves even Caucasians dumbfounded. No more, "Ay, where yous going?" or "For reals!" or "I burly got here 10 minutes ago." Oh no, not me. I fit your stereotype perfectly. So much that in the states of Illinois and Indiana latinos gave me my own store!
"...en el supermercado el guero!"

I'm in love with stares of silent judgment and the Spanish or English comments spoken under one's breath. And yet for the first time in my life, the one thing I've fought so hard I found myself wishing for: to be treated the same, like all the rest.

I just couldn't see it...was I blind? I mean, I just couldn't see nor understand why people wouldn't consider it a blessing to be colorBLIND. I got this checklist, listed characteristics by which I think I could be identified; I got the dark-haired bald head, I've got the brown/hazel eyes, and yeah my skin is light...but the question is why?

I bet the answer lies in the fact that we so often identify each other by the letters on our chest, or the marked symbols on our feet, and even the ladies marked right across your jogging pants ass cheeks!!!

And there were days I found myself hoping a teacher or professor wouldn't ask me if I was mixed. Damn. Could they see I was raised on $1 elotes and 50cent raspas? Hand-me-down clothes and sneakers and my uncle’s old chanclas? Couldn’t they feel the paisa in me, waiting to burst out???
"...y volver volver...!VOLVER!"

But mariachi music never made me darker or tough. Not even Dickies, a dego-tee and a collared shirt with only the top button up along with fat-laced Nike Cortez or Converse Chucks and hanging on the corner selling dimes for a buck or getting and giving ass-whoopins' and escaping the cops by luck...BUT the life that the movie "Blood In, Blood Out" was glorifying, I realized on second thought, really fucking sucked!

So why is my skin light? Mi abuela dijo que si le preguntas a Dios, allí hay una respuesta. Pero he esperado veintiún años y todavía nada regresa. God obviously has a sense of humor because physically flawless women are attracted to the guy who's personality is "cuter" and mean people spread rumors at inopportune times and yet amongst it all I say the same line over and over...Why is my skin light? Am I the first one it's taken over?

Or maybe...I'm just boring and egotistical whose concern with my light skin I've blown up when in reality the issue is quite miniscule and my goal in this was to send a message and I know my approach might be too aggressive and I'm tired of words, always looking for ways to create...and that's great, but trying to be a poet has caused me to lose my directive...which is finding an answer to the question:
WHY THE HELL IS MY SKIN SO DAMN LIGHT?!?!?!

You know, it almost brainwashed me, my skin. At the age of 4, while living in LA, I proclaimed there was no way in HELL I could be Mexican! God's sense of humor back at work again. But through the years I was shown my people's history through the revolutions of Villa, Guevara, Zapata y Chavez. And I was taught to love through the words of Ramon Ayala, Pedro Infante, y Vicente Fernandez. Celia fed me "Azucar!" and taught my feet to move, but those close to me know I still got a lot to learn, show, and prove. Tito never said a word yet always put me in the groove and Santana set the mood right when you wanted to chill and not move.

The light skin is a culture, a way of life, an imprint on the people who live by it, who live with it; who just LIVE it. And you can't blame Ferdinand or Isabella, or Columbus for the light skin. Hell, look at me! I think I came out pretty damn okay...maybe a little better than okay, but okay for the most part. And if history teaches us anything it is that when we choose not to learn from her, we are doomed to repeat her. So the next time you see someone with light skin, brown skin, rich skin, poor-down-and-out skin, treat them the way you would tu madre, tu padre, tus primos, tias y tios. Por que el color de nuestra piel hace nuestro juicio. Si aprendemos de la historia, vemos que nosotros no somos, y nunca fuimos una minoría. We popularized lowriders, nurturing one of the most dominant cultures in the states, worshipping our women as queens even if the only way we show it is by calling you "Vieja!" or calling you drunk and proclaiming our love for you, or when you ask us if we love you, we answer with, “Hey, where am I going?! You drove, didn’t you? Where am I going?!”...well, you understand what I mean...

In the end, I guess I may have not found an answer as to why my skin is light that is truly concrete, but I do have a greater appreciation for what lies underneath...and as for that age-old taboo about wearing white before Labor Day, or after Labor Day, well, fuck it...

...I wear white all year round...

The "roots"

2008-01-19T20:30:00.000-08:00

They are the “basic cause, source, or origin or something”…or…”the essential substance or nature of something”. Roots. The one thing that we trace back to some country or ethnicity but never fully understand that OUR roots go beyond the bark, fallen leaves, and a family tree’s extended branches. When I wasn’t dark enough to be “brown and proud” like the poser cholos in my neighborhood and my mother’s hugs and kisses were no longer enough help, it felt like I had accepted society turning me white.

It was then that I no longer cared about the tree in our family…I cut that bitch down, and began to dig for the roots. My roots. Years into digging I realized that these roots intersected with interesting areas of life like society, the educational system, hip-hop, the city of Chicago, and my family and faith. These are my roots. It wasn’t just looking at Columbus or Cortés, Ferdinand and Isabella, or even Moctezuma or Itzamná. They went deeper. So I began to feel for these roots…touch them…hold them in my hands and allow the pulse that rang through them to tell me their story…

I called my mother this morning to tell her that I loved her, and to give a friendly reminder that the biggest pain in her ass was doing everything in his power to make her proud; to prove his worth. She raised me to say “I love you” when the sun rose and when the sun set because she taught me that all we were given was the moment in which we existed, so make the most of it. Single mother raising three kids, putting in overtime so we could do more than just live, sent us to Catholic school and church every Sunday to reinforce the teachings of God, but how was I supposed to believe that good was everywhere when life on the Southside of Chicago was so damn hard? Faith and family go hand-in-hand where I’m from…and slowly I began to comprehend that it never mattered if you praised the name of Jesus or Allah in the end. My mother raised me on love unconditional and with characteristics and qualities to be a man.

School could have been easy for me but it goes without saying that I was a “gifted student who chose NOT to live up to his full potential”. It was hard to concentrate on algebraic formulas, history projects, English material. There’s a good chance that I became a class clown simply because it meant I was left alone. If I was lucky, it meant respect from the people who surrounded but not those who mattered. That was until those who mattered gave me a Renaissance Man Award...and I didn’t understand the significance of being compared to great people like Leonardo da Vinci until I realized I was being recognized for having more than one talent. A dreamer who wasn’t afraid to dream the big dream finally had the backing of teachers and friends…a truly great support team.

As a kid, I had an itch for the “make music with your mouth” biz. Chicago gave me Common Sense, but you could easily catch Tupac and B.I.G. in my cassette player. At 14 I had no real understanding of hip-hop as a worldwide culture. I never recognized breakdancing making me a B-Boy, or graffiti making me a Writer, or penning rhymes making me an Emcee. Without any awareness, these “hobbies” were connecting me to more people than I had ever imagined, and at the same time breaking down segregation walls that separated so many people who were meant to form another kind of “family”. Yes, family. Because just as faith, society, neighborhoods and ethnicities have history and roots, hip-hop had a hand in shaping the man that stands before you. You see, life is not meant to be easy because living is a constant test. The struggle with sleeping and waking a new day, not knowing if you’ll have to suffer, so most would rather stay in bed.

“Grow older, grow in wisom, grow to love people of any color, grow to feel safe in having faith, grow to question, grow to smile, grow to care for others, see the world, grow in the moment here, be scared to grow but never show anyone your fear, you’ll grow to be more rich in life and your touch on the world will grow deeper.” These are words that, at one time my friend who is now dead, once said. So I find my roots and wealth in the events that take place in my life between every sunrise and every sunset.

Random bits of writing discovered when the cleaning bug set in.

2008-01-19T19:43:00.000-08:00

Keep in mind, these are in no way connected. They are separate thoughts that were written on the same night sitting in Mocha Cafe in Milwaukee.

1. She bit her tongue and upon the point of pain realized why talking and chewing don't go together; making no sense brings more than physical pain of the oral region. I guess now she needs no reason to chew with her mouth open...she's smarter that way...just keep eating quietly.

2. Regret pays the mortgage here, and no plans to rent out to anyone...you can't struggle with money when you're in the business of emotions, and controlling them leaves Regret gratified and leaves us empty.

3. Seldom seen without solace in accompaniment, a person is hit with enlightenment and realizes that leaders are killed, not created. And followers are persuaded, not taught. So continues the battle of one person fighting him or herself for righteousness within.

Patience

2008-01-13T06:56:00.000-08:00

The last thing I want to do is wait for something that I know goddamn well isn't coming to me.

It just isn't all that appealing to me. And trying to convince me otherwise with that age-old say, "Patience is a virtue", sorry but that just won't fly today. Or ever, so save your precious energy and breath for something else...like staying alive. Or save it for someone else.

You see I do not even like punctuation I think we should do away with periods commas semicolons exclamation AND question marks I do not see their purpose when sentences have somewhere to get like people do there is no sense in putting a speed bumb in the way of drivers on the fast track of life so grab a tissue and wipe your tears because I am burying punctuation in the same grace as my patience

...wait, what am I saying? Every day I wait for that same letter to come in the mail that's going to change my life. Everyday I check my email hoping for a job response from sending out all those resumes. Every day that finds me walking or skating I hope to find a $20 bill in the street. Every day I am hoping that you meet me. Every day, for 21 years...7,665 days...183,690 hours...11,037,600 minutes...662,256,000 seconds!

I waited. Shit, now THAT is patience.

Mandela waited ten unrightfully imprisoned years for the freedom he and his people deserved. "The Unknown Rebel of Tiananmen" forced mountains to halt at his disregard for injustice. Jesus is still waiting for us to follow Spike Lee's advice and, "Do The Right Thing".

Hope, I am often told, is a beautiful thing.

And I'll pay for hope so that I can enjoy patience now. Just make sure I get that super-large package of patience...you know, the kind they sell at sam's club. Waiting for someone like you might take a lifetime...or maybe a few drinks but hey, I'm stocked up on patience. Just let me know when you're done pulling the strings of my hope.

Because patience is a virtue, and hope ain't free. And I'll wait another 21 years for you to meet me.

Damn....

2007-06-25T20:42:00.000-07:00

...that Bowersock wedding was off the meat rack!!!

I think one of my first posts was about the bachelor party, but the wedding here definitely took the cake (no pun intended).

What is everyone's deal?

2007-06-17T17:00:00.000-07:00

Tattoos are pretty damn cool. Yes, it's obvious that my statement would warrant some kind of convincing explanation, but look at it from a simplistic point-of-view. It is on your body for the rest of your life, yes.

For women, DO NOT get a butterfly, or some kind of tribal symbol on your lower back. You DO NOT belong to a tribe, and butterflies are not that cute on a summer day.

Men, avoid Chinese typography and likewise on the tribal bands across your skinny or too buff biceps. You don't read or write in ancient Chinese nor do you belong to the barbwire clan. Get real.

It really comes down to something that just "gets" you. Something that speaks to you. Fashion is something that "gets" you. Your job is something that "gets" you. Tattoos are something that "get" you. Don't get caught up in the fact that the tattoo will be on your body FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. If you're a religious person, the idea of committing any sin obviously never phased people out of an eternity in hell as a price for a short life in paradise on earth. Fuck. Just live your life.

And get a tattoo. I got ideas. Get at me. Here's my new baby, waiting for her partner (that will come later this week).

Just like Gandhi...

2007-06-12T20:47:00.000-07:00

...I really have the urge to just punch people right now.

But it's just an urge. No telling that I will act out on it. Gandhi said he was a pacifist, but anyone living on one grain of rice a day was bound to get urked and just lash out once in a while...

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

2007-05-31T07:47:00.001-07:00

Why is it that I fall in love with every woman who shows me the slightest amount of attention? If all she does is look in my general direction, how is it that I'm hooked? And the situation we're in is of no matter whatsoever. She could pass me by while walking down the street, mixing up and serving drink concoctions at the bar, dancing and accidentally bumping into each for a sudden meet and greet, or hoping on the same train and sitting polar opposites, glancing at each other from our ends of the car.

It's momentary, sure, but tremendously mysterious. No names exchanged, just challenges through extended glances. It's a silent game of Truth or Dare and even though honesty is the best policy, I am never on to back down from a challenge.

Or maybe she isni't challenging me at all...

It's possible that she exists simply as a reminder of what I have yet to become, and the things I have yet to overcome. She isn't some concept I hope brings my life to complete. We're all just fucked up people looking for peace of mind. But I wonder what thoughts occupy her mind as our lines of vision cross, connect, and pause; what is she thinking?

While I may not be able to predict, I can already see us on the first date. Yes, we'll do the walking-down-the-street-talking-and-sharing-coffee thing. We'll do the-debate-over-hip-hop's-greatest-emcees-and-producers thing. We'll do the drink-wine-and-take-in-some-theatre thing. And when it's all said and done, I'll walk her to her door and just like in the movies, I'll request to see her again. And in that moment, that moment where we're both on cloud 9, we begin to near each other for that fairytale kiss....

...she says hello, and I snap back in surprise to remember where I am. It's 11:16 in the morning, and I've had TOO much coffee that the effects are backwards. I return her pleasant gesture as I rub and lower my forehead, hiding my eyes behind the brim of my baseball hat. She watches as I gather my things and I am the one to initiate the farewell.

Her face has the expression of disappointment, and the nodding of confusion about it all is something I've come to be all too familiar with from the opposite sex. A sacrifice I'm willing to make in hopes that tomorrow I'll wake up and finally do more than what I have today.

Where did yesterday go???

Instead of studying for finals, this is what I'm doing...

2007-05-10T13:03:00.000-07:00

When did we become a "sometimes" people?

About damn time

2007-05-08T08:42:00.000-07:00

I've received my vindication that I referred to a few posts earlier. It's about damn time it happened...

And on that note, I've got a few haikus that popped up from a notebook. Must have been some shit I wrote during class.

1.
You look up and laugh,
But the real joke
is written all on your face.

2.
She may have left me
but our last trip to the Gap
proves who wears the pants.

I might have to write some more, join a haiku death-match of some sort. BUT the important thing here is my vindication. It's great.

Allow me, madam...

2007-05-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

Chilvary ain't dead. I'm tired of women trying to ride this high-horse of equality where a guy can go out of his way to hold the door because his mother beat it into his psyche that this was the polite thing to do. That goes for pulling out chairs, footing the bill when invited out, etc.

All this bullshit about, "I can open my own door!" or "I can get my own chair!" FUCK! Obviously you can do all these things because I can see that your arms and legs are not broken. And doing these things will not get me any play from you because if they did, I'd have had more play than Wilt Chamberlain, Larry Flint, and Hugh Hefner combined. If you're not up on your history, allow me to simplify: a whole fucking lot.

So ladies, let a guy hold the door, pull out your chair, buy you a cup of coffee because he thinks you're cool, and if he invites you to dinner let him take the bill. Just make sure your ass goes dutch on that shit next time!

Thoughts on words

2007-05-06T12:27:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about words that have a ring to them. Words that , when said, immediately spurn thoughts in your head. Whether it be a song, a book read, a movie seen, a conversation had, a picture glanced at, a situation execrated. I've been thinking about words and their application to everday life, how simple and easily they can put into perspective the events of each day. Two words in specific that I think say more in what they reveal than in their actual weight are "irony" and "vindication".

I have tried dealing with a life situation that has been ironic, but has also seen me hoping for vindication.

I looked up the word "irony", and came up with this: a state of affairs or event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and can be amusing as a result. The word "vindication" supplies this definition: clear (someone) of blame or suspicion.

What seems to be something very simple can tend to be a bit more complicated. And this whole train of thought was spurned by someone who has basically pained me for the past 2 weeks through a third party. The shameful part of it all? I almost forgot who I was. I almost allowed the entire situation to take me out of my zone, my norm, and for that to have happened is really out of my character. I'm pretty set in my ways, but there are things as I age that may possibly change for the better.

I guess this world never ceases to amaze me, and I should've remembered that from the get go. But hell, this has been an entertaining thing to write about. Let me know what words you think about.

Disappointment

2007-05-01T22:11:00.000-07:00

For those that follow the spoken word movement also probably watch Def Poetry Jam. And for those that do, you probably recognize the name Poetri. I have great respect for this poet because his prose-style of storytelling on many off-the-wall topics opened my eyes to a different style of writing and performing.

The reason for today's blog? I just saw him in an Arby's commercial where in which he made a bet, lost, and was forced to wear a bumblebee suit while some C-grade actors laughed at him.

That's some sorry shit.

Poetri, stick to writing brother. Leave Arby's alone.

2007-04-26T21:50:00.000-07:00

Richard Dzik.

R.I.P.

A true reminder that life is too short to bitch about the little things. Live, and forget the bullshit. You're forver in my heart, brother.

Aaron and Amber's Bachelor/Bachelorette Party

2007-04-23T06:52:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday was very official. Dinner and dancing blew my mind away. All the alcohol that was consumed and all the dancing that took place, then there was all that craziness in between that should decided you'd like to know about...then just give me a holler.

But big ups to Aaron and Amber. I wish them the best this June as they get married and then venture out to China to teach kids.

Beautiful.

realness

2007-04-20T19:38:00.000-07:00

I love Saul Williams...let me get that out right now. Half the time, dude gets on a hype when he does his spoken word and starts saying things I never knew existed in the English language. This is an open letter he wrote to Harpo (Oprah, for those that ain't up on modern pop culture and society) where he addresses some things she's said on her show after whole Don "nappy-headed-gringo" Imus got fired.

Take a read. Enjoy.

Dear Ms. Winfrey,
It is with the greatest respect and adoration of your loving spirit that I write you. As a young child, I would sit beside my mother everyday and watch your program. As a young adult, with children of my own, I spend much less time in front of the television, but I am ever thankful for the positive effect that you continue to have on our nation, history and culture. The example that you have set as someone unafraid to answer their calling, even when the reality of that calling insists that one self-actualize beyond the point of any given example, is humbling, and serves as the cornerstone of the greatest faith. You, love, are a pioneer.

I am a poet.

Growing up in Newburgh, NY, with a father as a minister and a mother as a school teacher, at a time when we fought for our heroes to be nationally recognized, I certainly was exposed to the great names and voices of our past. I took great pride in competing in my churches Black History Quiz Bowl and the countless events my mother organized in hopes of fostering a generation of youth well versed in the greatness as well as the horrors of our history. Yet, even in a household where I had the privilege of personally interacting with some of the most outspoken and courageous luminaries of our times, I must admit that the voices that resonated the most within me and made me want to speak up were those of my peers, and these peers were emcees. Rappers.

Yes, Ms. Winfrey, I am what my generation would call "a Hip Hop head." Hip Hop has served as one of the greatest aspects of my self-definition. Lucky for me, I grew up in the 80's when groups like Public Enemy, Rakim, The jungle Brothers, Queen Latifah, and many more realized the power of their voices within the artform and chose to create music aimed at the upliftment of our generation.
As a student at Morehouse College where I studied Philosophy and Drama I was forced to venture across the street to Spelman College for all of my Drama classes, since Morehouse had no theater department of its own. I had few complaints. The performing arts scholarship awarded me by Michael Jackson had promised me a practically free ride to my dream school, which now had opened the doors to another campus that could make even the most focused of young boys dreamy, Spelman. One of my first theater professors, Pearle Cleage, shook me from my adolescent dream state. It was the year that Dr. Dre's "The Chronic" was released and our introduction to Snoop Dogg as he sang catchy hooks like "Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks..." Although, it was a playwriting class, what seemed to take precedence was Ms. Cleages political ideology, which had recently been pressed and bound in her 1st book, Mad at Miles. As, you know, in this book she spoke of how she could not listen to the music of Miles Davis and his muted trumpet without hearing the muted screams of the women that he was outspoken about "man-handling". It was my first exposure to the idea of an artist being held accountable for their actions outside of their art. It was the first time I had ever heard the word, "misogyny". And as Ms. Cleage would walk into the classroom fuming over the women she would pass on campus, blasting those Snoop lyrics from their cars and jeeps, we, her students, would be privy to many freestyle rants and raves on the dangers of nodding our heads to a music that could serve as our own demise.

Her words, coupled with the words of the young women I found myself interacting with forever changed how I listened to Hip Hop and quite frankly ruined what would have been a number of good songs for me. I had now been burdened with a level of awareness that made it impossible for me to enjoy what the growing masses were ushering into the mainstream. I was now becoming what many Hip Hop heads would call "a Backpacker", a person who chooses to associate themselves with the more "conscious" or politically astute artists of the Hip Hop community. What we termed as "conscious" Hip Hop became our preference for dance and booming systems. Groups like X-Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Brand Nubian, Arrested Development, Gangstarr and others became the prevailing music of our circle. We also enjoyed the more playful Hip Hop of De La Soul, Heiroglyphics, Das FX, Organized Konfusion. Digable Planets, The Fugees, and more. We had more than enough positivity to fixate on. Hip Hop was diverse.

I had not yet begun writing poetry. Most of my friends hardly knew that I had been an emcee in high school. I no longer cared to identify myself as an emcee and my love of oratory seemed misplaced at Morehouse where most orators were actually preachers in training, speaking with the Southern drawl of Dr. King although they were 19 and from the North. I spent my time doing countless plays and school performances. I was in line to become what I thought would be the next Robeson, Sidney, Ossie, Denzel, Snipes... It wasn't until I was in graduate school for acting at NYU that I was invited to a poetry reading in Manhattan where I heard Asha Bandele, Sapphire, Carl Hancock Rux, Reggie Gaines, Jessica Care Moore, and many others read poems that sometimes felt like monologues that my newly acquired journal started taking the form of a young poets'. Yet, I still noticed that I was a bit different from these poets who listed names like: Audrey Lourde, June Jordan, Sekou Sundiata etc, when asked why they began to write poetry. I knew that I had been inspired to write because of emcees like Rakim, Chuck D, LL, Run DMC... Hip Hop had informed my love of poetry as much or even more than my theater background which had exposed me to Shakespeare, Baraka, Fugard, Genet, Hansberry and countless others. In those days, just a mere decade ago, I started writing to fill the void between what I was hearing and what I wished I was hearing. It was not enough for me to critique the voices I heard blasting through the walls of my Brooklyn brownstone. I needed to create examples of where Hip Hop, particularly its lyricism, could go. I ventured to poetry readings with my friends and neighbors, Dante Smith (now Mos Def), Talib Kweli, Eryka Badu, Jessica Care Moore, Mums the Schemer, Beau Sia, Suheir Hammad...all poets that frequented the open mics and poetry slams that we commonly saw as "the other direction" when Hip hop reached that fork in the road as you discussed on your show this past week. On your show you asked the question, "Are all rappers poets?" Nice. I wanted to take the opportunity to answer this question for you.

The genius, as far as the marketability, of Hip Hop is in its competitiveness. Its roots are as much in the dignified aspects of our oral tradition as it is in the tradition of "the dozens" or "signifying". In Hip Hop, every emcee is automatically pitted against every other emcee, sort of like characters with super powers in comic books. No one wants to listen to a rapper unless they claim to be the best or the greatest. This sort of braggadocio leads to all sorts of tirades, showdowns, battles, and sometimes even deaths. In all cases, confidence is the ruling card. Because of the competitive stance that all emcees are prone to take, they, like soldiers begin to believe that they can show no sign of vulnerability. Thus, the most popular emcees of our age are often those that claim to be heartless or show no feelings or signs of emotion. The poet, on the other hand, is the one who realizes that their vulnerability is their power. Like you, unafraid to shed tears on countless shows, the poet finds strength in exposing their humanity, their vulnerability, thus making it possible for us to find connection and strength through their work. Many emcees have been poets. But, no, Ms. Winfrey, not all emcees are poets. Many choose gangsterism and business over the emotional terrain through which true artistry will lead. But they are not to blame. I would now like to address your question of leadership.

You may recall that in immediate response to the attacks of September 11th, our president took the national stage to say to the American public and the world that we would "...show no sign of vulnerability". Here is the same word that distinguishes poets from rappers, but in its history, more accurately, women from men. To make such a statement is to align oneself with the ideology that instills in us a sense of vulnerability meaning "weakness". And these meanings all take their place under the heading of what we consciously or subconsciously characterize as traits of the feminine. The weapon of mass destruction is the one that asserts that a holy trinity would be a father, a male child, and a ghost when common sense tells us that the holiest of trinities would be a mother, a father, and a child: Family. The vulnerability that we see as weakness is the saving grace of the drunken driver who because of their drunken/vulnerable state survives the fatal accident that kills the passengers in the approaching vehicle who tighten their grip and show no physical vulnerability in the face of their fear. Vulnerability is also the saving grace of the skate boarder who attempts a trick and remembers to stay loose and not tense during their fall. Likewise, vulnerability has been the saving grace of the African American struggle as we have been whipped, jailed, spat upon, called names, and killed, yet continue to strive forward mostly non-violently towards our highest goals. But today we are at a crossroads, because the institutions that have sold us the crosses we wear around our necks are the most overt in the denigration of women and thus humanity. That is why I write you today, Ms. Winfrey. We cannot address the root of what plagues Hip Hop without addressing the root of what plagues today's society and the world.

You see, Ms. Winfrey, at it's worse; Hip Hop is simply a reflection of the society that birthed it. Our love affair with gangsterism and the denigration of women is not rooted in Hip Hop; rather it is rooted in the very core of our personal faith and religions. The gangsters that rule Hip Hop are the same gangsters that rule our nation. 50 Cent and George Bush have the same birthday (July 6th). For a Hip Hop artist to say "I do what I wanna do/Don't care if I get caught/The DA could play this mothaf@kin tape in court/I'll kill you/ I ain't playin'" epitomizes the confidence and braggadocio we expect an admire from a rapper who claims to represent the lowest denominator. When a world leader with the spirit of a cowboy (the true original gangster of the West: raping, stealing land, and pillaging, as we clapped and cheered.) takes the position of doing what he wants to do, regardless of whether the UN or American public would take him to court, then we have witnessed true gangsterism and violent negligence. Yet, there is nothing more negligent than attempting to address a problem one finds on a branch by censoring the leaves.

Name calling, racist generalizations, sexist perceptions, are all rooted in something much deeper than an uncensored music. Like the rest of the world, I watched footage on AOL of you dancing mindlessly to 50 Cent on your fiftieth birthday as he proclaimed, "I got the ex/if you're into taking drugs/ I'm into having sex/ I ain't into making love" and you looked like you were having a great time. No judgment. I like that song too. Just as I do, James Brown's Sex Machine or Grand Master Flashes "White Lines". Sex, drugs, and rock and roll is how the story goes. Censorship will never solve our problems. It will only foster the sub-cultures of the underground, which inevitably inhabit the mainstream. There is nothing more mainstream than the denigration of women as projected through religious doctrine. Please understand, I am by no means opposing the teachings of Jesus, by example (he wasn't Christian), but rather the men that have used his teachings to control and manipulate the masses. Hip Hop, like Rock and Roll, like the media, and the government, all reflect an idea of power that labels vulnerability as weakness. I can only imagine the non-emotive hardness that you have had to show in order to secure your empire from the grips of those that once stood in your way: the old guard. You reflect our changing times. As time progresses we sometimes outgrow what may have served us along the way. This time, what we have outgrown, is not hip hop, rather it is the festering remnants of a God depicted as an angry and jealous male, by men who were angry and jealous over the minute role that they played in the everyday story of creation. I am sure that you have covered ideas such as these on your show, but we must make a connection before our disconnect proves fatal.

We are a nation at war. What we fail to see is that we are fighting ourselves. There is no true hatred of women in Hip Hop. At the root of our nature we inherently worship the feminine. Our overall attention to the nurturing guidance of our mothers and grandmothers as well as our ideas of what is sexy and beautiful all support this. But when the idea of the feminine is taken out of the idea of what is divine or sacred then that worship becomes objectification. When our governed morality asserts that a woman is either a virgin or a whore, then our understanding of sexuality becomes warped. Note the dangling platinum crosses over the bare asses being smacked in the videos. The emcees of my generation are the ministers of my father's generation. They too had a warped perspective of the feminine. Censoring songs, sermons, or the tirades of radio personalities will change nothing except the format of our discussion. If we are to sincerely address the change we are praying for then we must first address to whom we are praying.

Thank you, Ms. Winfrey, for your forum, your heart, and your vision. May you find the strength and support to bring about the changes you wish to see in ways that do more than perpetuate the myth of enmity.

In loving kindness,

Saul Williams