Last Tuesday, December 20th, marked the 12th anniversary of the shooting death of Louis D. Brown. His moms, Tina Chery, has since found solace by founding the Louis D. Brown Peace Institute, an organization devoted to comforting and counseling the surviving victims and families of violence and working to prevent such crimes as youth gun violence. Ms Chery, along with a (unfortunately) growing legion of other mothers who have had to bury their children provide me with comfort. I've only met her this year and I'm mad (at myself) that I had not met her sooner. It is a noble cause but very emotional and some shT just ain't right. These women, mothers, daughters, grandmothers, and the men too - put in countless hours and sleepless night comforting families wounded by the battle scars of urban realities. Without time for convoluted commentary of complexities of the street's lure and existence, their plight goes largely unnoticed. But these are our heroes. Eighteen days after Louis was killed, my sisters and I witnessed the murder of a 21-year-old on our block while we were on our way to Wendy's for dinner. Herbert Louis Frazier, Jr. was shot in the head by his former homeboy over some shT no one still doesn't know to this day. But it's shT like that make you hang your head in shame. I'm not even from Boston, but the concrete jungle can truly be as cold as ice, when on a crisp January morning, you could be walking to school and that night someone is laying on their back as a stream of blood trickles across the sidewalk you walk along every day eight doors down from your crib.
brothers just don't know
how shit got to go
cuz I was told
to never give my back to the street
as I walk through the ghetto
dead souls I greet
Some people have life moments that never leave their mental imagery. This is one of mine. I grew up decently. No big money spenders or earners, but we got by. Food coupons got quietly incorporated into the cash flow like half of the neighborhood, but some true, true street shT was never the goal for any of us. Not even the ones from the crime families or with cousins or odler brothers head and shoulders in the game. It - life - was supposed to be on some simple shT like that Ghostface joint. Some would go on to college , some would go on to a 2-year joint, some would be lead astray, but to just completely fall apart? That's not how it was supposed to go down, B. At the vigil on this past Wednesay, I heard form several people, including two fellas who recently lost their peoples to violence. One kid's cousin was merc'd on Thanksgiving and played a moving piano piece, although he claimed to never have touched a piano before in his life. The other cat was a fellow group member of the Graveside, the group of which three of last week's four shootign victimes we also members. His words were unscripted but eloquent nonetheless. You could feel the pain in his heart. The worry in his bassline. The body shock that shook his existence. It is ok for a grown man to cry. It is his right.
see my man give him pound
then I walk with a frown
another minute
another brother's gunned down
-quotes from Li'l Dap, "I'm The Man"
I look back and wonder what the hell possessed me to travel for hours to school all those years when all I really wanted was to get home early enough to enjoy the rest of the daytime like everyone else. But of course, like Nas said, "nighttime is more trife than ever." So this Christmas, I'll enjoy my hours of solitude away from the peoples (the fam) and reflect on all of life's intricacies that I have blessed to enjoy and bask in the glory that has allowed me to keep breathing. Some people look with bewildered amazement when brothers my age say they are excited to have made it past the age of twenty-one. And in my case, I know I am not an exception, because there a lot of us doing our thing out there, but the fact that there's so much more work still to do is a burden that we bear solely. For brothers that get caught up too early. For brothers who lose their way. For the ones led astray. For those who get the experience of waking up on the morning on their 21st birthday. It's a shame that this is even my subject, but it is life, and alas, it is what you make it. But like my man M-1 said, "my environment made me the n!Gga I am." When we pour out a little something out for soldiers dead and gone, it's not only for those who died for their sins. But for those caught up in the cross-fire. Caught up in the streets. Caught up in moving too fast instead of going with the flow and enjoying their youth. So on this holiday season, I'll try to shake loose the mental imagery of bodies that I've seen slumped lifelessly on city streets, sidewalks, and parking lots and pray for a better existence in 2006. It's a stone's throw, but somebody's gotta fling it, nahmean. Stay Up. Say Word.
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