i'm what ghetto kids dream to be not clouded by greenery

Today marks the last day that the address 40 Leon Street in Boston will retain its physical relevance.

In less than twenty-fours hours, the brick walls and inner ironwork of the buidling wil be an emoty cavity of crushed cement and hollow ceilings that once provided respite from the realities of a hectic world that moved a bit too nervoulsy and sinuous for many.

So I dedicate this abbreviated eulogy to the John D. O'Bryant African-American Institute. A place that helped mold me into the man that I am today and will forever hold a dear place in my heart as a testament to the will of determined people passionate about their causes for the greater good. The grass may be greener on the other side, but let's have a few more hours to enjoy the here and now and relish in the beauty that is this physical structure, with a transparent Afro and black fist rising like a phoenix out of the dust that will settle in its place come tomorrow.

Between these walls resided an intangible sense of ownership that epitomized both struggle and progress. fear and optimisim. anxiety and optimism.

From african-american quiz bowls.
to hip-hop rap sessions.
to Red Room open mic nights.
We shared collective smiles, sighs, and setiments.

From Kwanaa celebrations.
to Baccalaureate ceremonies.
to do-ya-stomach-right potlucks.
We shared hearty laughs, tears, and hope.

Some came to chill.
Some came to relax.
Others came through to chillax.
A few of us studied.
A few of us surfed the web or played pool or got haircuts.
Some made new friends. Some grew apart from their homies.

Many grew up before their own eyes and self-corrected along the way.

There were plenty of meetings.
Plenty of parties.
Plenty of all-nighters.
Plenty of arguments and beef.
Plenty of idle time.
And plenty of growth.

Our very own 3-story HBCU at NEU.
No elevator. No wireless. No entry after 11pm.
Unless you still got your key.

Through it all.
We weathered the storm.
From sit-ins to sleep-ins to press conferences to car chases and street riots.
We held it down.
Because the Tute held us down
But it didn't hold us back.

So how do we eulogize an urban landmark with a spirit that exists beyond the realms of mere mortality?

By invoking the souls of those same images of Black pride, power, compassion, love, and determination that adorned the walls.

By blending the varied colors of the diaspora that dotted each floor into a rainbow of righteousness to remind you of your duty to represent.

By never forgetting the legacy of those upon whose shoulders you stand.
Those who sacrificed A averages for respect.
Those who put their values before their worth.
Their needs before their wants.

A brick facade that symbolized much more than just the Black experience at Northeastern.


So with restrained tears and determined resilience we look forward to the future.
Knowing full well it is no longer in vogue for a black cultural center to exists in its totality without simmering in the melting pot that is the diversity broth.
Yet acutely aware of the impact it has had on the collective propsctes of generations of young and old; poor and wealthy; apathetic and militant.

The Institute came to reflect the microcosm of the Black experience that is Boston and society as a whole.

Its importance shall never be forgotten.
Its significance shall never fade or temper.

Its legacy shall forever remain etched in permanent ink on the collective wrists of those who bared their souls for the forward progress of their peoples.

Say word.

(title from verse spit by Edo G on "Movement" collabo with The Foundation)