Pain and more pain's the only change I know

A message to my son, it's times in my life
where I stood around to fight when it was better off to run
-Styles P, "Leave A Message"

the perils and promise of masculinity. what is it to truly man up? is it to stand your ground and hold shT down or know when, where, how, and why to pick your battles. it's a topic that has racked my brain for many years. some of my male role models spanned the full spectrum of masculinity, from full-blown gangsters involved in crazy shT to god-like father figures who served as the Mayors of their block*¹ to sensitive types and others who avoided confrontations seemingly at all costs. Styles "Message..." joint is ill in its simplicity. He's leaving you a message as he's asking you to leave one as well. It made me think of how that compared to the new TI and Jay-Z joint called, "Watch What You Say To Me." That whole being masculine and tough without having to really do much posturing debate.

It is an interesting discussion to engage in where the conversation can become so heated that is a microcosm of what is being discussed. we can become so engulfed in defending our own beliefs (turf) that we engage in behaviors that, while they may be face-saving, are also self-effacing and defeating in their naivety and short-sightedness. they say our arms are too short to box with God, so instead we spar with mortals in a fight for dominance and control. we are indirectly taught to grab our nuts, mean-mug, and posture when we want to assert our bravado. it is implied that we have to knuckle up at the slightest disrespect. and some have interpreted the shoot first, ask questions later mantra as akin to getting my shine before you get yours. there's much that could be said about the causes and solutions violence. there is a world or destruction and hate that permeates our daily lives. it's bigger than your block. than your city. your country.

for context, the editorial below was in today's Boston Globe and brought all of these thoughts to my brain.

A call for action on teen violence
By Isaura Mendes | July 6, 2007

I am a mother from the Cape Verdean community in Boston, and I have lost two sons to murder. My older son, Bobby, was stabbed in 1995. Last year, just before Mother's Day, my son Matthew was killed in a drive-by shooting just a few blocks from my home.

The three years after Bobby's death were terrible for me. I was depressed and stayed in my house all the time. Then in 1999 I got involved and became a peace activist. Over the years, I have gone to many funerals, helped hundreds of parents bury their children. It is always hard, but the last couple of weeks have been especially terrible.

Our city has seen so many tragedies, but the death of Liquarry Jefferson was worse than anyone could imagine. An innocent 8-year-old lost his life, an innocent 7-year-old was turned into an accidental killer, and a 15-year-old brother, who may have owned the gun, will have to live with this horror for the rest of his life. Our children are beautiful, but this sickness of violence in our community is destroying them.

I know that Boston Mayor Thomas Menino is angry when he calls for a "war on guns." I want to get rid of the guns, too. I know that the Rev. William E. Dickerson II, is trying to make a point when he calls this 8-year-old "a little warrior," but violent words will not bring us peace.

Our voices are powerful. Our words make a difference. The children listen to what we say and learn from our actions. We have to teach them that love is the answer. Even when they do wrong, we have to correct them with kindness and build them up. We have to keep telling them to stay in school. We have to make opportunities for them so they won't end up in the jails or in the grave.

Six weeks before my son Matthew was killed, he went to England to talk with the young people about peace. While he was there, he found his voice. He said to me, "I'm going back to Boston to speak up for what is right and I won't let anything stop me."

Matthew knew from personal experience how hard it is for the older teens in the neighborhoods. There are so many wonderful summer programs for younger children in Boston, but when they turn 18, they can no longer participate. If they have a CORI (criminal offender record information system) record, there are very few places they can go.

This year in the city of Boston, over 3,000 young people from poor families applied for summer jobs through ABCD, one of the few organizations that serves youth ages 18 to 21 who already have a criminal record. The lottery was held last week and there is only enough money to make jobs for 1,000 of them. That is not right and we have to do something about it.

This Sunday at the Bobby Mendes Peace Legacy 8th Annual Parents and Children's Walk for Peace, we will dedicate a special fund in Matthew's memory. The Matthew Mendes Courage Fund will create training and jobs for young people, especially those ages 18 to 21 who don't know which way to go and are already in trouble with the law.

Our goal is to help every child discover his or her purpose and voice. Our dream is that every young person in Boston who wants a job this summer will have one. This terrible tragedy of Liquarry's death must be a wake-up call for our city. We must all become role models for our children and learn to speak the language of peace. We must join together to take care of all our young people, especially those who are in trouble and in pain. If we can do this, then Liquarry will not have died in vain.

I lost two sons to murder, but I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to take action. Support a program in the community. Reach out to the young people in your neighborhood and let them know that you love them.

Everyone can do something. Everyone has a role to play. With God's help, we will bring peace to the city if we all do our part.

Isaura Mendes is a peace activist and founder of the Bobby Mendes Peace Legacy.

*1: I borrowed that one from K. Gotta give credit where it is due. Good looks.

monday morning briefing

The objective view from the mirror above
was closer to fiction than it appeared
in the media's immortalizd memories of martyrdom

We proudly shunned the cajoling overtures
of the jump-out boys on our award tour
from the south ward of this city of bricks
where they lay five down by and with the trey-

pounds and daps no longer resound like thunder claps
in these midnight blue steel skies
now its caps that got peeled from
former riverfront mill towns to chill town
where we simply stand sentry and catch a glimpse
of ground zero from afar

so our silence is our complicity
at first glance, the simplicity of block corner violence is in its pervasiveness
but after the double-take
it is evidenced by the self-defense mechanisms we use
to shut ourselves down
while we've wasted countless thousands of cuffed wrists
with an iplicit acceptance of this recidivist sense
of upheaval, dismay, and concession
where gin and juice go two for one like jolly ranchers
to suffice as our elixir
and mixed with the reoccurring agony of Watts riots
that pale in comparison to the collective mind-numbing
that decades of banging has brought forth

we used to play on courtyards lined with wood chips
and dotted with pride-colored equipment
but now next to the swings and slides
you can find paraphernalia of a different kind
and the tags that were once abstract poetic works of street artisans
are now illegible ghetto hieroglyphics
devoid of subtle beauty and meaning
backdropped against sand lots
where time passes like silent gas that sneaks up
and chokes the life you of your lungs
and the blocks we posted up on from thursday to sunday
become fodder for monday morning briefings
that come as no surprise
the mastheads may be different
but you can surmise that the headlines are all the same
from richmond to hialeah
dorchester to strawberry mansion
non-grown dark-hued boys had their souls sapped
and muted hymns and belated hallelujahs only served to
temporarily console the emotions of
already-empty-hearted youth
across the country
with no poise
no purpose
and no path to get where they need to be
so we crowd these church pews to mourn and pay homage to
loved ones long lost and simultaneoulsy seek solace in the
comfort of a safe haven
not those cold sidewalks of america's hoods
where they can avoid the same scenes
the same yellow tape
the flasing lights
of yet another barren block riddled with
barricaded windows
and hollow shell souls searching for meaning
searching for reason
as rainy seasons wash away our tears and
the spilled blood of yet another young black male that once dripped
on this very spot where we casually pour something out
and struggle just to get a grip

You know ain't nothing changed but my limp

Ten years from now we'll still be on top
Yo, I thought I told you that we won't stop
-Mase, Puffy, BIG, "Mo Money, Mo Problems"

Just stab me in the neck now. I had planned to write this nice little recollection of the last decade. But then reality tapped me on the chin.

I lie to you not. 10 years to the hour, son. Irony is a mutha.

So peep this. I graduated from high school on June 6th, 1997. It was a great day. A little overcast and a slight drizzle. I had the green hornet at the time and did my little bit of errands and was finally making my way up Spruill Avenue to get to Sterrett Hall in time for the ceremonies. So I'm approaching the Chicora neighborhood and wouldn't you know it; some blue lights start twinkling in the periphery. "Nah," I mumble to myself, "this bum cannot be sweating me." Sure enough, I got pulled over and issued a moving violation. The indiscretion? I didn't have my head lights on in the rain. Now, ain't that some bull?

Fast forward a decade. Different state. Different whip. Different hood. Same ole bull. Only this time, she said I should expect a citation in the mail. Maybe if it was a heinous violation, I wouldn't be so heated. Or maybe if some dude who probably roams Dudley Square on the regular didn't piss on the sidewalk about 2 minutes later after they walked off. I am so pissed right now it ain't even funny. Just straight up messed up my whole demeanor for the rest of the week.

So now, I'll have to save my ten year recap and add a day or two to it refocus my thoughts.

i'm maintaining without mantanning

"People pay for what they do, and still more for what they have allowed themselves to become. And they pay for it very simply; by the lives they lead."
-James A. Baldwin

Apparently, i have 1,928,877, 245 seconds to live beacuse I am scheduled to die on Thursday, July 19th, 2068. That is, of course, according to deathclock. But that sure does beat some of the previous estimates I once believed. It's a wonder what self-esteem can do for a kid. Believe it or not, there used to be a point in time where I didn't think I'd live to see my 21st birthday. It was a persistent fear that hovered over me constantly like the grim reaper with a Champion hoodie and a beeper kept checking up on me every other week. But I never felt as though I was ever destined for success. And I do not consider myself in any way successful right now. It's just a matter of comfort. Material possessions are a little easier to obtain nowadays. And I've never been a fan of paying to go out. But every few weeks or so, I stumble upon life's brick wall of humility and chip my tooth while trying to take a bite out of reality.

So this is just my way of putting some thoughts down once again to keep my mind stimulated, my hopes high, and my energy focused. I come across people of all walks of life on an almost daily basis that offer me a brief, small glimmer into their respective lives. But as a collective, they allow me to see the world through their eyes like the kaleidoscope of potential and promise that it should be. And the reflection is eternal because the mirrors through which i gaze help me to stay grounded as best I can and reinforce the need for me to live up to the promises that I've made and the potential and promise that I pledge not to waste. I've done my share of dumb sT in life. Some of which the world will never hear about. And I will probably do some more though not-as-dumb ish. So I write this as I continue to do what I can for those that can use my help; especally the youth of America and in particular the young black males like me who get typecasted as destined for failure when in fact they just need somebody to hold them down and help steer them in the right direction. Somebody did it for me and I think I turned out aiight. It's only right that I try to do the same. Only when I've done all that I can, can I truly rest in peace.