You Need to be at this Event! BEASTCRAWL 7/7/12

Trust me when I tell you this is the ONLY place to be at 8:00pm on Saturday July 7th if you love good soulful, spiritually uplifting, Baycentric, culturally relevant, dynamic, and downright beautiful poetry and prose.

Join host Roger Porter at "Hella Soulful" for Leg 3 of Beast Crawl. Trust and believe it will be the hippest literary trip in America. The Hella Soulful train is coming on July 7th so drop your worries on the floor and catch it! Whooot! Whoooot!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-DpRcxK_N8

The readers:

Safiya Martinez is a playwright, poet, performer and educator. She is currently working on a one-woman show entitled "So You Can Hear Me" about being a first-year teacher in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She has performed her self-produced works in New York City and the Bay area.

Mica Valdez is a native, mixedblood, two spirit artist working on indigenous global issues to effect social change and protect mother earth. Check out her anthology:http://machafemme.tumblr.com/

Maisha Z. Johnson lifts up silenced voices through her poetry and on her blog, Inkblot, where she writes about the relationship between writing and social change. She is earning an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University.

i.Ameni and his jazzynastyfunkyfolkyhopopindiesoul amalgamates his many flavors into a one-derful sound. Fierce and tender, pure hearted and soulful, he peers into the ugly and the beauty of this world and invites us to consciously create a new one together. Music that slaps, invites your creative intellect, and speaks to your heart all in one.

Nathan Jones is a poet, storyteller, novelist, journalist, a hip-hop enthusiast, and the author of several books, which includes: Revolutionary Erotica, a collection of poetry; the Novel, Black Man in Europe, and Excerpts from My Soul: Read Without Prejudice. Nathan holds an MFA in English and Creative Writing from Mills College, and is currently an English instructor at Skyline College. Jessica Dailey is a deep, chocolate, thoughtful, militant, cool ass, round the way girl that keeps them grounded. She graduated with her MFA in poetry from Mills College in 2009.

Strong Enough to be Vulnerable

There are few things in this world that I find to be more endearing than a vulnerable woman. Perhaps this is because I have been socialized to ignore all of my weaknesses; therefore I have grown to be easily enticed by a creature that is conditioned to embrace such feelings. I hear a lot of men speak of wanting a strong black woman and I know a lot of women who go out of their way to be viewed as such but I think that’s a problem.

Why can’t a black woman be a lady first? I have been through enough to be strong for both of us. I am drawn to women who are unafraid to be beautiful and who dare to be feminine in a culture where everyone wants to be a man. I suppose there should be some amount of shame associated with my wanting a woman who will cry the tears that I have unlearned how to let go. However, if my views are a little outdated then so be it. I’m a man who knows what he wants and I love a woman who knows what she is.

-YB

Her

Is there such a thing as respecting a woman too much? In my life I have known a few women who I have been afraid to touch. I have known women who I have placed way above sex. It wasn’t until I was very set in my manhood that I was able to accept the fact that sometimes conversation is enough. Sometimes a look can be enough, or a smile, or a walk, or a drop of her own perspiration beading up in the middle of her dark cleavage.  

It doesn’t happen very often but every now and again I can find contentment in restraint. Sometimes it feels good to be chosen and I cherish the fact that I know I can so I never do. I hope she understands.

-YB

Notes on the Gentrification of Oakland

 

It’s strange to me that it’s now considered cool to live in my hometown of Oakland, CA. When I was growing up it was just dangerous. There were very few young “hip” people who were brave enough to move into an area that was known as one of the most notorious ghettos in the state of California. Even the people who lived there didn’t want to live there. A small two-bedroom house on the Eastside of town was the last place my mother wanted to raise her three children but what else could she do? Housing discrimination was a lot more blatant in the late 1980’s. Meaning no realtor was going to show her a property in Napa or Piedmont.

So we ended up moving to a street that was relatively quiet however trouble was never far away. On every major thoroughfare around our home there was drug dealing and wanton violence. I was only allowed to ride my bike down half of our block. My sister and I often times watched TV on the floor because we heard gunshots outside and didn’t want to get hit by a stray bullet. I witnessed so many crimes against humanity just trying to get from the bus stop to my house that I’m still unable to completely process it. Somewhere along the way Oakland has both traumatized me and desensitized me but now all of a sudden it’s the place to be for young people who want to be involved in some kind of cultural adventure.

I guess my main issue with those hoards of upper-middle class bred white folks who have come to gentrify certain sections of my city is that everything I experienced in Oakland has been real—real death, real poverty, real loss—while what they want to experience seems very superficial. To live in a brand new town home that was erected in a space that used to be a housing project while telling your friends that you stay in the ghetto is tantamount to a person going on a Safari and saying that they braved the harsh jungles of Africa. I feel like some of these people are trying to capitalize off of my pain and it makes me nauseous. There is way too much dried blood on the streets of this town for people to act like it’s charming. I don’t think they’ll ever understand.

-YB

The Pear Tree

When we become slaves to codes that make no sense life becomes unbearable to the senses and a part of us dies. Why do our passions need to be controlled? Why do so many people try to be gods on earth? Beautiful things will always be just outside of the honest man’s grasp. I could have tasted that fruit but I left it on the tree. How foolish of me. Now I must sit down in the shade and wait for that pear to fall on my head. It will never happen. So would I be wrong if I prayed for the wind to blow? Or would I be immoral if I pushed and shoved on its trunk until all the pears fell to the ground? I’m not greedy. I only want one. I suppose it will ripen soon enough. Its nectar will taste unbelievably sweet.

Ellipsis

This is what forced writing sounds like. Sometimes my feelings are too deep to be reached from the surface. Sometimes I hide my emotions a little too well. I guess that makes me a better man than I thought I was. -YB

Caves

Silence comes to me when I run from my own voice because I don’t want to be bothered with myself. I go deep to find peace. I once saw on a documentary that the first underground explorers of caves in America were black slaves because their master’s would send them down out of curiosity. The white men wouldn’t dare go themselves so they would send their slaves. On one occasion a slave was gone for a day and a half and his master assumed that he was dead however the man came back with a map that he had drawn which traced the route that he had taken and everything that he had seen while underground. Apparently that map is still used today.

I wouldn’t ever want to stay overnight in a cave because I’m terrified of bats but I’m sure I would get over that if my only other alternative was to work on a plantation. I think about how peaceful that day and a half must have been for that man. I wonder what he dreamed about at night and whether or not he contemplated ever coming back to Earth’s surface. Maybe while down there he yearned for all of the things that he thought he hated. Maybe he had children or a sweetheart that needed to return to.

I was once so bothered by the voices of others that I changed my phone number only to become immediately depressed because no one called me. I then forwarded everyone my new number. Misery is almost always a self-inflicted wound. Everyone can find happiness if you search hard enough for it. So many men women and children were enslaved but perhaps they were freer than their descendants. For they had one another and all we do is run.

-YB

Notes jotted down on the Milbrae Train

I fear that I may be some kind of chauvinist or sexist because I always seek women for the sole purpose of escapism, which instantly overwhelms any potential lover with an expectation that she can never permanently live up to. So when she first raises her voice to me, or tells me about my inconsiderate ways, or reminds me that I am flawed—when things essentially “get real” then I run.

I just want to be high on a woman, I want to be enamored, I want to be enraptured, I want her to conceal me from the rest of the world should I ever break down and cry. I want to be ensconced by the idea of love but I never want to be reminded of the reality that she is a human being. And I don’t want to deal with the fact that love requires a lot of work. My heart is obdurate, my body is weary, and my soul is jaded.

Alas I do not wish to work. I want to retire at the end of each day. I want to lay my burden’s down. I want to bury my head in her bosom. I do not want her to say the wrong thing. I do not want her to tell me that I have said the wrong thing. I want to break down all of the beautiful potent lies, roll them with cigar paper, and smoke them until I hallucinate.

In my hallucinations I believe I am running forever in a race with no distance or finish line. I am winning and I am not getting tired. She stands on the sidewalk and gives me nectar to drink in a small paper cup as I pass. I drink it fast and throw the cup on the ground beneath my fast-moving feet. I run for her so she cheers for me. We share the glory of our first place position and we appreciate the roles that we play in one another’s lives to keep us here. We love the fame that comes along with success and we love each other. She understands that if I ever stop then we stop. The nectar tastes heavenly and we are forever victorious.

-YB

What does it mean to be a misogynist?

             What does it mean to be a misogynist? Is it possible for me to love my dick and love women at the same time or are those two things mutually exclusive? I get involved in a lot of fascinating discussions with radical women. In more than one of these discussions it was brought to my attention that when a man is concerned about how many other men his girlfriend has been with then that makes him some sort of misogynist. I don’t get it.

I try not to disagree at the very moment that I am told this because I don’t want to be labeled a misogynist, but when the conversation ends it rages on in my head. I’ve also been told that when a man makes a reference to his penis as an instrument of power then that makes him a misogynist too. I still don’t get it. I mean shouldn’t everyone love every part of their body? Shouldn’t everyone want to feel powerful? Shouldn’t everyone be concerned about the sexual history of his or her partner? Or if not concerned then at least slightly curious?

Sometimes radicalism really confuses me; which is problematic because I’m sure most people would consider my political views to be radical. I believe that black people in America and most other parts of the world are systematically oppressed. I am a black man and I believe that there is a very real conspiracy to keep me powerless in my native land. I have been the victim of racism countless times and I have dedicated my life to doing my part in ridding the world of injustice, but I am a man and I am proud to be a man, which means that I am more that likely a misogynist—I guess.

After all I do listen to gangster rap and at one point in my life Soul on Ice by Etheridge Cleaver was my favorite book. I watch football and go to the boxing gym as well so does that automatically mean that I hate women?

It’s hard for me to accept my role as the oppressor and the oppressed. I understand that to many black women I represent “The Man.” It’s very sad but it’s true. There are so many black women that have experienced trauma at the hands of black men that they develop a hatred toward us that rivals the misogyny that they have absorbed over the years. I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to be the sexist dude that says; “I can’t be a misogynist because some of my best friends are women. As a matter of fact I just slept with a woman last night?”  I want to be aware and in order to be aware I need to ask questions. So what does it truly mean to be a misogynist?

Is there anyone out there that has an answer?

-YB

Open House

I went to my daughter's open house last night with her mother and the little girl was so excited to have both of her parents in the same room at the same time. She showed off everything that she has done and we saw all the progress that she has made. One class assignment stood out to me. She was asked to write a sentence about her parents and she wrote; "My mommy takes care of me and my daddy shows me what to do." Apparently our roles are very clear to her. I don't know how to feel about her written response but a good part of me feels sad. She never asked to be born into a broken home. We both give her so much love but I wish we could give her unity. -YB

Very High and So Low

 

On Saturday night I felt like an artist but today I just feel broke. The ups and downs of chasing an ever-fleeting dream are very pronounced. I was so high a few days ago. I shared a piece of a story that I have been running away from for five years the other night. The story is fictional but the emotions that the protagonist experiences are completely autobiographical. I had a hard time approaching the stage. No matter how many times I rehearsed those few pages, I still sat in the crowd nervous as hell before I was welcomed to the microphone.

I didn’t invite any of my family or friends. I didn’t post anything on social media about the event. I wanted to do it alone. The story is about a man who is dealing with a tragedy but even more tragic for him is that he is asked to speak publicly about what he is dealing with.  He must express his emotions verbally and I was there in that café on Saturday night to do the exact same thing.

I was scared. I was the only black man in the room and that’s how I wanted it. I didn’t want anyone else in there that would be able to gage the magnitude of the situation. I wanted every comment afterwards to be a disconnected one. I didn’t want to be felt, I just wanted to be heard.

I got caught up in my reading. I got into character and played a little bit with vocal intonation and dramatic pause. I read the piece as if I was coming up with it on the spot. I felt like I was that character, in that place where he was, in front of the people that he knew, and I felt that way because I was. If an artist can catch the Holy Ghost then I did. I never got happy in church but I got happy on the stage in front of all those foreign faces. And when I was done they paid me heavily with applause. They paid me with praise. They asked me if I had a card. I do not but I will order some soon.

The performance of a writer is bizarre because all you can do is read to your audience. You can’t tap dance or sing in a falsetto. You can’t show the audience your photography or allow them to marvel at the aesthetic beauty of your painting. All you have are your words.

I shared my words and they listened. I got really high. I left and went one way while all those in attendance went another. That’s the way I like it. I was a real literary performer. I was a pure artists, an expert storyteller, a gifted individual, but now it’s Monday. The show is over. The curtains have closed and I am one of a hundred million other people forced to work at a punk-ass job that I hate just to keep the lights on.

I was so high and now I’m so low.

-YB

A Conversation Between a Black Girl and a White Girl at the University of California at Berkeley

WG- Hey, hey [waves frantically in the face of black girl who is speed walking across campus]. Don’t I have that literature course with you?

BG- Yeah Professor Nanda’s African-American literature course, how are you?

WG- I’m ok. Kind of swamped but I guess that’s normal right? Ha, ha, ha.

BG- [Fake smiles]

WG- So where ya headed?

BG- I’m heading home.

WG- Where do you stay? I never see you in the dorms.

BG- No I stay at home. I’m from Oakland.

WG-Oh my god girl shut up. I’m from Oakland too. I’ve lived in Montclair like my whole life. Where in Oakland are you from?

BG- I’m from the East.

WG- Oh ok. Where? I mean I hear that part of town is pretty big.

BG- I grew up on Parker. Kind of close to Eastmont Mall.

WG- Eastmont Mall ewe. Are you serious? You mean over there by Planned Parenthood?

BG- I don’t know what’s in the mall. I don’t hang out there [Irritated].

WG- Well yeah there’s like a Planned Parenthood inside off the mall [laughing].

BG- Really? How do you know that? [Stares into WG’s eyes].

WG- [Stops laughing. Turns red. Is ashamed].

BG- Sorry but I have to catch my bus. See you in class [continues speed walking to the bus stop].

YB

Clotheslines

I remember clotheslines. I remember when we had a washing machine but no dryer. We had a basket full of clothespins that used to sit by the back door. My grandmother used to have a clothesline too. I remember her pulling me down the street when I was a little boy. We were rushing back too her duplex so we could hurry and get the clothes off the line because it was beginning to sprinkle.

On sunny days everyone’s laundry would be hanging out to dry; the bed sheets, the bras, the jeans, and the T-shirts. There were very few secrets in the communities of my childhood and there was no such thing as poverty. Nothing felt better than wearing a crisp shirt straight off the line. Sun dried shirts smelled better too. I love to recall my beautiful past. Memories redolent with the sweetest kind of affection. I would have stayed in that place forever had I known.

YB

On Aging

 

My body is slowing down. I have to run for much longer than I used to just to stay in decent shape and I have to take a prolonged break from boxing because I believe I am developing tendonitis in my left elbow. I get tired earlier and every Saturday night instead of looking forward to partying I get excited thinking about who is going to be hosting SNL. My daughter is now old enough to tell me not to give her a goodbye kiss on the cheek in front of her friends at school and I really hate most contemporary music. I’m old as hell.

It’s wild because there was a period in my life where I couldn’t imagine myself being 30-years-old. I didn’t think that I was supposed to make it but  I most definitely did. A few years back I remember visiting my grandmother in the Bayview section of San Francisco. This was back when she was able to take care of herself.  She spoke to me about pain in her joints, traumatic memories, and forgetfulness. She told me; “You know what I sure ain’t what I used to be. I’m getting old but that’s ok because you know what; if I wasn’t old I’d be dead,” and then we both started laughing.

When I think about my grandmother I know I have no real right to complain.

-YB

Barbed Wire Fences

I build too many walls or maybe I should consider them to be barbed wire fences. People try to climb them but always get cut trying to hurl themselves over the top. I never liked the idea of people getting too close to me. I never liked the idea of getting too close to other people. I’ve never felt honored when a woman asked me to meet her family. I’ve never enjoyed hanging out with a woman and her female friends. I’ve always believed that the most beautiful thing in the world is a woman who can stand alone. After graduating from college even though I got excellent marks I distinctly remember feeling like a failure. I was upset with myself because I hadn’t found a wife. So I decided to get one. I began paying special attention to a woman who worked with me. She was about a year older than I was and by anyone’s account “had her life together.” She was educated, she was religious, she was from a good family, and she had great job prospects.  One day I randomly caught her by herself in town and decided to make myself plain to her on the spot.  I told her I thought she was beautiful and that I was getting too old to play games and that I thought she would make a perfect bride and more importantly I was a man that she would be able to depend on forever.

She blushed and then took a deep breath. When she responded she spoke of steps. Multiple steps. I would have to get in good with her family, I would have to be approved of by her best friend, I would have to befriend her pastor, I would have to attend her church, it would take a lot of time, and then it still wouldn’t be guaranteed. She would have to give it up to god. After she finished I shared my philosophy with her. I told her that I love the fact that she can stand alone. I asked her why couldn’t we just solidify our love first and let everything else fall into place later. The girl looked me in my eyes and said; “You know that’s what the devil does? He always wants to get people by themselves.” I walked away from that conversation without a clear understanding of what had just taken place and further away from getting a wife than I had ever been.

For a long time I was confused about what it takes to find a life-partner and now I’m just scared. I’m scared because I’m no longer confused. With each passing year I become more content with the thought that I may never get married. As more and more of my friends prepare to walk down the aisle I continue to erect a series of fences. Each one doing its part to protect my inner-solitude. They say that hell is burning somewhere behind a gate but then heaven has its gate as well. I don’t know which one of these places I am closest to and I’m not sure that I care.

-YB

My Favorite Gesture

I am not a perfect gentleman nor do I try to be one. Sometimes when I have dinner or drinks with a young lady I pay the tab and other times I don’t. I always pay for whatever I eat or drink but whether or not I treat her depends. There is a woman who I have chilled out with twice in the two years since I’ve known her. The first time we hung out I invited her to go see The Foreign Exchange with me at a venue called The New Parrish in Oakland, CA.

She came an hour late but I still bought her drinks. I wasn’t tripping too much because I got the tickets for free. I just met the young lady and I thought why not share a moment with her. It was a nice night but after the concert was over responsibility pulled us apart. The next time we hung out she randomly invited me to breakfast and ordered the most expensive omelet on the menu. I did not pay for her nor did I appreciate her asking me out and assuming that I would buy her food. I haven’t seen her since.

On another occasion I drove up to Sacramento for a weird mostly platonic, kind of first date-ish, ill-defined hook up at a bar with a woman who I had been texting and chatting with for quite some time. I had a little money in my pocket so I planned on paying the tab, but this chick drank a lot. I tried to ever so subtly close the tab after her third glass of wine but she ordered two more. I understood that it was happy hour but damn. Needless to say I refused to pay for her last two adult beverages. She took it well and we’re still cool but I haven’t seen her since.

What determines whether or not I’m going to be a gentleman is quite simple. It is a gesture that I have always loved. It is when the waiter or bartender places the check on the table and my female companion immediately reaches for her purse. I instantly say; “No, no, no. It’s cool. I got it.” And she says; “Are you sure?” And I reply with even more confidence and affection “Yeah. Yeah. Don’t trip.” This may seem like nothing at all but it is the sexiest thing a woman can do on a date, particularly a first date. It shows that her first instinct is to be independent but in her heart she doesn’t mind being treated like a lady. Every time a woman does this I can’t help but to be a gentleman.

-YB

Tweets in the media? Are you serious?

Is the American media so starved for another story about racism to jump start waning interest in the Trayvon Martin case that they’ve resorted to writing about racist tweets? On Wednesday Joel Ward, one of the few black Hockey players in the NHL, scored a game winning goal in game 7 to lift his Washington Capitals into the 2^nd round of the playoffs. Now I’m pretty far from considering myself an avid hockey fan but I know an impressive feat when I see one. He was the man of the night and he made an outstanding play but is that what people are focusing on? No, because journalists are too caught up in people using the “N” word on twitter. Are you serious? The best moment in Ward’s career is being marred by the rants of random people on social media, how absurd is that? It’s equally absurd that the creator and star of Awkward Black Girl Issa Rae felt compelled to speak out against the racist backlash on twitter in response to her wining The Shorty Award for best web series.  Why can’t both of these modern day pioneers just enjoy their respective moments? I mean do we really need to see offensive tweets smeared all over national media?

People are racist. People will always be racist. So why does a drunken college student with a twitter account and a smart phone get a chance to completely sabotage another person’s success. The same thing with people taking to twitter to hate on the fact that the film version of “The Hunger Games” apparently had too many black people—so what! Can national columnist, and syndicated news sites think of something else to write about besides the racist tweets of random people? Are they really trying to inform the people or are they trying to piss us off? Well if it’s the latter then mission accomplished. I’m hella ready to move on.

-YB    

The Uncertainty of Crepes

 

The worst thing about racism is when you’re not quite sure whether or not you’ve just experienced racism. When it creeps on you slowly and leaves you frustrated and paranoid.

I was supporting my homegirl who had a poetry reading in the Mission District of San Francisco last night. Her reading went very well as she tore through a 15 minute set reciting well-crafted poetry about blackness, queer identity, and family. When her set was over The Poet, her friend, and myself walked through the Mission on a Saturday night like hundreds of other artists. She was high from all of the adulation she received and I, being a man, was hungry. I had a sweet tooth to be more specific. I wanted a crepe hella bad and I knew just the place.

So we approach a trendy little restaurant on Valencia preparing to eat some of the best blueberry crepes with ice cream that San Francisco has to offer. But as soon as I walk inside the dude behind the counter says they’re closed. I look around and sure enough there didn’t appear to be anyone in the kitchen as if they were about to close but I also saw no less than 8 white people who appeared to be in their 50’s sitting down and enjoying their food.

“Ya’ll closed?” I asked incredulously.

“Closed,” The gentlemen said as he cleaned up.

“Aight, whatever.”

Of course when we got outside The Poet checked her smart phone and discovered that they were supposed to close at 11:00pm. At the moment it was 10:49. Perhaps sensing the tension heighten or knowing that I was just about ready to slap the hell out of dude and force him to make me a blueberry crepe, The Poet then added, but I don’t want to eat there now because they’ll probably spit in our food.

She had a valid point of course, however, I was still pissed and by this point it wasn’t even about my inability to consume ice cream. I was irritated because I had to think about the fact that if it would have been three well-to-do white folks who showed up at the door instead of a black guy, a black queer poet, and a white female anarchist he probably would have let them eat crepes for an hour. And, ironically enough, I was equally irritated because I will never know whether or not the former statement is true.

For all I know a small place like that could close the kitchen down 30 minutes early, or maybe the cook had some kind of emergency. Also I used to wait tables and I know how annoying it can be when people slip through the door at around closing time. We were never allowed to turn people away like dude did us last night but we definitely wanted to.

As much as Americans speak about racism it’s really rare that we delve into the psychological effects that it has on oppressed people in general and black folk in particular. I was so quick to assume that the guy was being racist (and there is a good chance that this was the case) that I allowed my anger to build before I could follow an effective protocol to get the right answers. Had I just remained calm and asked the right questions I would know for sure why I couldn’t have my crepes, but I didn’t. I stormed out of there with an attitude. He won.

Even though I ended up eating a breathtaking strawberry crepe (I was no longer in the mood for blueberries) in the Sunset District, he won. And even though I’m currently calling that gentleman’s motives into question in this blog entry, last night he won. He didn’t want us there for whatever reason and we all left. I couldn’t keep my emotions in check for long enough to properly challenge that man and so I lost. I hate losing just like I hate racism but I must confess that I hate uncertainty even more so.

-YB

The Blog Escape

I wake up early because I don’t really have anything to sleep for, and as I write this post I am becoming increasingly aware that as of lately I have been abusing my blog. Instead of me working on longer more substantial projects I blog. Instead of creating personal entries in my journal to assess how I am really feeling I blog. Instead of me sitting in that dark room with all of my pain and trauma I briskly walk through it and turn on the light before I leave—in other words I blog.  

I need to stop running and face all of the hurt. I need to remain in the room with it him until, at the very least, we come to an understanding. I’m thinking I may need to stop blogging for a while. I need to figure this out.

-YB

Moving Forward

3.26.12

When I hear a story about an African-American teenaged boy being shot to death by a self-appointed neighborhood watch captain I want to hear the voices of other young black boys who are protesting. I want to see them in podiums and at press conferences expressing their pain, rage, and disbelief at George Zimmerman not being arrested. I want to hear the voices of the young ladies who lost a classmate and a friend to senseless gun violence. I want to see the next generation who have chosen to wear hoodies in solidarity with their fallen peer representing on television. I do not want to see Al Sharpton in a suit. I don’t want to hear his voice either.

When I see Al Sharpton fly all over the country and subsequently water down every potential movement involving black people it makes me a bit nauseous. I would love to hear a kid from the projects of Miami with thick dreads and a southern accent talk about how Trayvon Martin’s death is affecting his everyday life but instead I get another typical Al Sharpton sermon. It reminds me of how an American can travel to Seattle, New York, Washington DC, and Atlanta only to eat the same Big Mac and Coke from McDonald’s for dinner. The rhetoric of the black liberation movement has become nationalized, highly profitable (Sharpton does not work for free), and completely harmless to the establishment.

The era of Al Sharpton (and Jesse Jackson for that matter) will have to come to an end in order for true progress to be made. It’s time to let the youth who are hurting so badly speak for themselves.

YB