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I too have an Obama T-Shirt

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I too have a Obama T-shirt
& a dog tag with his determined image
Not to mention the special edition Oakland Tribune photograph with his wide smile – grinning

I Love the swagger
The way he loves Michelle &
The kids
And
I even looked up the word pragmatist
To insure I knew what They meant

But
Just because
My brother is from multiple
Neighborhoods
with grassroots flavor
I can’t let him skate because of swag
And charm

National & Foreign Policy
Is far-reaching and will
Impact my son as well as
Their daughters
I can’t afford to be blinded by bullshit verbiage & neither can you

All of us t-shirt wearing fans
Must be vigilant in knowing
He truly is not capable of walking
On water and Oprah is not mother/nature
Anointing and appointing this young face
Of tomorrow’s history books to the highest
Mountains and monuments

Be certain
Astronomical numbers of
Broke brothers standing on urban
Corners may not be the only folks
Strugglin’ to get by
But, their number one in all
Directions but UP
For Now

Now, we know
What we know.
We can make it
To the big house
What we must understand now
Is how to make opportunities
Knock more than once

…at home in the neighborhood

Blog

The Circle

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Since living in Cali I have been in more damn circles than I can shake that proverbial stick at.
Circles with Native Americans (I was the only one in that circle who was a descendant of slaves, I was honored to be invited.) Circles on a mountain in Southern Cal with teens that didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Circles with Black fathers that cared for and loved their children enough to come to Stonehurst Elementary school at 8:30 in the morning to talk about their babies. Circles with women in Medford, Oregon that worked in the potato fields who needed health care. Circles of pregnant women 24 years ago bonding over birth and labor. I have sat in more circles than I care to remember, but this circle was unexpected.
Job seekers, new skill builders, the over forty crew redefining themselves for a workplace that doesn’t exist any more, and a paycheck that has been long gone. In a circle we sat (me cross-legged on the floor, thinking not another circle) that happened to be all very grown women, all of colour. What was our common denominator? (Besides unemployment) “We’re just tryin’ to make somethin’ out of nothin” one circle member stated. But, a few minutes into the conversation our strongest bond appeared to be that we all seem to stand solidly in the Spirit of mustard seed faith, with many life journey’s full of stories.
2011 ain’t for punks nor sissies. It’s knowing to whom you belong and being determined to be one of the last ones standing blossoming into a brand new you, defined by you.
One woman in the circle began to tell her story, slowly, deliberately, with a tremble in her voice. One 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of white paper telling how one should respond in a job interview “triggered” a flashback to her corporate days. This obviously was not a good memory, in her face she relived a moment that had ugly written all over it. I think all of us wanted to take that walk backwards into that memory with her, and slap the devil out of whoever that demon was that caused this beautiful woman to weep.
The circle became respectfully silent. We held our thoughts, our own ugly moments in our minds eye, remembering work day pains that lay dormant under the surface waiting to be exposed. As if it were a spring rain in Michigan, soft kind words began to drizzle out of the mouths of the other women folks, telling their stories, their truth. I slid closer to the weeping one to give her comfort, while our teacher passed her the box of kleenex (Kleenex boxes are to circles what peanut butter and jelly is to sandwiches) the only Latina in the group lifted her eyes looking directly at the wounded worker and gave her authentic voice to these troubling times. The feminine harmony of “I know that’s right,” and “Girrrrl, you ain’t said nothin’ but a word” with a little of, “Lord have mercy” tossed in created an environment of safety, personal reflection and the knowledge for one that she was not and is not…alone.
As women often do, we found laughter moving its way up from our bellies into the atmosphere. Yes, we did exactly what Stella did – we let the air out. Relieved that we could take madness and make merry for a moment. What else could we do?
Me, I left the circle that evening headed for the gym remembering the perversity of my last days on a job I despised. Redefining oneself may be exhausting, but I know I would rather be doing this than being a square peg in a round hole.

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The Weight of the Holy Ghost

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This Sunday on BET the Celebration of Gospel Music hosted by Steve Harvey was in full swing, it may have been a rerun (as BET has been known to do) but that was cool ‘ cause I surely needed Jesus this morning .
The classic singers were rocking love to JC of Nazareth , Cee Cee and Bee Bee Winans, Rev. Shirley Ceasar (talk about aging gracefully) my girl Yolanda Adams (what vocal pipes) and a cadre of many others shouting praise to the Most High.
It felt good to be cooking in my little kitchen, dicing and chopping to make sloppy joes and feeling like I’m back at Central Fellowship Baptist Church in Detroit with the “right Reverand” William K Kirksey as pastor (my grandpapa) and hearing old school and new school gospel. My grandmama might have cringed at some of the outfits and the praise dancing but hey, she would have appreciated the intent.
As I chopped and swayed to the music and the memories there was something that kept catching my eye. The weight of two thirds of the choir and the premier gospel singers. Morbidly obese these God praising brothers and sisters looked like a diabetes test getting ready to happen. Just in case anyone thought differently, obesity does not place you at the right hand of God. Why can we not give God the glory at a weight that gives us longevity and the ability to live a healthy life style for ourselves and our families.
One particular choir with voices like angels, collectively I’m sure exceeded over fifteen hundred pounds or more. They shouted, danced and gave both the home audience and the studio audience all of their talent and joy. I wondered though, how many will be diagnosed with diabetes, heart disease, hypertension or become a victim of a massive stroke within the year.
In the last few months I have become a serious “gym rat.” Imani Community Church of Oakland has a full operating gym in their fellowship hall. For the price of 15.00 a month you can work out five days a week with a 70 year old (ex military ) trainer name Elvis. The man is “Buff” with a capital B.
Determined to come off insulin and make a lie out of my doctor (who said that would never happen, it has) Elvis, the man I call “Coach” has tortured my body into a visible difference, while making me laugh during the process. The Imani Community Church gym is a place of support, face-to-face social networking, mature folks on a mission of physical change, and a place that exudes peace. You would think I was a member of the church.
A 40 minute stretch routine is done to contemporary gospel music in the main room, while the weight room with the grown men folks (and a small group of women) has the mellow music of KBLX’s quiet storm. The day I was accepted into the weight room and encouraged by the men who saw my determination and consistency, I knew I had arrived. It wasn’t and isn’t easy.
Watching every morsel of food that comes into my mouth, consciously having to by pass the “sweet” aisles in the grocery store and say “No thank you.” to treats that I would gladly suck out of the hands of those offering, I know the consequences of these actions. Don’t get me wrong, every now and then I succumb to eating a Reese’s peanut butter cup, and savor every bite. But I know if I eat more than the two cup package and graduate into the King size or the COSTCO box, I will be going to hell in a handbasket in a size 2x dress. Not to mention finding myself injecting insulin into me once again. I can’t go backwards.
The church folks gym has become my refuge while I am challenged by job searches, redefining myself professionally, holding on with a vice like grip to my being an artist. (While not allowing anyone to minimalize what that means to me and for me.) I also have the tough job that so many Black single mothers have with children still at home who are over the age of 21. That’s to encourage them, to know when and where to stick in your maternal two cents, and to try with everything holy to keep them out of the criminal justice system. And when necessary, explain that during difficult times God has surely not forsaken them, but at the very least is testing their courage and stamina. When I slug that punching bag in the church gym, I’m beatin’ the devil out of adversity and having fun doing it.
BET whether black owned or not, has an audience of many of us black folks. I believe the channel has a moral obligation to address the issue of morbid obesity in the black community beyond a Michelle Obama thirty second public service announcement. Where is the documentary on why Black churches are ignoring the obvious health issues facing its congregations and communities? If we can praise our brother Jesus, and give him the glory for all things good, can we not pray for guidance through the process of achieving a good mind, healthy body and joyous spirit?
For the eleventh year anniversary of the Celebration of Gospel Music, I pray the testimonies will be how God led folk away from the fast food drive thru’s, away from the stuffed pork chops, and away from putting a half a box of Morton salt on food before tasting it.
Now, let us all bow our heads and say; “Pass the veggies”, Amen.

Blog

Detour

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FacesThe AC Transit No. 1 bus never comes down 78th Ave. Why? Because it’s a residential street with speed bumps and cars parked on both sides of a narrow street.  There’s absolutely no reason for the Number 1 to roll down 78th Ave.    Except for murder.

I know I shouldn’t have gone outside.  But, I was sitting on my couch on the third floor of this big old Victorian watching mindless television (after an exceptional workout at the gym) when the Number 1 slowly took the first speed bump, right outside below my window. Outside my window where I usually watch the sun set on the Oakland hills, far from me in the flatlands. I was compelled (and overly curious) to see why this aberration was taking place.

As I went down the stairs, opened the big door, went down the other stairs, and through the goldenrod colored gates, I saw a flow of traffic going right or left on 78th Ave. from International Blvd. Not a good sign.

As I inched towards the corner I knew my son would have a “Mama what were you doing going out there?!” fit. (We’ve changed roles, he’s now my new daddy) And you know what? I wouldn’t have had a good answer. Except, this is my block, my city, my neighborhood and I should know what the hell is going on without fear. But, I was afraid, even before I turned the corner and saw OPD. One short block away in front of Gazzali’s grocery store where I buy my oranges on the cheap, and talk to Carmella about computers and her kids while she checks me out with my oranges, the police presence was thick.

I was too afraid to walk down to the store to see if Carmella and the kids were alright. Well, the store should have been closed, so they should be alright. Some neighbor I am. I stand in the dark watching the police cars flashing their lights, seeing traffic detour left to right, two teens walking pass texting as if it’s just another day in the neighborhood, and a small dark soul across the street sitting on the curb (head down). I stood alone momentarily, then returned to climb the stairs to my humble dwelling wondering where my son/daddy is as the darkness is engulfing 78th Ave.

I return to my couch again looking out the window at the Oakland hills, now with soft twinkling lights against the blueblack sky.

 My phone gives the ringtone of my son, I answer; “Hey Mama, where you at, somethin happened on 79th…”

Blog

WE GOT TO LEAVE THEM BEHIND !?!

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Misc.Will we politically, and culturally truly have to leave behind the academically deficient, the International Blvd walking dead, the mentally handicapped, the addicted, the bored, the broken, the broke, the back curved old women, the limping old men with 8th grade education’s, the english as a second language ice cream man, the liquor store owner with war wounds, the “God told me to…” crew, the hip hoppin bullet dodgin’ too old to Rap, and my game is gettin grey bunch of bro men, Jose who got kids, woman and three jobs (scared to vote, can’t vote), my young boy cousin son’s with fear in mind & heart of premature death, the baby Girl’s with girls&little boys that call them young females – “Mama” – with feared repercussions of “Shut the fuck up! the Sunday christians with the – I got the holy ghost shouts sitting in church all day – but ain’t smiled at the other christians sitting on the bus stop Monday morning folks, the Oh Lord, if they don’t hurry up and get their little asses back in school (& church) and learn something (quick) thinking people, the over forty who still ain’t got nobody that sees them nor loves them nor hears them nor holds them

Therefore, their bitter – tribe

Are these the folks we leave behind in this world and let them be…on their own…without the rest of us…without direction…without purpose…trippin…lost…drowning in inhumanity… without compassion…only Crusted over Emotions that bleed (“Let me the Fuck out of this Soul without Windows life.”)

Those are the folks that we’re talking about? Those are the ones we’re leaving behind? Them folks? Wow.

Approriate pause.

Well damn, some of those folks are my neighbors. I paint them.

Plus, some of ’em are lucid enough to vote for Obama. One more time.

Yes, they can.

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Miss Anna Mae

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Miss Anna MaeThursday, June 30th Miss Anna Mae Turner turned 90 years old. Miss Anna Mae is my Mama. Family and friends came from home (Detroit), from the south (Atlanta), and parts of Cali., just to give her birthday wishes.

I would like to say the old lady and I were always on the same wave-length, but that would be a lie. Like most daughters I was trying not to be my Mama. When has trying to be your Mama ever served any daughter well? We all want to bust out of our Mama’s mold. Being the last of four children and the last of the daughters, I was the original thorn in her side, and she in mine. And that was simply how we rolled. Until now.

I see Anna Mae in a whole new light. Not just being my Mama, or Daddy’s wife, but a woman who was always ahead of her time. Like me she loves her some black folks. “Right, wrong or indifferent” as my Daddy use to say, she loves us.

Anna Mae introduced me to the Harlem Renaissance, James Baldwin, the blues, and  black politics. She has always been a black panther when it comes to her children. She whupped a woman in the projects cause she wouldn’t turn down the music when my sister was taking her nap. Wow.

My political knowledge, my revolutionary behavior, my shit talkin’, my love for gardening, my cooking skills whether I like it or not, are a direct result of Miss Anna Mae. The difference between us is I acted my stuff out in public (I still do) and she kept hers in private behind closed doors among family and friends. Even now she tempers her politics for the many Caucasians she finds herself living among in her later years in life.

Thursday, my buddy Frankye Kelly sung for my Mama at her birthday party. After the cake was cut, and we had sung the birthday song, Mama turned to Frankye and said; “Would ya take us out on the ‘A Train’?” Frankye jerked her head back, asked the piano player to give it to her in C, and began to blow. Then, Miss Anna Mae busted a move, and I joined her. We danced. The white folks couldn’t believe Miss Anna Mae whose in bible study every friday afternoon, could get down like that. What a party. But like I told a friend, she was really dancing with my Daddy. You can’t tell me Wilbur wasn’t watching his woman dance. Damn, the old girl still got it.

I guess I am my mother’s daughter.

Black Folks, Blog

I paint black folks

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Brotha Man
Brotha Man

Many, many years ago three revolutionary, afro wearing teenaged girls sat on my parents porch in Detroit and spoke of when the revolution would come. My friend Karen said; “We might have to leave some black folks behind.” I was mortified at the thought that every black somebody could not be brought to the light, and benefit from the changes to the new America we young fresh black folks would create. We were no longer Negroes, we could now do anything.  At the sweet ages of 15 and 16 we intensely mulled over all the possibilities.

Fast forward to 2011,  residing in Oakland, Ca sitting on my back porch hearing the regularity of sirens whooshing by, I long for a new cultural revolution among both the young and old of black folks. I long for respect from the young to the old. And, from the old to the young. I long for us to hear each other and recognize our power.

I yearn for the eye contact and the smiled salutations of the day. Greetings that state, “I feel you, I see you.”  That old-time feeling of belonging to each other, because we want to. Not seeking validation from others because, we know who we are, and to whom we belong.

I paint black folks. I love painting my folks, and telling stories in the facial expressions of those that  have raced by me on the street or on the bus. And I especially enjoy waking up to these images in the morning, when the bird sounds have decided to be my alarm. In the morning hour without television or radio I examine these faces of multi-colors that look back at me and question their existence. Other than to comfort me,and stroke my ego, why have you come through me? Why do you haunt me until you have evolved to canvass, demanding to be recognized? Then again, do I really need answers? Just enjoy what is I tell myself.

Perhaps, this new “black is beautiful” revolution comes only from my brush, to the canvass, to…who knows where.   Maybe, I am just longing for life before integration.

Black Holidays, Blog

Juneteenth on June 27, 2011

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Juneteenth is the oldest known celebration commemorating the ending of slavery in the United States. Today in Berkeley the sun came out for Black folks and all our cousins acknowledging the old slavery and our ancestors. Yet, quietly understanding that the new slavery in a heartbeat can create an Oscar Grant moment.

My eyes on the masses we came out in bright colors, rocked great music, and exhibited brilliant art. There were no political voices on the mike. The silence was deafening. No street corner political voices telling us to keep our eyes on the 2012 Obama prize. No news on what direction we should be taking as the descendants of slaves. But, we nodded to the beat of African drums, and threw down on the Bar-b-q, while the Nation of Islam sold bean pies. I ain’t mad at us, just concerned.

Sunshine on both side the streets, we be cool. Perhaps, I’m over thinking the day – Not.