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if-you-fan-a-fire · 1 year

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"ACCUSED CONVICT ENTERS GUILTY PLEA ON LAWYER'S ADVICE," Toronto Globe. June 16, 1933. Page 3. ---- Judgment Reserved in Burling Case - Perry Faces Trial --- GUARDS GIVE EVIDENCE --- (Canadian Press Despatch.) Kingston, June 15 - As the curtain fell on the second day of the dramatic hearing of evidence, anticlimax to the convict riots which shook Portsmouth Penitentiary in October of last year, Hugh Burling had pleaded guilty to charges of unlawful assembly; John Evans, youthful negro convict. had been given a day to prepare his case after arguing nice legal points with presiding Judge Evan McLean; and evidence in the case of Convict Perry was still being heard.

After more than a day and a haif of questioning by Crown Prosecutor Colonel Keiller MacKay, Burling, curly-haired, 22-year-old prisoner, pleaded guilty, on advice of counsel, to participating in an unlawful assembly, a lesser charge than the original one of riding. Judge McLean expressed satisfaction at the course the convict had taken. "You are just a boy." he told him, "and I am sure there is something ahead in life for you yet. Actually the courts would like to let all of you fellows out if we could; but we can't because of the way you have behaved." As Burling bowed in acknowledgment and slumped from the witness stand, his place was taken by the 25-year-old negro, John Evans, who proceeded at once to argue the legality of his appearance for trial before being given an opportunity to interview witness and prepare his case.

Argues His Case. Evans is serving a 25-year term for assault and robbery, but he argued his legal points as if he were spending his term studying for law.

When asked to plead he informed the Court that he had not been given time to prepare his case. Judge McLean gave Evans till tomorrow, and the husky negro, holding a voluminous copy of the evidence given at a preliminary trial in his hand, stamped out of the courtroom to complete his case.

Convict Ivan Perry entered a plea of not guilty when he was arraigned in the prison and had been reported for only minor offenses.

First witness called, W. L. Walsh, instructor in the charge room, told the Court that Perry was very well behaved during the time he had been in the prison and had only been reported for minor offences.

W. W. Boucher, prison guard, the next to give testimony, swore that he had seen Perry helping to wheel large trucks of stone to barricade the doors of the shop dome. He told the Court that he considered Perry was very active in the riot.

Relating the experiences of the day of the rioting, Boucher said that, on one occasion a hammer was hurled at a guard which would have knocked his brains out had he not dodged.

Convict Testifles. Convict John Rooney stated that he was active in barricading the doors of the dome. He stated that the only time he saw Perry the latter was trying to lift a heavy rock off a truck. Witness said he went to accused's assistance and found that the rock was on another convict's hand. After helping Perry he did not see him again.

Cross-examined by Colonel MacKay. Rooney admitted that he had a "record as long as your arm." MacKay declined to question witness any further.

The Grand Jury reported that true bills had been found against the following convicts: Leo Halsal, Albert Dorland. PaulDemerse. George Litlcoff, Willard Milliich, George Peters, John Toth, Alexander Manson, Tim Buck, Alexander Teetzel, Harold Cosh and Ernest Snell. A true bill on the secondcount only was returned against Convict Jacob Miller. No true bills were found in the cases of Convicts Joseph Malcovitch and Ray Boven.

Beaten by Others, Says Witness. Questioned by Mr. Cartwright, Henderson said that Convict Marshall hadbeen beaten by the other convicts because he had refused to take part in the riot.

"I suppose any convict would have been accorded the same treatment if he hadn't joined the others?" "Yes, I think so."

Convict Perry, on his own behalf, stated that the reason he had joined the rioters was because he was afraid he would be killed if he didn't. The accused stoutly denied having assisted in lifting bankers to barricade the doors. He admitted that he had helped keep one banker from falling off the car. Perry, a fine, clean-cut young fellow, 23 years of age, gave his evidence in straightforward manner.

"Why did you join the others? Why did you leave your shop?" asked Colonel MacKay."

Just out of curiosity. I did not go out to join the mob, but to watch the mob."

"Did you have permission to leave your shop?"

"No: but on the way out I stopped and spoke to Guard Walsh, and he said nothing about staying behind, so I went on. If he had said anything I would not have left the shop."

Going to His Cell. "But you went further than merely outside your shop. You went down into the dome, didn't you?"

"Yes; but I was going to my cell."

"Did you ask any guard to take you to your cell?"

"No."

"You left the dome and went back to the shops with the other men?"

"Yes, when shots were fired I went back, and didn't stand on the order of my going."Did you go back to your own shop?"

"No, I went into the blacksmith shop."

"Why didn't you go to your own shop?"

"Because I felt I was safer where I was." "Wouldn't you have been safer under the protection of your own guards?" "No: they were no protection then. The convicts were in command." Perry admitted that he went into the mail-bag department later. He said he was standing with the guards when they received the order "to get up in front and get the lead." He did not go up with them. Perry Hearing Evidence. In the Perry hearing Guard W. Kenney testified the reason he did nothing to prevent the convicts from taking part in the riot was because the men were armed with hammers and crowbars, and he knew any effort on his part to restrain the men would be met with violence.

"What were your feelings?" asked Colonel MacKay.

"I was alarmed."

"Why were you alarmed?"

"Because I felt my life was in dager."

Guard W. L. Walsh, in charge of the change-room, stated that Convict Ivan Perry, who was working under him, had stopped working and joined the other convicts when the outbreak had occurred. Walsh stated that Perry had left without his permission.

"Why didn't you stop him from leaving?" asked Colonel MacKay.

"It would have been suicide. I was afraid of my life."

"How do you know a convict?" asked H. L. Cartwright, counsel for the defense. "By name and number." Numbers Attached. At Judge McLean's request Convict Perry showed how numbers were attached to the uniform. Perry stated that his number was on everything he wore.

"Was Perry well behaved?" asked Mr. Cartwright.

"He wasn't too bad. I think I have reported him for minor infractions on two occasions," said Walsh.

Counsel exhibited a file which revealed that Walsh had reported Perry four times for offenses such as leaving work to smoke and for insolence.

"Did you see Perry do any damage?"

"No. I did not."

"All you have against the accused is that he left your shop without permission?"

"That's all."

#kingston ontario #kingston penitentiary #prison riot #riotous assembly #prisoner testimony #words from the inside #prison guards #1933 prisoner trials #1932 kp riot #great depression in canada #crime and punishment in canada #history of crime and punishment in canada #black canadians

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writingwithcolor · 3 years

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Black woman saves and houses abused white woman and child

@dykecalianna asked:

Greetings! I follow this blog whenever I can and I recently came out with something in my story that I wanted to inquire about:

There’s a white woman in her late 30s, let’s call her “Vicky”, who (along with her daughter) is a victim of domestic abuse, and another character, a Black woman, “Cherry”, is made aware of this after a change encounter the two have at a café. She helps Vicky flee from her husband and lets her stay in her home - later, the two fall in love and get together.

I’m very aware of the White Saviour trope, and do my best to stay away from it. This is nothing like it, but does this fall under some sort of negative stereotype for Black women, like “saving the fragile white woman”? I should note that Cherry and Vicky are the exact same age, only Cherry is single and living alone. She is described by many as being very cute, and she is also secretly a well-renowned writer (she uses an alias when writing, so she kind of feels like a super heroine, which then ties with her storyline about Vicky). Also, I think it’s pretty clear, but the abusive husband is also white like Vicky.

I think it’s touching that Cherry saves this woman and her child from this abusive situation. I would like to discuss some areas that may help you explore if there’s a mammy / strong black woman / sacrificial negro dynamic here.

The chance encounter

Did Cherry (Black woman) meet Vicky (white woman) for the first time and instantly decide to get involved? I feel that it’s a bit sacrificial for Cherry to place herself in the middle of what could be a potentially deadly situation, as domestic abuse too often leads to, for a perfect stranger.

This level of involvement would not align with how much one might put on the line for someone they do not know at all. Cherry is now at risk of retaliation from Vicky’s abuser if he finds them, or Vicky allows him back into their lives and lets them know where her home is / they make up and he learns about Cherry’s involvement etc.

Their relationship prior to Cherry helping Vicky

The risk might feel worth it for someone you know, but it’s a lot to ask of a stranger. In the case of a “chance encounter becomes savior” situation, she also doesn’t know anything about Vicky and is letting a perfect stranger into her home. Of course, everyone is different and based on her personality and experiences may be willing to assume these risks. The child being involved might also influence that. Cherry might be one of those people, but it’s worth acknowledging as a big undertaking in the narrative. Her actions should not be brushed aside as nothing or just “her duty”. Too often servitude is just assigned as natural for Black women. Their own lives take a back seat and to take care of other people / ensure their well being comes first.

Suggestion: built a history between the women

A better fix might be to develop some level of a relationship between the two before Cherry risks so much to save them. They could even just be acquaintances. It helps if they know each other on some level, at the least. Even if it’s strangers that see each other often at the cafe and strike up small talk all the time but never speak outside of that, old high school classmates that ran in different groups, friends of friends. This creates some sort of relationship where Cherry feels she knows Vicky “enough” to assume the risks, especially as a child is involved.

Without knowing the exact circumstances, I’ll pose a few scenarios and explore the pitfalls.

If she witnesses the abuse

Witnessing the abuse and getting involved as she sees it happening - I wouldn’t fault her for that. I’d instinctively get involved too!

If something happens in the public eye, it would help if other bystanders get involved too; Cherry just happened to take it to another level and offered her sanctuary.

Again I’m still having a hard time figuring out why Cherry has been placed in this situation before proper authorities, women’s shelters, etc. if she doesn’t know her at all. As I’d suggested, it might be best if they had some sort of relationship prior, no matter how subtle.

The escape from the abuser

What role does Cherry play in the escape?

Physical strength / sacrifice

Is she expected to use brute force aka be “Strong” to physically save Vicky or fight off her abuser? I would avoid that, as you will have a Strong Black Woman on your hands.

Must Cherry put herself in direct danger with the abuser to save Vicky and the child?

It's asking a lot for Cherry to storm into the home, potentially get harmed or die for a stranger in a domestic abuse situation that she does not know a lot, if anything, about. For example, what if there’s deadly weapons in the house?

Could Cherry involve others to help?

Maybe Cherry could call authorities and possibly show up alongside them.

If authorities aren’t involved, perhaps she waits outside to drive the getaway car as the friend and child escapes (I’m 100% inspired by Enough with Jennifer Lopez). Even better, if she could bring along someone else, preferably non-Black, who could help in the situation.

Emotional strength

The Strong Black Woman is often about being forced into emotional labor.

Is Cherry allowed to react with fear, sadness and anxiety about the situation? Or must she keep it together for the sake of the White woman? Perhaps it’s triggering based on her past; she should be allowed to process that.

Allow Cherry to deal with her own wave of emotions. Even better if she has an outlet for that. She might not lay them on Vicky, but she also shouldn’t be expected to be a perfectly composed rock whose purpose is to comfort and support Vicky.

Vicky shouldn’t rely completely on Cherry for emotional support. She needs other sources to expel her own fears and emotions. Whether a therapist, parent, other friends, chat forums, journal, or a dog!

Mammy (dynamic between Cherry and the white woman and child)

Given the other factors in the story, I would stay away from Cherry being asked or offering to care for the child. Vicky should take primary care for her child or get help from others besides Cherry or other Black women, as this would give their dynamic mammy and servitude vibes.

Same applies to Cherry physically taking care of and serving Vicky - avoid it. Also, once Vicky is up for it or she has the means, they can split the chores or Vicky does the majority or contribute to housing expenses (again, if she has the means) but in some way she should pull her weight, so all the domestic care does not fall on Cherry.

It’s all about avoiding putting Cherry, the Black Woman, in the position as savior of white woman and child + servitude role any further than the implications the first incident creates. Initial comforting and support is fine, but the rest of the white woman and child’s world shouldn’t continue to rest on the Black woman’s shoulders.

Explore Cherry’s life outside of the white people

A very important aspect that will keep this away from SBW and Mammy tropes; give Cherry her own life. Cherry absolutely needs to have a plot line that does not revolve around Vicky and child. She needs to talk to other people, and about other subjects, besides those two. Her main problems, drama, and highlights of her life shouldn’t revolve around them.

Give her emotions, weakness, and vulnerabilities. She needs other friends and/or family, interests, and a little romance absolutely helps too. She is this amazing writer, so you’ve got something to work with right there! Ultimately, she needs her own life, things going on that have nothing to do with them.

Good luck with your story!

Colette

#Black women #BWWW #Friendships #power dynamics #mammy #Strong Black Woman #sacrificial negro #abuse #abuse tw #domestic violence #domestic violence tw #domestic abuse #domestic abuse tw #asks

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kellyedith · 3 years

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seanhtaylor · 4 years

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Cherry Hill

“Ain't never been a day like it," the old man said, "and ain't never gonna be one."

He sat rocking in a rickety chair while a calm November wind whistled through the chimes that hung above his paint chipped steps. Nearly eighty six, his hair was grayed and thin, and his scalp showed through in frequent, scattered patches. He spoke clearly and thoughtfully, a trait common to the Southern elderly I'd interviewed.

"You sure you want to hear 'bout this? 'Cuz it might take a while. I still get really choked up when I think on it even though it happened sixty some odd years ago."

I nodded. "Take all the time you need, sir."

"Alright..." he said, and shifted in the rocker, bringing it to a stop. The quiet squeaking died, and all was silent save the whistle of the breeze through the wind chimes. "Suppose it's best. This old county's got its ghosts lying around, and this one's probably due for a resurrection."

* * * * * *

William Emmett Johnson was sheriff then...Will, all us deputies called him. He was a real card, not a lick like the old sheriff. Will always used to win the Liar's Club's gold cup every Saturday night. That man could tell the most outrageous, but just barely believable untruths out of the whole Liar's Club. Heck, even at the jailhouse, we weren't ever really sure when he was giving it to us straight or just pulling our legs.

And he had this old confederate shirt he used to wear all the time. He said his grandmother gave it to him, and that it was sent back to her from General Lee with a letter saying how his granddaddy had been killed by a Yankee Negro. I guess because of that, you could say old Will had his teeth sorta set on edge toward colored people. He wasn't mean outright to them, but he sure didn't take a liking to them either. Will, Joseph, and I were the only ones at the jail, usually, so it was just the three of us who were there when it all happened. July twenty third, nineteen hundred and twenty six, I marked that day on a calendar in my head, and I'll never forget it. Jimmie Baker from the drug store came running into the jailhouse, shouting like Gabriel's trumpet was blowing outside and the good Lord was coming back.

"They gonna string him, Will."

"Who they gonna string up, Jimmie?"

"That little Jenkins boy, the youngest one."

"Albert Jenkins..." Joseph always did his thinking out loud. "Why, he ain't never been in no kind of trouble before."

"Well, he's gone and done it now. Lee Dunsten says he's the one what raped his little girl, Winnie."

Will just stared like he always did when he was thinking. "They got any proof, witnesses or personal things found at the site?"

"I don't think so, Will, but I don't think the lack's gonna slow 'em down any."

Joseph and I had already got our gun belts on, and were getting ready to go arrest the Jenkins boy, when Will gave us the call to arms, "Well boys, negro or no, ain't nobody getting lynched in Cherry Hill without Will Johnson looking it over first."

So we all packed into the new car the town had just bought for us, and rode out to the Dunstens' farm.

That Lee Dunsten and his boys done had the Jenkins boy down and bleeding all over God's green earth. They had a rope 'round his neck, and were jerking him here and there like a wild dog on a first leash. Cussing and whipping out his arms and legs, the boy was fighting the rope for all he was worth, but he just wasn't a match for Lee Dunsten mounted on his horse holding the other end. He never could get more than two or three steps before the rope would yank him to the ground and drag him 'round the farm some more. The Dunstens were making darn sure the boy didn't have any fight in him for when they got ready to dangle him in the wind.

Sheriff Will just stepped out of the car, and walked right up to Lee Dunsten's horse. He jerked the reins right out of Lee's hands, and brought the animal to a stop.

"What's going on here, Lee?"

"Now sherf, this here ain't none of the law's business. This boy's the one raped Winnie, and I'm gonna see he pays for it. You boys can get back in your fancy automobile the good people done bought for you, and go back to the jailhouse. There ain't no kinda trouble here for you to pay a mind to."

"Rape's a right strong accusation, Lee. I sure hope you got some proof the boy's guilty."

"Proof! What in Hell! Will? Since when do you need proof to string up a nigger boy?"

"Since we lost the war, Lee." Will was a lawman through and through.

"Well, Sherf Johnson," Lee said to him, "I don't see that it's so all fired important, but if it'll get you off my farm, we found the boy in the back of the house, half in and half out of Winnie's window, just like he hadda do the other night to get to her."

"Now Lee, you know there ain't no love lost 'tween me and colored folks, but laws are laws, and I got to enforce them. If this boy's the one what did that vile sin against the Lord and your girl, he'll pay for it...but through the courts, not s winging from a rafter in your barn."

About then, one of Lee's boys spoke up, "Sheriff Will, I ain't no fancy lawyer or nothing, but laws or no laws, there ain't nobody gonna tell me that courts are for anybody but white folks."

Will just ignored the boy, and walked over to Albert Jenkins. He was scared, that boy, half to death, and shaking like he was freezing in the summer. I guess being on the wrong end of a hanging rope will do it to a fella. Blood was everywhere he wasn't nothing but a dark open sore by this time, a sixteen year old blood and puss sore. His clothes were torn into rags from being drug over the farm, and he might as well have been stark naked for all the covering they gave him.

"Boy."

"Yessir."

"Tell me the truth, boy. What was you doing coming out of Miss Winnie's window like you was?"

"I didn't do nothing to Miss Winnie, sir. She always been good to me, treatin' me nice and all.

"What was you doing coming out of the window, boy?

"I weren't coming out her window, sheriff. I was jes' pokin' my head in to smell the chocolates she's been getting."

Dunsten's oldest boy blurted out then, "You calling me a liar, boy? Sheriff, you ain't gonna take no word of a dark boy over me, are you?"

"Shut up, Lewis," his daddy told him, then back handed him hard across the jaw.

"Will, my boy said he found him coming out Winnie's window, and I believe that's what happened. My boy's word's all the proof I need."

"You ain't the court, Lee."

"You know what the court'll say, Will. There ain't never been a negro jury in this county yet, and ain't no white jury gonna listen to this malarky you've been giving me about laws."

"Maybe so, but you folks pay me to do a job, and by the good Lord, I'm gonna do it the best I can."

Joseph and I got Albert Jenkins, and put him in the car. Will told Dunsten and his boys to get back to the house and stop fooling with the "little nigra boy," and they went, but not without the last word.

"This ain't the end, Will," Dunsten yelled, as he let the screen door slam shut behind him.

You know how some folks just can't leave well enough alone. Well, Lee Dunsten was one of them folks. The whole time we had Albert locked up, Lee and his friends were out raising all kinds of cain 'round and 'round the courthouse and the jail. I still think to this day that old Will put the boy in jail as much to protect him from the Dunstens as for the accusation of rape.

Lee was a deacon down at the Baptist church, but you wouldn't have ever known it by the way he was cussing and carrying on outside. "It's a right fine day for a hanging, sherf," he'd shout 'bout every half hour or so.

Little scrawny Albert was still scared half to death sitting in the cell where we'd put him. So, I'd gone over to help the boy calm down while Will was outside trying to get rid of the Dunstens and their hundred or so friends that had gathered.

"Mr. Deputy, sir."

"Yeah."

"I ain't ready to be no merter yet."

"A merter?"

"Yessir...One of them folks that gets killed for doing nothin' wrong, just mindin' they own business, then right out of the blue somebody wants to kill them for one fool reason or another."

"There's a lot of good company with the martyrs, Albert, but don't you worry none...you ain't gonna die today."

"He's right, that Mr. Dunsten. Ain't no jury gonna believe me over a white boy."

All I could do was nod in agreement with him. Albert Jenkins' eyes were as brown as his skin, maybe browner, and big as baseballs, but when he looked at me full in the face, I saw how pretty they gleamed when they glazed over with the starting of a little tear.

"How come you and the sheriff trying to keep me from 'em, if I'm gonna die anyhow?"

"Boy," I said, "There ain't nobody on God's earth deserves to go out like them Dunstens want to send you."

By now 'bout half the town was outside shouting for the boy to hang. Lee Dunsten had almost started himself an all out riot. Will came back in sometime 'round then wearing a big look of misery.

"Joseph...Get the boy."

"Excuse me, sheriff?"

"Get the boy."

"But they gonna kill him, and he ain't even gone to trial yet."

"I ain't got no time for this, Joseph. Get the boy, now!" Will looked like a man whose whole family had just passed on all at once.

Joseph got up and fetched Albert from the cell, and brought him right up to where Will was.

"Albert, I got something to say to you, and I want you to be a man about it."

"Yessir."

"I don't know if you was the one what raped the girl or no, but out there they say you did. They want you to hang."

"Yessir, I know."

"I tried my best, good Lord have mercy, to keep you safe 'til you could get a trial and a chance."

"Yessir."

"But Heaven above, boy, they just threatened to burn down my jailhouse to get you, even if it means they have to kill me and all my deputies."

Albert didn't say "yessir" then. No, he didn't say nothing. All he did was to spit right in Will Johnson's face. I wanted to spit in Will's face, too.

We tried to talk him out of it, Joseph and I, but in the end, he had his mind all made up. He told us not to get in the way none, else the town would fire us both as deputies.

I ain't never felt so small in all my life, as I did looking on as Albert Jenkins stood there all by himself, 'bout to be strung up an untried man. He didn't cry, but he sure cussed and hollered and kicked and punched and bit when the two oldest Dunsten boys, Lewis and Vincent, came in to fetch him out. They fought with him a good five minutes or so before they could wrestle him to the ground for a chance to tie up his hands and feet. For a scrawny sixteen year old kid, that boy could throw his fist like a trained fighter, and none of us interfered while Lewis and Vincent got a few bruises to carry out with them. But Albert knew he couldn't fight them all day long, and even if he did, there were more than a hundred others waiting outside to come in all at once, so he quit. He just gave up licking them Dunsten boys, and lay there on the floor gawking for breath. Lewis Dunsten came up then and kicked him hard in the stomach. Albert Jenkins coughed and spit blood, then fainted dead away.

The crowd had their fun with the boy, slapping and kicking at him, and taunting with no end of horrible names. I guess they just wanted to make sure he was good and awake before they killed him.

"Devil boy," somebody yelled out, "Black as soot from the Hell pits."

"Ain't never known nothing but stealin' and hurtin' good people."

"Primitive heathens."

Lee Dunsten just took up on that, and sounded like he was making church out of it. "We know, all of us here, that this little Negro had every opportunity to do right." He took care to drag the word Negro out real clear and loud. "He knows what the rules have always been: Don't no black folks associate with no white folks. He was born knowing it, even if we never hadda told 'em. It's inborn, the natural order." People were whooping and hollering like they were at a tent meeting, all stirred up by what Lee was saying. "But now this boy done stepped way over the dividing line. He's gone and done the unthinkable. No self respecting nigger with a brain in his head would force his affection on a tender, young white girl. But let me tell you...this ain't no self respecting boy."

You could have heard that crowd three towns away. Lee's accusation was all the proof they needed that the boy was Winnie's attacker, and they got thirsty for blood. It made you wonder who was really primitive, hearing a whole town yelling out a death chant like they were.

Next thing I knew, they had Albert standing under the oak tree across from the courthouse, and Lewis Dunsten was slipping the rope 'round his neck one more time. It was happening too far away to know for sure, but I swear that the Dunsten boy was grinning from ear to ear as he tightened the rope.

Then, "Crack!" The explosion of gunpowder stood everybody as still as if death had frozen all of them right where they were standing. Sheriff William Emmett Johnson was standing on the front steps of the courthouse with his rifle pointing up at the clouds.

"This ain't court," he shouted to the crowd, "and you ain't the jury what's gonna decide whether or not the boy hangs."

That yelling and screaming lynch mob got quiet right quick, waiting on Lee Dunsten's reaction.

"Sherf, me and all the good folks here aim to see this boy hang, and ain't you or nobody gonna stop us."

"I can't let that happen, Lee."

"Since when have you gone out of your way to protect a..."

Will cut him off with another rifle blast. "Since I believed in the boy's innocence."

"You ain't callin' my boy a liar, are ya, Will?"

"Nope. Just saying he misunderstood the situation as he saw it. It just ain't evidence enough for a hanging."

"We think it is, sherf."

"I'm right sorry to hear that, but I don't reckon it matters much since the police from Pineville are waiting on him to show up at their big, new jailhouse. I just called them, and they said they had plenty of room to hold him 'til his trial."

Lee turned every shade of red in the book, and stormed right up to Will on the front steps. "Will, the boy ain't gonna make it to Pineville..."

"That's obstructing justice, Lee, and that's against the law."

"Fine." He turned and yelled out to Lewis, "Go ahead, boy. This fine lawman of ours wouldn't shoot no white man for giving out justice to a Negro."

Lewis once again tightened the rope, and got ready to dangle Albert. A bullet whizzed by about two feet above his head, and he flinched, but only for a moment.

"You almost scared me, sheriff. I almost thought you were really gunning for me."

He put on a smirk, stepped off of the box, and raised his foot to send Albert swinging out into the air, when the rifle thundered one last time, and Lewis Dunsten fell to the ground like a dove over a hunter's field.

About half the mob screamed while the other half ran off in all different directions. Lee Dunsten didn't do nothing but drop to his knees crying like a newborn. In the confusion, Will picked up the shaken Lee Dunsten, and took him into the jailhouse for being a public nuisance.

Joseph and I made over to where Albert was still standing on the box, terrified. We took the rope off from his neck, and cut it down from the tree as a safeguard. Albert was bleeding pretty bad from the licking he'd taken, and his wrists were cut deep and rubbed raw down to the muscle from the coarse rope. After we cut his wrists loose, and he tried to bring his arms 'round front again, there was a loud scraping noise like bone rubbing bone. The boy was a sore mess with his body covered in blood and bruises and his right arm broken, but he was still breathing, and he wasn't swinging from an oak tree in front of the Cherry Hill Court House.

That, at least, was something.

We carried the poor kid over to the new police car, and then Will Johnson did something I'll never forget. He took off his granddaddy's old confederate shirt, and standing there before God and everybody all bare chested and sweaty, he tore it into three long strips to make a sling for Albert Jenkins' broken right arm. As soon as we'd put him in the car, it wasn't forty seconds before the boy fell straight off to sleep, right peaceful even, all things considered.

Will told us to get in the car, and drive him up to Charleston.

"Charleston, sheriff?"

"Yeah, Charleston. Even if a jury was to find him innocent, folks 'round here wouldn't care a bit. He'd still be in as much danger of hanging as he was before the trial. But in Charleston, he can live...land a job on a ship...sail off a few years. Nobody ever recognizes a man after the sea gets a hold of him. Heck! He don't even have to come back. No, he can make a whole new life. Anything's better than what he'll have waiting here."

"Sheriff, what about them folks up at Pineville? Ain't they gonna be sorely put out when he don't show up?"

"Naw," Will drawled, and started laughing himself sick to tears. "I lied." And he kept on laughing 'til long after we'd headed on up to Charleston.

* * * * * *

"We got Albert a job two days later, broken right arm and all. We waved good bye from the dock as he sailed off to be a cook's assistant aboard Elizabeth's Dream. It was a right odd name for a boat, so we just called it Jenkin's Dream, because of the chance it meant for Albert `cept he wasn't Albert Jenkins no more. Start over, we told him, fresh and clean. And he did. Grover Calvert Williams was the signature he left on the ship's work list.

"He even wrote once or twice, and said he'd married a little French girl, and that they'd moved back to the States...somewhere up North with lots of land and room for a family.

"You know, the Dunstens moved on right after the sheriff let Lee out of Jail. Rumor said they'd moved up to Pineville for a few weeks, then just moved on from there to nobody knows where. Old Will Johnson never got a gold cup for that one, but he sure should've."

I chuckled, and began packing my recorder and notebook away, all the while fighting November's breath as it sought to close the flap of my pack. "Thanks for your time and the story."

"Anytime, anytime at all."

He turned and entered the big screen door going from his porch to the inside of the small house, and I headed for my VW. But before either of us made it to our destinations, he stopped, the door half open, and looked over toward me again.

"Say...Nobody much cares for the old stories anymore. How come you're so interested?"

"Research for my doctorate...race relations in the rural South," I partially lied, and traced the G, C, and W of my grandfather's pocketwatch inside my windbreaker's front pocket.

#Sean Taylor #Gomer and other Early Works #Cherry Hill #short story #southern fiction #southern gothic

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moabphoenixvacationrentals · 4 years

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5 Reasons to Be Addicted to a Tour to Moab

Moab is an adventurer’s paradise. It is the playground for climbers, hikers, divers, and campers. Moab is a fabulous city in the Eastern part of Utah with impeccable scenery. Moab is one of the most popular vacation destinations among outdoor adventurers. For accommodation, Moab Vacation Homes with All Amenities are the best to dwell on during your vacation.

Fall in Love with Moab-

There are a lot of reasons to fall in love with Moab. Here are 5 reasons to enjoy a fantastic vacation.

· Hell’s Revenge Trail: Hell’s revenge trail offers a different type of challenge for outdoor motorheads with the 4x4 UTV (utility terrain vehicle. The difficult course joins the adventure of steep climbs and drops with marvelous views on La Sal Mountains, Negro Bill Canyon, and Abyss Canyon.

· Rafting in Colorado: While enjoying a vacation in Utah, you can’t ignore the State’s greatest outdoor experience. The jetboating here is one of its kind.

· Dead Horse State Park: Gazing out dusk and dawn at this is as dramatic as any you’ll witness on this planet.

· GaintDinassoure Park: The Dinosaur Trail and intuitive Tracks Museum are certainly worth the drive if you'd prefer to live in the Jurassic world and roam where these creatures once meandered.

· Arch Hike: The Arch Hike is one of the must-to-dos for adventurers in Moab. This is a three-mile round trip, out-and-back climb, with a continuous ascent to the curve. The greater part of the hike is over rock and in full sun, so except if you are here on a cool day, it's ideal to try not to do this climb in the noon and make certain to bring water.

Moab is a fabulous tourist destination that can easily give you your desired adrenaline rush and lets you feel rejuvenated. In terms of accommodations, Family Vacation Homes Moab are available at very affordable prices.

#Family Vacation Homes Moab #Moab Vacation Homes with All Amenities

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cristalconnors · 5 years

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BEST ALBUMS OF 2019 (#30-21)

HONORABLE MENTIONS: (alphabetical) Anak Ko- Jay Som, Anger Management- Rico Nasty and Kenny Beats, Assume Form- James Blake, Birdsongs of a Killjoy- Bedouine, Closer to Grey- Chromatics, Iowa Dream- Arthur Russell, Lost Girls- Bat for Lashes, Pang- Caroline Polachek, Schlagenheim- black midi, and This is How You Smile- Helado Negro

30. THE SAME BUT BY DIFFERENT MEANS, Yves Jarvis

Yves Jarvis’s music is thrillingly alive. Unbound from the limits of form or genre, it’s allowed to hang in the air, buzzing with a sense of urgency and unpredictability. The songs of The Same but by Different Means bleed into one another, rushing over the listener like bath water. Some ideas are too precious to be dwelled on too long, ceasing after a minute or so to give room for the next idea, but others are luxuriated in for as long as 8 minutes, creating a stunning patchwork of raw creativity, a wall of sound astoundingly lush and freewheeling for such a young voice.

29. QUIET SIGNS, Jessica Pratt

Jessica Pratt’s folk is profoundly purposeful. Every sparse detail is placed just so, allowing the spirit of her music to shine through the sublime, intricate simplicity of her arrangements. Quiet Signs, like a lot of her music, sounds found- emanating from somewhere in the early 1970s, untouched by the ravages of time, uncovered in the back section of your local record store in pristine condition.

28. 2nd, Grace Ives

The image of Grave Ives sitting in her bedroom at the vanity on the cover of her debut album 2nd perfectly evokes the intimacy and personal resonance of her bedroom pop. But there’s the problem of that demented reflection that greets her- obscured and crazed, it lets the listener know this is not another throw away DIY pop effort, but is instead a vast, varied, and complicated statement of intent that feels much larger than its 22 minute runtime would suggest.

27. IGOR, Tyler, the Creator

IGOR, or, the emancipation of Tyler, the Creator. On an album that sheds any preconceptions you’d ever had about him or his work, Tyler sounds truly free, creating a rich rap tapestry that redefines what’s possible in the genre as he leans into his most distinctive idiosyncrasies, exploring his boldest ideas with unabashed zeal and his trademark sense of humor, finding Tyler more confident in his own vision than ever.

26. ACTIVE LISTENING: NIGHT ON EARTH, Empath

Empath’s unruly noise pop is one thing until it’s another. A song will meticulously build its structure before collapsing it, making for a jagged, captivatingly unpredictable listening experience. Their debut album Active Listening: Night on Earth is maybe their most joyous, accessible effort- which feel like silly adjectives for such a messy, discordant album, but it is equally transcendent, often finding unexpected beauty in the cacophony.

25. WHAT CHAOS IS IMAGINARY, Girlpool

Girlpool’s sound is wider, deeper, and more immersive on What Chaos is Imaginary, allowing their inscrutable images of millennial malaise to sink deep into the fabric of their songs, casting spells via dream pop that wrap you up in their imagery and textures. Its sturdy bedroom rock is familiar, a blood brother of the music that raised me, but dreamier and startlingly distinct, suggesting Girlpool is only just getting started.

24. FEVER, Megan Thee Stallion

The rollicking swagger of Megan Thee Stallion’s debut mixtape is arresting. She grabs you by the face with both hands and shakes you, refusing to let go for the entirety of the album’s high octane, uniformly rousing 40 minutes. Dripping with confidence and scintillating sex appeal, Megan attacks her raps with an earned authority that leaves little doubt in the listener that she’s the undisputed fearsome queen of Houston rap.

23. uknowhatimsayin¿, Danny Brown

Danny Brown, now an elder statesman of rap, has nothing to prove on uknowhatimsayin¿. Everything we’ve ever loved about him is on full display- his quick wit, charming vulgarities, and unmatched taste for nasty beats are as arresting as they’e ever been. After the acid-tinged explorations of Atrocity Exhibition, this album feels like a back-to-basics effort, but keeps much of the verve, his biting verses flowing freely atop glorious production from Q-Tip, Paul White, and others, creating an album that, more than any of his other works, feels definitive of his style.

22. MAZY FLY, SPELLLING

The genre Mazy Fly fits best in might be horror. Even its lighter moments are vaguely sinister, evoking the textures of the scores of John Carpenter, Fabio Frizzi, or Goblin. That being said, the album can’t be reduced to any one thing- it’s a kaleidoscopic vision that includes haunting requiems for those lost in the transatlantic slave trade and funky alien send ups of Prince and The Beatles, but each track is touched by the horrors of living, the monumental, earth shaking ones, and the everyday ones alike.

21. REMIND ME TOMORROW, Sharon Van Etten

So many musicians trade their guitars in for synths in a misguided attempt to chase the zeitgeist, sacrificing their individuality and power in the process. For Sharon Van Etten, the switch broadens and deepens her sound, honing in on the emotional resonance of her music, blowing it up ten fold, like an extreme close-up on the jumbotron. This is music that can fill arenas, but is maybe also the most raw and vulnerable material she’s ever released.

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hakimbe · 5 years

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youtube

"Salvation” By Langston Hughes I was saved from sin when I was going on thirteen. But not really saved. It happened like this. There was a big revival at my Auntie Reed's church. Every night for weeks there had been much preaching, singing, praying, and shouting, and some very hardened sinners had been brought to Christ, and the membership of the church had grown by leaps and bounds. Then just before the revival ended, they held a special meeting for children, "to bring the young lambs to the fold." My aunt spoke of it for days ahead. That night I was escorted to the front row and placed on the mourners' bench with all the other young sinners, who had not yet been brought to Jesus. My aunt told me that when you were saved you saw a light, and something happened to you inside! And Jesus came into your life! And God was with you from then on! She said you could see and hear and feel Jesus in your soul. I believed her. I had heard a great many old people say the same thing and it seemed to me they ought to know. So I sat there calmly in the hot, crowded church, waiting for Jesus to come to me. The preacher preached a wonderful rhythmical sermon, all moans and shouts and lonely cries and dire pictures of hell, and then he sang a song about the ninety and nine safe in the fold, but one little lamb was left out in the cold. Then he said: "Won't you come? Won't you come to Jesus? Young lambs, won't you come?" And he held out his arms to all us young sinners there on the mourners' bench. And the little girls cried. And some of them jumped up and went to Jesus right away. But most of us just sat there. A great many old people came and knelt around us and prayed, old women with jet-black faces and braided hair, old men with work-gnarled hands. And the church sang a song about the lower lights are burning, some poor sinners to be saved. And the whole building rocked with prayer and song. Still I kept waiting to see Jesus. Finally all the young people had gone to the altar and were saved, but one boy and me. He was a rounder's son named Westley. Westley and I were surrounded by sisters and deacons praying. It was very hot in the church, and getting late now. Finally Westley said to me in a whisper: "God damn! I'm tired o' sitting here. Let's get up and be saved." So he got up and was saved. Then I was left all alone on the mourners' bench. My aunt came and knelt at my knees and cried, while prayers and song swirled all around me in the little church. The whole congregation prayed for me alone, in a mighty wail of moans and voices. And I kept waiting serenely for Jesus, waiting, waiting - but he didn't come. I wanted to see him, but nothing happened to me. Nothing! I wanted something to happen to me, but nothing happened. I heard the songs and the minister saying: "Why don't you come? My dear child, why don't you come to Jesus? Jesus is waiting for you. He wants you. Why don't you come? Sister Reed, what is this child's name?" "Langston," my aunt sobbed. "Langston, why don't you come? Why don't you come and be saved? Oh, Lamb of God! Why don't you come?" Now it was really getting late. I began to be ashamed of myself, holding everything up so long. I began to wonder what God thought about Westley, who certainly hadn't seen Jesus either, but who was now sitting proudly on the platform, swinging his knickerbockered legs and grinning down at me, surrounded by deacons and old women on their knees praying. God had not struck Westley dead for taking his name in vain or for lying in the temple. So I decided that maybe to save further trouble, I'd better lie, too, and say that Jesus had come, and get up and be saved. So I got up. Suddenly the whole room broke into a sea of shouting, as they saw me rise. Waves of rejoicing swept the place. Women leaped in the air. My aunt threw her arms around me. The minister took me by the hand and led me to the platform. When things quieted down, in a hushed silence, punctuated by a few ecstatic "Amens," all the new young lambs were blessed in the name of God. Then joyous singing filled the room. That night, for the first time in my life but one for I was a big boy twelve years old - I cried. I cried, in bed alone, and couldn't stop. I buried my head under the quilts, but my aunt heard me. She woke up and told my uncle I was crying because the Holy Ghost had come into my life, and because I had seen Jesus. But I was really crying because I couldn't bear to tell her that I had lied, that I had deceived everybody in the church, that I hadn't seen Jesus, and that now I didn't believe there was a Jesus anymore, since he didn't come to help me.

***My maternal grandmother’s last name was Hughes, no relation. My younger brother, Rasheed, and Langston are both graduates of Lincoln University. “Salvation” is Chapter 3 in Langston’s autobiography The Big Sea***

...and here’s the poem.

Chapter Three*

Langston,

I remember witnessing your Salvation.

Drawn and cornered

belly up

cross a big Blackish

brackish

sea

of peeps,

long before we knew

how to swim.

You were just a buoy.

How did you get a whole church

to listen to you?

To say your name?

Even though you didn't

believe.

Or couldn't?

Uninterested

in a God who could save you

from yourself.

More interested

in a god who could save

the world.

How did you get a whole country,

a whole world

to believe

in your almost 13 year-old self.

When you couldn’t hear him,

but they could

hear you?

That metronome of pain

called “blues.”

That sad turned happy.

That happy

in the sad…

and you

called us Jazz.

The Gospel of Langston.

Wondering why God didn’t save

you from that church.

Rapture you

and that whole entire pew.

Deaf to him

but not Auntie Reed…

imploring you to "come home, baby"

to a paradise you couldn’t breathe

nor see.

But planking anyhow

towards a preacher who could barely read

the scripture in your bones.

But you stiil didn’t give up the ghost…

Found God in the things you wrote

even though you couldn’t hear you.

Don’t believe you God?

Just take a look at the way

that the white men feared you

and eventually canonized the Black off you

and your "Blacker the Berry" Bible papers.

But you’ve always been Harlem.

Cotton Club never cotton pickin’,

nor cotton mouthed.

The pride of Joplin and

Lawrence, Kansas

but blew the spot

like a landmine in the South.

…

Chose to write about the shrapnel instead,

which makes you the unofficial Negro National Anthem

of letters.

Now, I can finally say

I understand how hard it is

for the resurrected

to believe in resurrections…

And why you can’t hear God

when you are

his penmanship.

youtube

Video Credit: Kayla Jenae

#langston #langston hughes #hakim be #hakim bellamy #The Langston Hughes Project #harlem renaissance #Harlem #Albuquerque #Popejoy Hall #Spoken Word #Slam Poetry #Jazz Poetry #Jazz Poet #Black

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april-ruffin-world · 4 years

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BLACK MOSES SONG

“If it is true that black people are becoming increasingly well adjusted to the American way of life, then we may lose our capacity to tell the truth about our black life in America.” - Cornel West (Hope on a Tightrope p 202) The purpose of this thesis is to shed light on the historical and current, ever-increasing influence of African American/Black music on American culture and why it is crucially important to remember the past in order to thrive in the future. Secondly, I aim to demonstrate how powerful black music is and how it has been used as a catalyst for freedom. I will use as my dialogue partner, Dr. Cornel West, one of America’s most gifted theologians, educator, activist and philosopher. Dr. West, Class of 1943 University Professor at Princeton University, in 2012, returned to Union Theological Seminary in New York City where he first began his teaching career. He has written over twenty books such as Hope on A Tightrope (2008), The Cornel West Reader (1999), The Future of the Race (with Henry Louis Gates, Jr., 1996), and Race Matters (1993), where I will be drawing from for conversation. I witnessed for myself earlier this year on April 30th, 2015 at Biola University, Dr. West in dialouge with Robert George and Pastor Rick Warren, where Dr. West made reference to saxophonist, John Coltrane, whose music was lightly playing as the attendees waited for the forum to begin. In his opening comments, Dr. West expressed that he hoped Coltrane wasn’t just music playing in the background because, “John Coltrane is a part and a voice and figure in one of the greatest traditions in the modern world; which is a musical tradition that in the face of catastrophe mustered the courage to bear witness to compassion… in the face of being terrorized for four hundred years decides not to terrorize others, but fight for freedom for everybody…it’s a human tradition.” Because of the age of consumerism we live in today, “Obsession of money making and profit taking…we have less gas in our spiritual tanks, a spiritual malnutrition, an indifference to the suffering of others…a calousness,” West continued. He then quoted Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, “An indifference to evil is more insidious than evil itself.” America is in a state of emergency; many of its citizens are living and operating from a state of fear. We’re subconsciously encouraged when we watch the nightly news or peruse social media sites to fear. We are to fear terrorism, fear cancer, fear consumption of any foods that are not glucose, lactose or sugar free, and little black boys and girls are taught to fear for their lives lest they end up like Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, Eric Garner, Freddie Gray, Oscar Grant, Jordan Davis, Tamir Rice and countless others victims who suffered the penalty of death simply because of the color of their skin. Dr. West not only used John Coltrane as example, but referred to Frederick Douglas, Sojourner Truth, Curtis Mayfield, Aretha Franklin, Erykah Badu, Toni Morrison, and James Baldwin to stress his point that Black musicians, writers and artists use creative expression as an outlet to overcome and to stay above negative forces that would aim to steal their creative ideas or kill and destroy (literally) their lives. No doubt, West has perused the pages of works such as the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglas, an American Slave where Douglas writes: “The slaves selected to go to the Great House Farm, for the monthly allowance for themselves and their fellow-slaves, were peculiarly enthusiastic. While on their way, they would make the dense old woods, for miles around, reverberate with their wild songs, revealing at once the highest joy and the deepest sadness. They would compose and sing as they went along, consulting neither time nor tune. The thought that came up, came out—if not in the word, in the sound;—and as frequently in the one as in the other. They would sometimes sing the most pathetic sentiment in the most rapturous tone, and the most rapturous sentiment in the most pathetic tone. Into all of their songs they would manage to weave something of the Great Houses Farm. Especially would they do this, when leaving home. They would then sing most exultingly the following words:— I am going away to the Great House Farm! O, yea! O, yea! O! This they would sing, as a chorus, to words which to many would seem unmeaning jargon, but which, nevertheless, were full of meaning to themselves. I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do. I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle; so that I neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear. They told a tale of woe which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones loud, long, and deep; they breathed the prayer and complaint of souls boiling over with the bitterest anguish. Every tone was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliverance from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always depressed my spirit, and filled me with ineffable sadness. I have frequently found myself in tears while hearing them. The mere recurrence to those songs, even now, afflicts me; and while I am writing these lines, an expression of feeling has already found its way down my cheek. To those songs I trace my first glimmering conception of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds. If any one wishes to be impressed with the soul-killing effects of slavery, let him go to Colonel Lloyd’s plantation, and, on allowance-day, place himself in the deep pine woods, and there let him, in silence, analyze the sounds that shall pass through the chambers of his soul,—and if he is not thus impressed, it will only be because ‘there is no flesh in his obdurate heart.’” (p 25-26) These songs composed by slaves would come to be known as negro spirituals. Many of these spirituals had a code message aimed to guide slaves, via the Underground Railroad, to freedom or to the “Jordan”, which was on the Northern side of the Ohio River. Here is one example of this hidden message, weaved within the words of a song: Deep River, my home is over Jordan; Deep River, my home is over Jordan. O don’t you want to go to that Gospel Feast That Promised Land where all is Peace? Deep River, I want to cross over into camp ground. These spirituals were always inspired by the “good news” message from the Bible; by Christ and his message that “you can be saved.” Negro spirituals would later influence chain gang songs, sung by “prisoners” or victims of the unscrupulous sharecropper system following the abolishment of slavery in 1865. Inmates would sing in the call and response format; the leader began a line and the other workers followed, often using their axes to keep rhythm and to keep up with the rigorous demands of the day. In 1927, the Mississippi River broke levees in almost 150 places and caused one of the greatest floods in American history. Many blacks were forced, by gunpoint, to fill sandbags to set in place to resist the flowing waters. When the flood overpowered their attempts, these blacks were left to fend for themselves and many fled, migrating north. This great flood is responsible for the largest migration of blacks in U.S. history. In fact, the actual terms “Chicago Blues” and “Muddy Waters” stem from this Mississippi flood of ’27. The blues musician known as Muddy Waters was born and raised on a plantation in Mississippi, but moved to Chicago in 1943 in hopes to become a professional musician. In Hope on a Tightrope, “Blues,” first on the list of Westian core concepts, is defined as, “The elegant coping with catastrophe that yields a grace and dignity so that the spirit of resistance is never completely snuffed out.” (p 221) It is intriguing how a rhythm birthed from pain, and the pursuit to overcome that pain, would mother genres of music we refer to today such as rhythm and blues, rock ’n’ roll, folk, country and jazz. Muddy Waters, himself, influenced musicians such as Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, Paul Rodgers, and even Jimi Hendrix. Muddy Waters’ 1950 release of the single “Catfish Blues” or “Rollin’ Stone” is where the famous London group got their name from and the magazine, too. Even the Beatles referenced Muddy Waters in their song “Come Together.” More recently, the rock group AC/DC borrowed from Muddy Waters’ lyrics and Angus Young, one of the group members, has often cited Waters as one of his greatest influences. Me: Dr. West, Besides Muddy Waters, can you name another example of a black musician who you would consider a trailblazer in this plight of using self expression to gain freedom from enervated mental and physical circumstance in America? West: Louis Armstrong, who grew up in the red-light district of Storyville among prostitutes and brothels, was able to escape the social misery and express his unbelievable genius and imagination to keep alive the greatest musical tradition of the modern world. The black musical tradition gave us blues and jazz idioms that the rest of the world now understands. (Hope p 179) Me: Dr. West, I was born and raised in New York City and have often pondered as I passed by the Cotton Club or The Apollo theater in Harlem, what it must have been like for these early black musicians who were still combating the remnants of slavery and Jim Crow laws, but simultaneously, had this new outlet and opportunity because of their musical talent. I know, from even watching the film, that blacks weren’t allowed entrance into the Cotton Club as patrons, but were only allowed access as performers. Duke Ellington and his orchestra became renown because of his appearances at the Cotton Club, but the members of his orchestra would, most likely, never be able to walk in through the front door. Blacks, as we’ve discussed, like Muddy Waters’ inspired not only other musicians, but entire musical genres and in the end, it seems he got the shorter end of the stick as far as making a profit and being in full control of his artistry. Why is this? West: Blues and jazz lost much of their black audience in the 50s and 60s when they abandoned black public spaces, such as black dances, clubs, and street corners. Without access to the participatory rituals in public spaces of black everyday life, blues and jazz became marginal to ordinary working black people in urban centers. In their stead, rhythm and blues, soul music, and now hip-hop seized the imagination and pocketbook of young black America. This fundamental shift in the musical tastes of black America resulted from two basic features of the larger American culture industry: the profit-driven need to increase the production pace and number of records, reinforcing fashion, fad, and novelty, and the explosive growth of black talent spilling out of churches and clubs in search of upward social mobility. The lessening of racist barriers in the industry and wider acceptance of black music by white consumers created new opportunities. Since neither blues nor jazz could satisfy or saturate this market, they fell by the cultural wayside or, at least, were pushed to the margins. (Hope p 122-123) Me: That explains it. So it’s all about capitalism and profit. I always thought of blues and jazz as a distinctive genre and sound influenced, primarily, by the time period that those musicians lived. I have always gotten chills while listening to Billie Holiday’s unique voice, but only recently came to understand the deep meaning behind the tone and lyrics of say, Strange Fruit. And growing up, listening to my mother play Kenny G when he first became popular in the 1980s or for example, when I was invited to see Kurt Elling in concert at Carnegie Hall, I just assumed that jazz had become “white music.” West: One of the reasons jazz is so appealing to large numbers of white Americans is precisely because they feel that in this black musical tradition, not just black musicians, but black humanity is being asserted by artists who do not look at themselves in relation to whites or engage in self-pity or white put-down. This type of active, as opposed to reactive, expression is very rare in any aspect of African American culture. (Hope p 119). West: For me, the deepest existential source of coming to terms with white racism is music. From the very beginning, I always conceived of myself as an aspiring bluesman in a world of ideas and a jazzman in the life of the mind. What is distinctive about using blues and jazz as a source of intellectual inspiration is the ability to be flexible, fluid, improvisational, and multi-dimensional—finding one’s own voice, but using that voice in a variety of different ways. (Hope p 114) The human voice itself is the greatest instrument. Black folks’ tradition begins with the voice. (Hope p 113). It was music that sustained Africans on slave ships making their way from Africa to the New World. We often didn’t speak a common language that allowed us to communicate with each other in a deep way. We had to constitute some form of comradery and community, and music did that. It preserved our sanity, as well as our dignity. Owing to white supremacist sanctions, enslaved Africans were not allowed to read or write. As a nonliterate people, we learned to manifest our genius through what no one could take away—our voices and our music. (Hope p 110). When you look at this tradition from the spirituals on through Louis Armstrong, Sarah Vaughan, Curtis Mayfield, Luther Vandross, and Aretha Franklin on up to Prince and Gerald Levert, music sustained our humanity, dignity, and integrity. Me: Ah, yes! It seems that during the 1960s when black leaders emerged such as Dr. Martin King Jr. and Malcolm X, there were also black musicians that answered the call to use their voices as an impetus for change. James Brown released “Say it loud, I’m black and I’m proud,” to inspire and uplift the people, while Nina Simone released “Mississippi Goddamn,” but was blacklisted because of it; her music not allowed airplay over the radio. In The Future of the Race, published in 1996, you wrote prophetically: “The twenty-first century will almost certainly not be a time in which American exceptionalism will flower in the world or American optimism will flourish among people of African descent. If there are any historical parallels between black Americans at the end of the twentieth century and other peoples in earlier times, two candidates loom large: Tolstoy’s Russia and Kafka’s Prague—soul starved Russians a generation after the emancipation of the serfs in 1861 and anxiety-ridden Central European Jews a generation before the European Holocaust in the 1940s.” (p 75) If I am understanding correctly, Dr. West, black music has been created and ushered out into the world almost as a push-back; a resistance to hopeless situations and music has served as a remedy or cure. The black life and tradition in America is not separate from black music and the arts, it is one in the same. And therefore, the fight for justice; for mental, physical and financial freedom which is only experienced by a small percentage of blacks in America, is a very real and urgent task. Earlier black musicians were aware of this plight because the chains of slavery (literal and proverbial) were still evident. Today, we are in greater danger because those chains are invisible and have been set in permanent institutions such as urban schools and prisons. Nearly fifty years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. led marches and other peaceful demonstrations to bring attention to racism, segregation, and discrimination which greatly influenced the signing of both the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. As it can be seen, just because a law is passed, that doesn’t mean that people’s beliefs and behaviors change. In the early 1950’s, racial segregation was customary in America. Basic math would then imply that members of the KKK are still living, in fact, one can readily log onto the internet and find a current KKK website. The media and most curriculums taught in educational institutions depict the Civil Rights movement as a thing of the past, something that happened then, and everyone should just move on and never bring it up, because “Today, we live in a fair and equal society.” Contrary to these false aphorisms, racism is prevalent in 2015 America. Even after repeated injuries, incarcerations and murders of blacks, both male and female, the racism conflict advances, leaving behind blood stained sidewalks and unbottled tears. Historical advances in American music and the arts woud prove that it’s okay to imitate blacks, which is seen as early as “black face” stage and film productions where white actors would paint themselves blacks to make fun of and entertain the audience, to the Beach Boys to the modern day where so called “pop” artists imitate and appropiate hip-hop culture. It would seem that the fight for freedom is futile and a far cry from reality. West: As freedom fighters, we’ve got to become much like the jazz women and jazz men. Fluid and flexible and protean—open to a variety of different sources and perspectives. (Hope p 187). [Again] We come from a particular tradition of struggle. Our people have been on intimate terms with the constant threat of social death. No legal status, no social standing, no public value—you were only a commodity to be bought and sold. If you don’t come to terms with death in that context, there’s no way you can live psychically and culturally because the rights and priveleges that your fellow human beings of European descent had access to were stripped from you. (Hope p 184) Freedom fighters struggle for justice, not revenge. We love in the face of bigotry. We keep track of the indescribable scars and bruises. Yet we refuse to be victims! We instead mount constant heroic resistance against injustice. (Hope p 206) Those who have never despaired have neither lived nor loved. Hope is inseparable from despair. Those of us who truly hope make despair a constant companion whom we outwrestle every day owing to our commitment to justice, love and hope. It is impossible to look honestly at our catastrophic conditions and not have some despair—it is a healthy sign of how deeply we care. It is also a mark of maturity—a rejection of cheap American optimism. (Hope p 217) Black people’s deep memory of history is a legacy of catastrophe. It’s the slave ship and the body swinging from the tree. It’s the disgraceful school systems and being taught to hate ourselves. America’s concept of history is that of a chosen people, a city on a hill where the sun is always shining. Therefore, black people’s conception of memory is that of trauma, whereas the mainstream conception of memory is this progress of an every generation toward a more perfect Union. If your conception of history is one of catastrophe and your conception of memory is one of trauma, the only countermovement against catastrophe and trauma is never forgetting the catastrophic and yet still attempting to triumph. (Hope p 188) Me: The Hebrew verb zakhor ("remember") appears in the Torah about one hundred and sixty-nine times, Moses while leading the Israelites out of Egypt towards the Promised Land, would often encourage them to remember. In Deuteronomy Chapter 8, Moses and Miriam’s song Me: J. Wendell Mapson, Jr., author of The Ministry of Music in the Black Church writes: “The task, then, is to affirm the good in black theology and to offer correctives so that black theology may continue to address the needs of black people in light of their relationship to God and culture. Historically…, music in the black church has reflected the theology of the pilgrimage of black people. Set within the context of the black church, the religious music of black people has helped to articulate the very soul and substance of the black experience, most especially for those who belong to the family of God. In many instances, music has not only been shaped by theology but has also shaped theology. Not only may one speak of a theology of music, but one might also speak of the music of theology. There is no doubt that in the black church music is the lifeblood. Among blacks, music is not always compartmentalized into categories such as sacred and secular. In fact, the black church itself does not always see itself in light of such labels. Among Afro-Americans, just as in African cuture, religion permeates the whole of life, and so does music.” (p 16) Similarly, in The Cross and The Lynching Tree, author, James Cone offers a corrective and brilliantly explicates how by connecting the cross to the lynching tree, not only blacks in America, but all Americans may benefit: “Despite the obvious similarities between Jesus’ death on the cross and the death of thousands of black men and women strung up to die on a lamppost or tree, relatively few people, apart from the black poets, novelists, and other reality-seeing artists, have explored the symbolic connections. Yet, I believe this is the challenge we must face. What is at stake is the credibility and the promise of the Christian gospel and the hope that we may heal the wounds of racial violence that continue to divide our churches and our society…Until we can see the cross and the lynching tree together, until we can identify Christ with a ‘recrucified’ black body hanging from a lynching tree, there can be no genuine understanding of Christian identity in America, and no deliverance from the brutal legacy of slavery and white supremacy. (xiii-xiv, xv) Later, in this sermonic book, Cone writes: We are bound together in America by faith and tragedy. West: The major black cultural response to the temptation of despair has been the black Christian tradition—a tradition dominated by music in song, prayer, and sermon. (The Future of the Race p 101) You can’t talk about the crucifixion without talking about nihilism and spiritual abandonment. The feeling that you have no connection whatsoever to any of the forces for good in the universe underscores your relatively helpless situation (referring to Matt 27:46 when Jesus cried out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?). If Jesus had American advisors, they would have said, Negotiate with Pontius Pilate, sacrifice your sense of who you are, call your mission into question, and sneak away at night under the protective cover of the Roman Empire to live free. Jesus would have responded, No, there’s a cross for me. In fact, if you look closely enough in your life, there’s a cross for you, too. (Hope p 198) West: The American Empire is still governed by its desire to shape the world for American interests. It is still determined to have its way and do whatever it takes to preserve the resources necessary to sustain the “American way of life…” The new American Dream is to never run out of things to buy and sell, and people to buy and sell. What must happen for us to stay awake permanently and commit to critically engaging the public interest or expanding the common good? (Hope 181) West: Subversive joy is the ability to transform tears into laughter, a laughter that allows one to acknowledge just how difficult the journey is, and to delight in one’s own sense of humanity and folly and humor in the midst of this very serious struggle. This is true freedom of spirit. We can think and feel, laugh and weep, and with the belief and capacity of everyday people, we can fight. Fight with a smile on our faces and tears in our eyes. We can see the deprivation, yet hold up a bloodstained banner with a sense of hope based on genuine discernment and connection. We can point out hypocrisy and keep alive some sense of possibility for both ourselves and our children, thus fulfilling our sacred duty. (Hope p 192) West: Hip-hop, the most powerful cultural force on the globe right now, was one of the ways in which the black underclass responded to being forgotten and overlooked, with its pain downplayed and ignored. The response to invisibility was to create a whole cultural genre that represented young, black, and underclass folk. The culture and entertainment industry had to take notice by 1985. Now hip-hop is the most lucrative cultural area of the entertainment industry. It’s another tribute to the tremendous cultural imagination and genius of black folk. (Hope p 178) The vitality and vigor of Afro-American popular music depends not only on the talents of Afro-American musicians, but also on the moral visions, social analyses and political strategies that highlight personal dignity, provide political promise and give existential hope to the underclass and poor working class in Afro-America. (The Cornel West Reader p 484) is that it’s a human condition…a love caravan. West: To be human you must bearwitness to justice. Justice is what love looks like in public—to be human is to love and be loved. Me in closing: I have to believe that there is hope for Black men and women in this nation and throughout the world. Inherently, all human beings know that greatness is not achieved through material gain and worldly acquisitions, but true greatness is seen by observing the character of a man. While listening to a eulogy, we never hear the orator bloviate about how many cars the deceased one drove or how many houses he had, never! Whether the deceased was a criminal or clergyman, we hear of how good the person was, how thoughtful and generous. We sit and listen to people go on about how much they loved the person or how that person made them laugh. We know deep in our souls what really matters while we’re here on this Earth. God’s beauty, truth, love and freedom is still attractive in a world full of deceit, hate and restriction. We are all longing for more. Everyone wants to know their purpose in life and we often do not feel satisfied until it has been identified. When it is identified, but not actively pursued, one lives or exists, rather, in a dulled, gray state—full of regret and disappointment that slowly leads to an anger filled heart of stone. Even the apathetic ones feel, too. Whether acknowledged or not, these emotionless souls are feeling something, deeply. Life is completely mundane, boring and hopeless without a mission. The beauty in the knowledge of Yeshua is that we all have been given a mission…we were commanded to love God and to love our neighbor as ourselves. That’s what it all boils down to…love! It is impossible to know Love, to know what love is, without knowing God. And how can we say that we love God, whom we have never seen, but hate others who we see everyday (1 John 4:20)? I want to enhance this notion of God’s beauty and take it to the streets of the marginalized, in hopes to impart the knowledge that their lives, too, have a meaning and purpose. To those who have given up on God and themselves, who will never step foot into a church, they too must know that they are wanted by God. Too long have I witnessed churches that sit in communities filled with indigent people full of despair, but the congregants sit securely in that church building, worshipping and reaching out to the Lord, yet do not reach out to the people in need that are in the community. We are to worship the Lord in Spirit and in truth; and truth is, there is so much work to be done outside of those four walls of the church building. God’s church is not the physical edifice, but His people. We must do the will of our Father, lest He say, “I knew you not,” when we go to enter the kingdom of Heaven (Matt 7:21-23). With the power of the Holy Spirit, we are to be witnesses of Yeshua to everyone to the ends of this earth (Acts 1:8). The end is delayed because of the mission. We often pray, “Come quickly,” but we must first work before He comes. We all have been given spiritual gifts in order to serve others. We serve, never because of “what’s in it for me,” but to exalt Christ. All of our giftings should be conformed and exercised to the dictates of love. The body of Christ will be edified as we serve together, some teaching, some preaching, some praying, some singing. With the songs given to me by the Holy Spirit, I wish to communicate that: “Nothing is lost, everything to gain, forget the past, forget the pain, you can climb higher, you can achieve, if only you trust and believe and never look back!” Feelings of emptiness and hopelessness can lead one to suicide or a life lived without purpose. But the knowledge of new life, believing that we ought not remember the former things, because God is about to do something new (Isaiah 43:18-19), will save lives! People must see the beauty in God’s light and how it shines in darkness, transforming from the inside out. Aristotle believed that music is the most representative of all the arts and I agree. Music is powerful! A melody could be dimly playing in the background and the listener, incognizant at times, mechanically taps along. The Bronx nursing home, Beth Abraham's experiment with catatonic patients was revolutionary. Ask any college student what gets him or her through when they have to pull an all-nighter and the answer is usually, music. Listening to their favorite soundtrack or artists helps the time pass, without feeling the burden of the task at hand. Hearing a particular song can trigger memories from our past, taking us to places long forgotten about and treasured. Music can be used to awaken a nation, as seen in the 1960s with the release of A Change is Gonna Come, by Sam Cooke, which became an anthem for the Civil Rights Movement. When John Legend and Common stood to deliver their speech for winning “Best Original Song” for Glory from the Oscar-nominated film Selma, Legend conveyed that, “There are more black men under correctional control than there were under slavery in 1850.” Something is terribly wrong with that picture. In the words of Frederick Douglass, “Where justice is denied, where poverty is enforced, where ignorance prevails, and where any one class is made to feel that society is an organized conspiracy to oppress, rob and degrade them, neither persons nor property will be safe.” SEE MORE (YOUTUBE: thekingherself)

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Connected

Writer’s Note: This will be my first published fanfic series with redeemed Erik “Killmonger” Stevens. This is taking place before the birth of Serenity and how he meets her mother who was the reader in Easter but now is a Black OC. Not quite sure how many chapters this will be. Please enjoy and read this chapter while listening to Tadow by Masego. Please enjoy and I will love to hear some feedback or suggestions.

Warning: This will contain that, some race issues, fluff, alcohol, and sexual tension. Definitely a slow burn and much more.

ONE

It was an easy Friday when Erik as a Teachers Assistant. He was off finally for Spring Break and decided to make it to his favorite smooth jazz/poet slam club called SMOOTH in Downtown LA. He went by his studio apartment to shower and change. He threw on dark blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and black Timberland boots he got custom made from his old friend in Oakland. He put some Jamaican Castor oil on his braided dreads to protect against the cold weather; grabbed his jacket and was on the way. He parked his car in the lot, gave dap to the bouncer and made his way to his usual spot in the corner. A light skin waitress with a long red lace front wig made his way with a cup of whiskey on rocks and greeted him; she made her back to the bar. He sipped and tasted the nut, fruit and floral smoothness and watched the talent on stage. The band was playing a smooth jazz beat in the background as the burnt umber tone male made his way to the mic.

“Hello, everyone. Welcome to SMOOTH Friday Nights to ease the tension of the hard work week. Next up with the poetic flow of Erykah Badu, the skin of a rich coffee and the heart of a true queen. Please give it up to our sweet, black sista, Maya Symoné.” The crowd all snapped applauding her as she made her way. She wore a long, black body con dress with deep slits on both sides starting from the top of her thigh down. Her hair was neatly tucked underneath her African tribal head wrap, baby hairs and edges resembled the curves of the Pacific Ocean. She dressed her feet in a pair of combat boot heels that had golden lace hoops and black laces. Her skin looked like it glittered and golden under the yellow spotlight. Her ringed fingered hands touched the microphone and her glorious face became clearer. Her brows were thick but clean shaped. Her lips had a beautiful, deep Cupid’s bow and full covered in ruby lipstick. Her deep almond eyes were blessed with long thick lashes. Her round button nose had a beauty mark placed under on the right side of her nose; Erik was stunned especially by her voice.

“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for joining us tonight. If you are new here, let me formally introduce myself. I am Maya Symoné. I am a free stylist but my style is more of a rant of some sort. Sometimes I’ll rhyme and others I may not so bear with me. For the ones, who know of me, also knows of my Instagram and YouTube channel where I basically talk to my lovely family also known as my subscribes about things I go through on a day to day basis.” She sipped the tea on her stool and held the mic taking a deep breath closing her eyes making the crowd laugh.

“I had a follower by the user name beth”. She looked side to side at the crowd as they grunted and understood where this was going. “Beth something or other commented under a post I photographed with a beautiful, sensual black couple with fros and the caption read ‘nothing is more real than BLACK love’. She commented and I quote ‘WHY are you sooooooo obsessed with black on black love? WHY don’t you try a different race? WHY does it have to ALWAYS be about black love and pride? WHY is being with a black man so great?’“ She stopped and placed her hands on her curvy frame and popped her tongue pretending to think. She placed her hands and said “why” as the yellow dim light turned red and everyone snapped waiting to her words. “Why does my love for my brothas threaten them so fucking bad? WE should be asking opposite races why them dating our men is such a fad. Y’ see, there is nothing wrong with loving who you love. But somehow, someway my love for a strong, black, independent king is a sin BUT all I gotta say it ain’t nothing like black men. I honestly can’t see myself with the opposite race. I can’t see myself with some who have not been here, right here in my place. Why? Why? Because how will I show my future chocolate covered baby girl, my angel, my image how it feels to be loved by the black man. When I see a black father with his daughter, it is the most beautiful thing I witness. The love, the strength, the example of how that little girl’s future king should treat her when the time arrives. Without black fathers, our little queens may meet their demise. How will I teach my sons how to be strong black kings? Because ladies, we can only do so much for our future warriors, correct? Because without our men, our baby boys won’t know what the future of a black male brings.”

They agreed and she continued. “Why would I want to bed with the opposite race? I would not and Ima tell ya why. Because have you ever felt so much love, protection, intimacy during intercourse with other than a black man? Nope. Our men and women, know how to love one another. The way a man, a black man makes you feel can make ya whole day. That little touch, that caress he does can make a black woman smile for hours. It has happened...trust me. WHY would I want to be with someone....” She stopped and wiped a tear off her cheek with people encouraging her to keep pushing; Erik noticed from afar. “Why would I want to be with someone WHO does not get my anger when my people are being slaughtered for sport? Who does not get my anger, frustration or how I feel about losing apart of me. Who has never been through the struggle of being Black in America? I tell you why. Because nothing is more real than having your lover, your friend, your everything gets you because they are you in every aspect. Because nothing is more real than BLACK love...that’s why. Thank you.” Everyone cheered and the red light turned black to her not on stage anymore.

Erik sat there taken back, letting every word marinate in his mind. The way Maya spoke to his soul got him by surprise. He looked throughout the crowd to see her sitting by her self sipping her drink which looked like what he was drinking. The waitress came by his table to drop off another drink but before she left, he whispered something in her ear. Maya looked up to the stage playing and felt a presence too familiar. “Hey, girl. Here is another drink, from a secret admirer” pointing towards Erik and, with that, she walked away. Maya met eyes with him and nodded her head looking towards the stage, he smirked as she sipped from his offering.

Erik sat there leaning on his folded forearms. Watching her until he saw a tall, fair skin man sit next to her and kiss her cheek. He felt defeated in watching so he sipped from his second drink and looked to the stage. In peripheral, he noticed her stealing glances from him. She turned to her friend and spoke in his ear, giggling and she pointed towards his table subtly. Her friend looked up to Erik, who pretended he didn’t notice and got up fixing his leather coat. He stood on Erik’s left and asked in his deep voice “may I sit, brotha?” Erik nodded and he sat. “I see you bought Maya a drink.”

“Look, I ain’t mean-” The friend interrupted him and said “no, no man. I am not mad. I am used to brothas doing that” as he chuckled and grabbed the cigar from his pocket with a lighter. He lit it and blew the air out to the other direction. “Maya has swarms of negroes coming to her. Trying to get into her panties and shit. Makes me sick that she goes through that what is more important is what makes you different?” Erik looked to him finally and stated the obvious. “Unlike them, I ain’t tryna to do anything, aight? My folks raised me better than that. She seems like a woman who ain’t with the bull shit and that’s why them muthafuckas didn’t stand a chance. I just bought her a drink to show that her performance was spot on and to the point, nothing more.”

“Well, that is a huge relief. Thought you would be the type of man who just wants to hit it and quit it.” He turned and saw her to his right, with a smile and her hands behind her back. He said, “Hello, Miss Maya.” She returned a grin and a “hello there” before looking to her friend. “Tay, ya man is here. He is waiting for you at our table. I’ll stay here and keep this young brotha company.” Tay stood and said his goodbyes and she replaced him in the seat, leaning her round face on her hands. “Thank you for my drink. I appreciate it.” He smirked while saying “don’t mention it. After what you all told us, you needed one.” She gave a silent giggle and kept her eyes on his. “Tell me about it. What is your name by the way?”

“Erik Stevens. Nice to meet you, Miss.” He shooked her hand and took note of how soft her skin was. “Well, Mr. Erik. What do you do?” He sat back with his hands on his thighs. “I’m a TA at an elementary school in downtown.” Maya’s lips parted. “Really? Why not teach?” He shook his head then replied. “Not yet. Still training. I just like helping little kids stay woke, love watching their minds work.” Maya leaned back in her chair with a little raise in the corner of her mouth. “Well, by the look of your arms through that sweater, you are not built for it”; his deep chuckle filled the air between them and made her smile. “What were you doing before,” she asked him as she got closer. His smile slowly disappeared. “I’m an ex-Navy veteran. Served since I was 21, left when I was 29.”

“Ah, that makes more sense”, she stated with narrowed eyes and a raised brow. “It’s actually funny. My father is retired from the US Army. Served ever since before I was born.” She brought her glass to her lips that the waitress bought her. Erik observed her and the way her skin glowed, so beautiful so radiant, as he heard smooth jazz in the background. “Maya, would you like to dance?” Maya grinned with her lips and nodded as he stood to pull out her chair and she led him to the dance floor. He watched the way her hips swayed side to side. She spun her body to face him and he placed his hands on her hips while she put her on his broad shoulders. They danced side to side, looking at one another in the eyes. He asked “so, I was wondering how you would feel about going out to eat? Y’know to get to know each other.”

She sized him up then said, “let me see if you can keep up”. She stretched her arm out and he spun her in a circle to the beat. Her back was pressed against his back and their hips were moving together as one. She lied her head on his shoulder and his hand slowly went up to caress her neck with the tips of his fingers. Maya smiled at his touch and wrapped his left arm around her waist. He took whiff her scent and was instantly enticed. She lifted her right arm to place around his neck and let her hand caress the back of his neck. His fingers caressed the back of her hand once she turned to face him. “Ya pretty damn smooth”, Miss Maya said. He chuckled and said, “guess I’m just blessed with.” She giggled as she got closer to his body, looking up into his eyes. Those eyes, her eyes made his knees weak, his heart smile and a grin appeared from across his face. He held her left hand in his right with his other hand on the small of her back, pulling her in. They danced the whole night but, unfortunately, it was time to go. They stood outside as she waited for her uber.

“Sure, you don’t want me to drive you home”, Erik asked with his hands locked behind his back. “Yes, thank you though Mr. Stevens.” He looked at her then asked “so, was I smooth enough to get ya number or nah?” She gave half a smirk and started to walk away to her uber. Leaving him confused. “I'm guessing you haven’t checked ya pockets yet, brotha,” she said over her shoulder. He dug in his pocket to find a napkin with a kiss mark and her name along with ten numbers. “How did you”-

She interrupted and said, “you’re not the only smooth one” with a wink and finally leaving. He placed the number back inside and made his way to his car, with a smirk of his own.

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#Erik Killmonger #erik killmonger x oc #killmonger x reader #killmonger imagine #bp fandom #redeemed erik #soft boi erik #connected series #artisticestheticreads

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fivepercentgodsandearths · 5 years

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Peace, I love and miss the 80’s era in Hip Hop, there was so many conscious MC’s such as Public Enemy, Poor Righteous Teachers, X-Clan, Brand Nubian’s, Kwame, King Sun and many more. I remember how we use to rock those leather Black Power or African medallions around our necks, I still have 2 left and one hangs from my car mirror to this day. I remember Flava Flav use to wear that damn clock around his neck and I went out and bought me one. The conscious organizations: Nation of Islam on the corners recruiting and selling their papers and pies. Dr. Yorks Ansaars in the streets selling his lies. The five percenters running around with book bags full of lessons teaching everyone they come in contact with. Conscious MC’s, Conscious music was the order of the day ! But what happened ? They are now replaced with rappers who are proud to be a nigga, proud to be a gangsta, proud to be promoters of black on black crime ! I listened to Capone n Noregas Album titled “ The War Report “ and these brothers talk all this Allah this and that and all these five percent lessons on this album and then on the same album they said: “ … gag her mouth so she can’t scream and start raping her… next day FedEx the tape next day in the mail “. Sometimes I wonder, do the listeners of this type of music ever stop and think and realize that these rappers are talking about killing another black man, selling drugs to another black man, raping a black woman ? Chew on that shit ! It was Paris (east coast) who said it perfectly: “ Mindless music from the one that makes ya, think less of the one that hates ya “. Seriously, what kind of Conscious Intelligent person sits and listens to Lil’ Jon and the east side boyz or get crunk wit it ? This is filth they feed to the public as if they are human pigs ! But hey, you are what you eat , right ? What happened to Conscious music ? The end of the beginning of Conscious music started with Niggas with attitude and after them came Hoes with attitude. N.W.A. sold so many records rapping about murdering black people that these white folks said this is what we want, THIS WILL MAKE US FILTHY RICH !. But this is a designed plan bigger then A&R’s and record labels, this was bigger then the F.B.I. This was the C.riminals I.n A.ction doing. Out with this black conscious crap and lets rock the Niggers back to sleep. Next thing you know conscious rappers started dropping off like flies. Conscious rappers like Intelligent Hoodlum, changed his name to a gangsta name and started rapping about gangsta life. You got Wu-Tang in the beginning rapping about the everyday struggle in the community and dropping the Nation of Gods and Earths lessons and then they flipped the script and started rapping about sniffing coke and picking up Mafia names. Fool, you not no damn Italians ! Why would you pattern yourselves after some people that hate Black people ! Did you see The God Father when they said only sell and put the drugs in the black community because the niggas aint shit and will never be shit. This happened for real !!! Go back and watch the movie “ Panther “ ! While your eating popcorn, your missing the message Tobie ! Fiddler plays his damn violin while you buck dance and shuffle your feet for whitey ! Negroes please, you mind as well paint your face black and yell Mammy ! You fake as Five Percenters on the mic ! You know who you are, you Wu-Tang members ! On Wu-Tang forever Rza said the meaning of Wu-Tang is: “ W-whistle U-universe T- truth of A-Allahs N-nation of the G-gods. Did Rza tell Wu-Tang what happened to his ass at the Nation of Gods and Earths 1997 annual Show & Prove ? Of course not ! Remember before 1997 he use to wear a cross around his neck with diamonds in it. After we got a hold to his ass, we found out he didn’t know no lessons but claim to be the razor sharp of the Wu! After we got a hold to him, now look what he wears around his neck. An Iced out Universal Flag which is the Flag of the Gods and Earths. I bet he knows his lessons now. Raekwon, Gza, Ghostface, Method Man and the rest, I listen to your music and how you use our lessons. Built for Cuban links the chorus was : “ why is my niggas always selling that broke shit, lets get money son, why you want to smoke shit, chill god, yo the son don’t chill allah, what’s today’s mathematics, yo Knowledge god ! “ and on the same ablum ghost and rae said: “ you memorize the 1-40 ? I’m at the 19th degree, if the civilized man doesn’t perform his duty what shall be done?…” This is all Nation of Gods and Earths lessons ! In a Hotel lobby back in Chicago around 1995 or 96 Raekwon said we couldn’t come up and build with them, The God asked him can we have your phone number and Rae said do you know 120 degrees ? The god said no ! Raekwon looked at me and said do you know 120 and I said hell yeah ! And Raekwon gave his number to me instead. Earlier that day, when Wu-Tang entered the door of the concert, I walked up to Ol’ Dirty Bastard and said Peace God !! Can I kick it with you all back stage, he and Rza asked me did I know 120 degrees and I said true indeed God and they said come on. 120 degrees are 120 questions and answers required for those in the Nation of gods and earths to memorize verbatim word for word. My whole point for saying all of this is, simple and plain you used our lessons to put a conscious message out and yet you never donated or gave a dime back to us. Method Man wearing our flag and has a righteous Five Percent name and I don’t know wear the hell he got it from but he donated over $10,000 to the columbine high school but Allah School in Mecca ( 5eadquarters in New york) floor was about to fall in at that time and you want to give these crackers money because little billy shot up his fellow devils !? I see Hell Razah, Killah Priest, 4th Disciple, Gza and more of these Pseudo-Conscious Wu-Tang members on Myspace and I ask them about doing a fundraiser here in Chicago so that I can raise money and start a community center to teach the youth about their culture and etc. and they take it as an insult. If I say, lets do a benefit concert to help the victims of September 11th or Hurricane Katrina you Negroes will break your neck for that. At least Arrested Development on Myspace is at least considering it and have not took it as a insult. Their down to earth and are not full of themselves, I respect them even if they decide and tell me no because they took the time to hear me out and see my legal paperwork. Wu members, I listen to your music on myspace, fool your not deep ! Your knowledge is a snack. Some of those Fischer Price lyrics you can take back to the Toys R Us. On return to the 36 chambers of Ol’ Dirty Bastards album, they couldn’t of said it no better: “ Coming in the name to proclaim your fame for protection, and you don’t know no fuckin lessons ! “ and Rza said on the same album: “ A Five Percent, but all he knew was 1-10, he love the Gods with his heart but his brain was full of sin… “. AFTER YOU READ THIS, YOU’LL PROBABLY PUT ON YOUR PAGE YOUR NOT A Five Percent, but let me do you a favor the only “ real “ members of the Nation of God’s & Earths that are Wu-Tang members that we as the N.G.E. acknowledge are: Rza, Allah Mathematics, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Poppa Wu, Allah Real and Masta Killah ! There maybe 2 more but anyone else is counterfeit and just use our lessons because without them their lyrics would be meaningless. Nas and Az, two more who use the terminology from our lessons. Nas said: “ as for today’s Mathematics we Allah’s children, and this goes on in every New York’s ghetto, kids listen as Five Percent says there’s pork in Jell-O “ and who remember Nas first album when him and Az said: “ We were beginners in the Hood as Five Percenters… “? and on another album Nas said: “ My movado says the God hour, that’s if you follow, tradition started at the school not far from the Apollo “ the five percent school is down the street from the Apollo theatre and the God hour means 7 o’ clock. All I’m saying is give back baby ! I shouldn’t have to ask you to come do a fundraiser, you should send money instead, for the cause that helped you sell records. Take the Five Percenter lessons away from Wu-Tangs album, Poor Righteous Teachers album, Brand Nubian Album what do you have ? Chew on that shit ! Oh yeah, I haven’t forgot you groupies. A few low self esteem women hitting me up and saving me as a friend on Myspace, asking me to teach them the lessons and yet never call me so I can do my duty as an educator and the same day they suppose to call to build, I see them all over the Wu-Tang members comment book posting messages about thank you for listening to me on the phone and I shed tears when we were on the phone. Then I look at the date before that comment, they were just saved as a friend THE DAY BEFORE. Here it is a day later after you just met him, your on the phone crying to him. Groupie shit ! Wanting me to teach you the lessons but never call when you say because your doing your groupie thing on myspace. Another one says she doesn’t have a telephone yet but posting her groupie thing all in their guest book. I’m a busy Intellectual who don’t have time for people who should be riding that little yellow school bus. Do you actually think these are real rappers ? Do you think they just have time to be on the internet everyday with you ? You talk to them on the phone but is it really them or an obsessed groupie like you ? Hamm ! Look, The Nation of Gods and Earths is not some hip hop fade. Just because Wu-Tang advocates it and unfortunately some of our lessons are in the Wu Tang manual, don’t mean its some hip hop stuff fans should study to be a wu-tang fan or groupie. This is what we teach our babies, our children, our women. This is what we live, this is our culture and everyday life. Wu-Tang got ya thinking that five percenters is all about smoking weed and stuff. Allah Jihad is a real estate investor and own properties, including the house I currently live in. I don’t smoke weed or don’t even take medications. I’m a vegetarian and live a righteous and productive life. I’m an author of a $35 book, that I have received over 12,000 e-mails to my website of people waiting to buy it. Do the math $35 x 12,00 = ? If my off the head calculation is correct, that’s $420,000 and I didn’t get on stage and profess to be something I’m not, promote genocide of my people and that’s just online customers. I’m successful and not a weed head, drug dealer nor do I act like something I’m not. You better go to www.immortalbirth.com and read “ about the author “. and on that note, I leave you as I greeted you in… P.E.A.C.E. Allah Jihad 1st. Born and elder of C-Medina(Chicago) Author of Immortal Birth of Allah: Rise of the Five Percenters Writer and reporter for the N.G.E. News (former nge power newspaperfive

https://www.wutang-corp.com/forum/showthread.php?9940-Message-from-the-honorable-Allah-Jihad-of-the-NGE-addressing-the-Wu-Tang-Clan

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noramoya · 6 years

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GOOD BYE, GOOGLE+ ... 😟😞😓💔

DEAR HOLLYWOOD : MICHAEL JACKSON WAS BLACK (AND PROUD) !

JANUARY 29, 2016 ~ AISHA K. STAGGERS

Published on Huffington Post Blog

“The casting of a white man as Michael Jackson in a TV series set in 2001 is more than unnerving. It is actually a complete contradiction of who MJ was in 2001 and throughout his life. The year 2001 was a year that, if you look and listen to Jackson himself, he was nothing but a black man ringing the alarm about RACISM in the music industry. The industry was shaken by his outing of racist practices pertaining to black artists and, in a way, retaliated with MJ once again being portrayed as a druggie whose accusations were the rantings indicative of an addict and by 2003, an accused child molester. The latter, if you research the charges, the district attorney’s office, the witnesses and the testimony of others, was nothing more than an aberration of his character and a CLEAR ATTEMPT TO PERMANENTLY TARNISH HIS LEGACY. It was, if you will, the beginning of a very tragic ending. Still, it wasn’t the whole picture !

In July of 2001, Jackson spoke to an audience at a conference sponsored by Reverend Al Sharpton’s National Action Network. He was blatant in telling his truth about the racism that he and other black artists face. He told how he was viewed as a threat for having broken the records of Elvis and The Beatles. These records he not only broke, but he also bought and retained ownership of in the late 1980’s. To be honest, Michael Jackson has always been viewed as the least threatening black man in entertainment. On the surface, he was, but it was all imagery. He knew how to generate mass appeal. He was tactful in how he created his image because having the best selling record of all time was something he avowed to himself when Off The Wall did not generate the type of acknowledgment he thought it deserved. Jackson was a PHENOMENAL TALENT, but he also was a VERY SKILLFUL BUSINESSMAN who, in his black skin, maneuvered the best deal ever in the history of American music, when he bought into the Sony/ATV catalogs. He knew this was the reason they came after him. HE KNEW IT AND HE SAID IT !

In a moment of total UNFETTERED BLACKNESS, Michael Jackson said, before the National Action Network audience, “I KNOW MY RACE. I JUST LOOK IN THE MIRROR . I KNOW I’M BLACK .” It was pride, personified. It was also one of the many statements Jackson has made affirming and reaffirming his position in the World, as a black man .

It isn’t hard to find evidence of this. Google “MJ AND RACISM” and you will find at every speech, interview, and opportunity he had, Michael Jackson said, “I am black.” He said it and he meant it. You cannot ignore that, still Hollywood is choosing to do so. They are “whitesplaining” who he was and Columbusing his legacy. Essentially, they are deliberately choosing to ignore who he was and distort the truth based solely upon the depigmentation of his skin due to the skin disorder VITILIGO . Jackson had been plagued with it the majority of his life. If you want evidence, look at some photos in the Motown archives, one can see its beginnings on his fingers and hands at the age of 11. Still, Hollywood has decided that they, alone, will define and explain MJ’s blackness in a way that is comfortable for them and concealing the truth about who he really was.

SO ... WHO HE REALLY WAS ?!

Michael Jackson was a black man who was born in one of the most black populated cities in the midwest, Gary, Indiana. He was a black man who has helped hundreds of black students attend Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) through a United Negro College Fund scholarship bearing his name. He was a black man who reportedly made the single biggest financial contribution to the 1995 Million Man March. He was a black man who has an honorary doctorate from MY ALMA MATER, FISK UNIVERSITY, an HBCU. He was a black man who wrote a song to raise money for famine relief in Africa in 1985 and 20 years later, he did the same to raise money for the victims of Hurricane Katrina who were disproportionately black.

Michael Jackson was a black man who dated black women, like Stephanie Mills, but respected their privacy, enough to not place their business in the press and make them vulnerable to the ridicule he often suffered. He was a black man who supported the movement to end apartheid in South Africa and was friends with Nelson Mandela. He was a black man who hired the Fruit of Islam to provide security for his family and advise him, on certain issues. He was a black man who has had black children visit Neverland regularly, and was never accused of anything inappropriate or sexual.

Remember how his friend Elizabeth Taylor, who will also be portrayed in this series, played Cleopatra, a black woman? MJ was a black man who “fixed” that with his video for “Remember The Time,” which was set in ancient Egypt where Nefertiti and Ramses were black, as were the rest of those who were cast, including the director, John Singleton. He was a black man who shot a “short film” in Brazil with Spike Lee that highlighted the existence of black Brazilians. MJ was a black man who paid for the funeral of David Ruffin of the Temptations, one of his idols. He was a black man who, upon purchasing his massive catalog of music, GAVE back to Rock & Roll pioneer Little Richard the ownership of the music that had been stolen from him. Like many of us, Michael Jackson was a black man who cried when president Obama was elected and is said to have explained to his children why it was so important and something he was told would never come to be in his lifetime. In the words of another of his idol’s, James Brown, Michael Jackson was a black man who was unafraid in his actions and in his speech to say out loud “I’m black and I’m proud.” Who he was cannot be erased by the MANY ATTEMPTS TO ROB HIM OF HIS CHARACTER AND DIGNITY. They tried to do it while he was alive and now, in death, they are trying to rob him of his identity with this show and that cannot be overlooked.

There is no “playing black.” Even Jackson, himself thought it was “stupid” to cast a white actor to play him and admitted as much in an interview with Oprah in 1993. If Joseph Fiennes is an actor of merit, he will do his research on the “character” he has been chosen to play. If he does, he will see MJ as he really was and, hopefully, realize that he cannot play this role. It’s not an actor’s biggest challenge, it is a fabrication of the truth and quite possibly one final attempt to paint Michael Jackson not as the “King of Pop,” but as someone who was a lesser than human freak of nature. I am inclined to agree with Reverend Al, who at MJ’s memorial service, said unto his children, “There wasn’t nothing strange about your Daddy. It was strange what your Daddy had to deal with. But he dealt with it –He dealt with it anyway.” And it seems that even seven years after his passing, he still is dealing with it when he really shouldn’t have to.

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