Author Archives: RP

04.27.12
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Tweets in the media? Are you serious?

Is the American media so starved for another story about racism to jump start waning interest in the Trayvon Martin case that they’ve resorted to writing about racist tweets? On Wednesday Joel Ward, one of the few black Hockey players in the NHL, scored a game winning goal in game 7 to lift his Washington Capitals into the 2nd round of the playoffs. Now I’m pretty far from considering myself an avid hockey fan but I know an impressive feat when I see one. He was the man of the night and he made an outstanding play but is that what people are focusing on? No, because journalists are too caught up in people using the “N” word on twitter.

Are you serious? The best moment in Ward’s career is being marred by the rants of random people on social media, how absurd is that? It’s equally absurd that the creator and star of Awkward Black Girl Issa Rae felt compelled to speak out against the racist backlash on twitter in response to her wining The Shorty Award for best web series.  Why can’t both of these modern day pioneers just enjoy their respective moments? I mean do we really need to see offensive tweets smeared all over national media?

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

-YB    

04.08.12
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The Uncertainty of Crepes

 

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

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

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

“Ya’ll closed?” I asked incredulously.

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

“Aight, whatever.”

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

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

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

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

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

-YB

03.30.12
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The Blog Escape

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

 

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

-YB

03.26.12
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Moving Forward

3.26.12

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

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

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

YB

03.21.12
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My Epiphany in Oakland

 

The Trayvon Martin situation resonates with so many Americans, myself included. Here is a piece I wrote a few years ago that expresses the same sentiments that Trayvon must have felt the last moments of his life.

 

 

I’m 17 years old and it’s a Saturday night.

I’m driving my mother’s 1994 blue Honda Accord with two of my friends in the back seat. We’re about to get on the freeway to check out this party when we see two of our other friends riding in the opposite direction. So we both pull over and because I haven’t seen the other two guys since they dropped out of school, we have a little reunion on the side of the street.

We laugh, clown a little and try to figure out where we want to go. Everything is all good; the weather is warm, the women are out and it’s just a care-free atmosphere. Then we all stop talking as we notice a police car pull up behind us.

“Hey is everything alright?” One of the cops asks us, not out of concern, but to put us on the defensive.

We tell him “yeah” like, of course everything is OK why wouldn’t it be?

“Whose car is this?”

“That’s my mother’s car,” I respond quick and agitated.

“Hey don’t get an attitude with me bro. I’ll have everybody here lying face down with their hands behind their backs.”

Then another squad car pulls up and as I stare at the officer who is doing all the talking and is now a few steps away from me and I experience an epiphany. It felt like that moment represented a perfect culmination of my teenage experience — it was as if my ethnic identity had now become perfectly clear.

When I was 13, I remember walking home from school one day and having a black woman around my mother’s age, with huge burning eyes, ask me if I had any rocks to sell her. By the time we were 15, everybody asked us for dope; Mexicans, White people and black folks as well. They would ask me, my cousin and our friends for drugs while we walked home from football practice with our pads on like that was our one purpose on Earth.

And when we went to the corner store on E. 15th, down the street from my cousin’s house, to get some Now & Laters or some Funions or Donald Duck orange juice, the old Korean lady would shout “Philly Blunt?” as she held two cigars up, one in each hand, behind the cash register. And we would have to tell her, just like we told all the dope fiends, “NO!”

So now there are like five cops gathered around us and I suddenly understand that I, along with my friends, are now fully-grown monsters. I mean if criminality had a color then it was the same complexion as us. If criminality had features then it would look exactly like our reflections in the mirror. If criminality had a dress code then it would wear its pants, shirt and shoes exactly like we did.

“I got a report about a fight … is there any fighting going on here?”

“Naw, no fighting.”

“Can I see your drivers license?”

I show it to him and he looks at it with a flashlight because apparently he needs to analyze every letter and every number. When he’s done, he tells us to have a good night and both of the squad cars speed off to their next confrontation.

My friends and I stay there for a few minutes and try as hard as we can to regroup. But needless to say, we find it to be impossible.

-YB

03.19.12
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Her Fairytale

March 19, 12

At this moment I find myself thinking about that point in life where fantasy and truth intersect. I know a woman who had a child by a man who was murdered over 10-years-ago. I knew both of them and I knew the dynamics of their relationship very well. I can honestly say that she was in love but I’m not sure that he loved her back. As a matter of fact if he were alive today I seriously doubt that they would even be on speaking terms.

But he did die. He was gunned down shortly after his son was born and his ex-girlfriend will never move on. It’s a tragic situation for multiple reasons. She has his name and the image of his face tattooed on her chest. Her son looks a lot like his slain father, and she keeps his memory alive via social media.

All of this brought me to the conclusion that one good thing about his unfortunate demise is that the young lady gets a chance to know a love that she probably never would have achieved if her man was still breathing. She gets to continue the relationship in her mind and design her own wedding cake. She gets to sleep with him every night and she only speaks positively of him. It’s kind of like a very hood fairytale and I suppose all girls want to have a fairytale love life, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.

She’s got his face permanently displayed on her bosom, and she’s got his child, so whose to say that she isn’t living happily ever after?

-YB

03.18.12
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Failure to Connect

March 18, 12

It’s crazy what not having the proper connections can do to a person’s career. I remember when I was an adolescent boy and the group Destiny’s Child came on the scene. I thought they were the sexiest thing to happen to music since En Vogue, and what made it even better was the fact that they were exactly my age.

 

As teenaged boys we had several explosive debates about who was the baddest girl in the group. My favorite was Latavia and everybody in my click respected that. Some people chose BeyoncĂ© but I couldn’t really understand why. Latavia sang just as well, was way thicker, more charismatic, and prettier than BeyoncĂ©. BeyoncĂ© wasn’t quite bootyliscious yet in the late 90’s. She seemed a bit gangly and awkward to me. So you can imagine my surprise when the girl of my fantasies, Latavia, was ousted from the group after a disagreement. I was absolutely crestfallen.

 

Of course this was well before I had a solid grasp on connections and how they work. To tell you the truth I’m only realizing right now how important it is to build a solid team of individuals around me. If I would have been aware of this in undergrad then I definitely would have pledged in some fraternity, and had I know this in graduate school then I suppose I would have made time for kissing the proper asses instead of spending hours in the library trying to hone my craft.

 

Perhaps if my ex-lady Latavia would have accepted the reality that Beyoncé’s father was the manager of the group thus making the three other girls completely dispensable then she would still have a career in music. And perhaps if I would have befriended more powerful people in my youth instead of constantly raging against the machine like the protagonist of an existential novel then I would be established by now.

 

Well maybe all of this means that the lovely Latavia Roberson and me were truly made for one another. What can I say old crushes definitely die-hard, and 15 years after seeing her face that is still one connection that I would love to make. Wink, wink 😉

-YB

03.15.12
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Lost in the Details: Notes on the Murder of Trayvon Martin

March 15, 12

It’s amazing how technical some folks get about the law when a young black man is murdered by a white police officer. What is even more amazing is the asinine things that people say when a fake cop, whom for whatever reason is allowed to carry a real gun, kills a young black man.

Let’s use the most recent case of George “The Jackass” Zimmerman as an example. The Jackass was a rogue volunteer captain of a Florida neighborhood watch group before he decided to use deadly force on 17-year-old Trayvon Martin. Apparently this wasn’t your average neighborhood watch group that The Jackass was heading. It was not by any means an organization that encouraged community members to sit on their porches and document suspicious behavior, and it for damn sure wasn’t about planning neighborhood movie nights.

George The Jackass decided to follow Trayvon because he looked “suspicious” while he walked down the street with a bag of Skittles to take back to his little brother. Now I’m not sure why this is, but for law enforcement officers (and wannabes) the word suspicious is synonymous with black. I suppose it’s the American way.

At any rate The Jackass decided to confront Trayvon who was visiting his dad for NBA All-Star Weekend even though when he radioed it in to the real cops they told him to stand down. I guess he just couldn’t resist the opportunity to put a young black man in his place—which from a historical perspective, most white men can’t.

From that point on the details are sketchy as of right now. But we do know that The Jackass was bleeding from his nose and the back of his head. And we do know that Trayvon was killed by a single bullet wound to the chest. Mr. Jackass has not been charged with any crime because
well he’s white.

People really trip me out in these kinds of situations. I’ve seen the extremely ambiguous self-defense laws in Florida cited several times in this non-case. I’ve also watched the news media casually bring up the fact that a few homes in that Florida neighborhood had apparently been burglarized in the months leading up to the shooting. I even saw one journalist report that Zimm—uhhh I mean The Jackass was very well liked in the community.

Oh my god. So what!

An unarmed high school students was shot to death by a man who is supposed to be making sure elderly women aren’t mugged on their way back home from the grocery store. He’s supposed to be armed with binoculars, and a walky-talky, OK pepper spray at best. So why the hell is he toting a damn 9mm pistol like he’s in 50 Cents entourage? It’s the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

It’s just as bad as when Oscar Grant was shot in the back and killed by a BART cop.  BART is routinely one of, if not thee, safest rapid transit system in the country. So why does a BART cop like Johannes Mehserle need a gun in the first place? The main difference between that incident and this one was the Oscar Grant murder was caught on videotape, but unfortunately it didn’t matter. People watched the video of a handcuffed man on the ground being shot and scratched their heads and said; “Well he does seem to be resisting a little bit. I mean look at him squirm. He’s being belligerent. And on top of that it was New Year’s Eve. I’m sure those cops were having a long day.”

It was this kind of not so subtly racist rhetoric that landed Mehserle a sentence of less than one year for killing an unarmed man in front of dozens of people. And it is this kind of thought that justifies The Jackass not being brought to justice after murdering an unarmed teenager carrying a bag of Skittles.

The general reaction to the tragedies of Oscar Grant and Trayvon Martin prove that American racism has come a very long way since Jim Crow and the K.K.K.  Just like medicine and technology racism has advanced. It is no longer out in the open like the word “nigger” but rather it is hidden in details like the word “suspicious.” Evil folks don’t hide behind sheets and burn crosses anymore. In 2012 they make up titles and get permits to carry guns so they can continue to kill with impunity and be supported by a society that will never admit that they are enabling these racist psychopaths.

Racism is in the details these days. It’s in the questions that people have and the doubt that is cast over whether or not it’s actually wrong for an unarmed black man to be murdered by a white authority figure.

Because we all know Trayvon instigated the situation and why was he wearing that “suspicious” looking hoody. And as for Oscar Grant, he had drugs in his system and he had gotten into a fight earlier that night. I mean I’m not racist but I just don’t know. It seems a little suspicious to me.

Meanwhile Oscar Grants daughter Tatiana will never really know her father and Trayvon Martin’s parents will never hear their son’s voice again.

Black men continue to be gunned down like animals while we scratch our heads and ponder about silly little details.

-YB

03.11.12
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An Ode to Individuality

March 11, 12

The human species is most beautiful when it is alone. When we have no political affiliation to taint our views, no educational institution to taint our thoughts, and no families to hand us identities at birth that we should be seeking to find for ourselves.

I don’t like crowded streets and I have an extreme disdain for people who cannot go out in public without being surrounded by a crew of other people. I can’t imagine being that openly insecure as an adult.

There is nothing more enticing than the sound of a woman’s voice that enjoys going to the movies alone and doesn’t need to gain the permission of five other women before she allows herself to become intimate with a man. There is no doubt in my mind that this woman loves herself. Even if the world does not appreciate her, she appreciates her own individual power to make moves in the world. As far as I’m concerned there is nothing more endearing than this brand of awareness.

-YB

03.11.12
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I Can’t Stay Away

3/10/12

This past Thursday, after nearly a year away, I found myself back in the boxing ring sparring with another fighter. The kid I was working with was very inexperienced. As a matter of fact it was only the 2nd time he had sparred in his life. I took it easy on him but at the same time I didn’t patronize him. I landed a few good shots just to let him know that we weren’t having a tea party.

I was very sloppy. My timing was off and my distance was atrocious but it felt good to be back on the main stage. You can only hit the heavy bag for so long until it becomes extremely boring. You can only hit the mitts for so many rounds until it becomes a farce of what an actual fight is like. When it comes to training for a boxer nothing is more important than sparring and there is no greater adrenaline rush. I can remember the very first time I sparred I was dead tired after two rounds but I was high for about a week. Now two years and four amateur bouts later I suppose I’m still trying to chase that first high.

I’ve become a fight junky; a functional boxaholic. I guess we all have our things. I don’t smoke, rarely drink alcohol, I don’t drink coffee at all, and I refuse to take aspirin unless I feel like I’m about to die, but there is something about the boxing gym that I can’t stay away from. I feel like the gym is the realist place on Earth where people don’t engage in passive aggressive behavior, and everyone says what they mean, and if you got a problem with it then there is always the ring. If you think your bad you had better be able to prove it and if you say you can fight then you had better really know how because you will definitely get knocked out.

What I hate about adult life is you spend half of the time restraining yourself so that don’t wind up in prison for beating the hell out of your boss, significant other, coworker, annoying person on the train, etc. At the gym, on the other hand, you can try to smash a man’s nose into his brain and when the round ends he’ll have no hard feelings because he was trying to do the same thing to you. Ahhh, if only life could always be so pure.

I love the craft of boxing. I love the smell of sweat and pine-solve that permeate the air (depending on what time it is) at my gym. I love having the ability to make a another trained fighter bleed, I love the pain in my neck after I’ve been caught with a clean shot, I love my “fight family” at the gym, and I love the way my hands look in my wraps as I shadowbox to the music being provided by KBLX. Boxing is my vice, boxing is my passion, and boxing is my love.

-YB