Author Archives: RP

11.09.11
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She Got Game

 

November 9, 2011

                It’s funny to me when I think about how fragile the male ego is. Why is it that we need to have our worth constantly reinforced? Don’t ask me why but while I was running today I started to think about former hip-hop video vixen turned author Karrine “Superhead” Steffans. Well I wasn’t thinking about her as much as I was thinking about her enduring legacy. Karrine is a woman who has had relations with everyone ranging from Shaquille O’Neal to Jay-Z to Ice-T then wrote a New York Times bestselling book about it only to bounce back and hook up with the likes of Bill “Politically Incorrect” Maher and Little Wayne.

                I’m sure many men out there would disagree with me but I don’t think she is still able to carry on public relationships with high-profile celebrities because of her well documented skills in the art of fellatio. I am convinced that Ms. Steffans greatest asset is her ability to make extremely insecure celebrities feel like they rule the world. After all she is a highly intelligent woman (I’ve heard her speak on enough television and radio programs, including Oprah, to figure that out). But even more importantly Karrine just flat-out has game. She knows how internally weak most men actually are and she uses it to get whatever she wants. The most hilarious thing about it is I’m sure that until the book came out every man she had been with thought they were getting over on her. Yeah right. Karrine Steffans is something like a pimp. One would be a fool not to give her props.

                Just like one must ask how is it that Don King can continue to sign binding contracts to top quality fighters after he stole money from every great fighter of the last half-century, one must also ponder how is it that Ms. Steffans can continue to lure rising young stars into the bedroom. People rarely apply the term swagger to a woman but in this case I think it’s necessary. I doubt if anyone in the industry has more game than “Superhead.” I respect her for doing her thing very well and without shame.

-YB

11.06.11
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Autumn Chill

 

November 6, 2011

                The autumn chill has fallen upon us and the leaves have piled up on my porch. I would sweep them up—as the sun is providing a little warmth this morning— but I’m too lazy. I just don’t feel inspired at the moment. I don’t feel like quitting but I don’t feel like working either. I guess it’s going to be one of those dreary days.

                I wonder will I ever figure things out completely or if I’ll ever find the courage to be content. It’s so ironic that my body is so stationary but my soul is so restless. I hope that these two entities can reconcile before I die. It would be a dream to be completely at peace while living on such a war-torn planet. Or maybe I don’t want peace. Perhaps I have fallen in love with my own rage. Perhaps I enjoy the pleasures of falling for fallen women and all other things that are impure and detrimental to growth. Despite my shivering body under this thin blanket I think I secretly like the cold. I think I may be addicted to the idea of not knowing where I will find the heat to keep me alive.

                The clouds may burn away but I’m still just as confused as I was yesterday. I don’t know if I should find peace in knowing that the peace that I once pursued does not exist or should I battle all of my insecurities until I have arrived in the state of bliss. I have become saddened by an epiphany so the only thing left to do is suppress it. If I don’t acknowledge it then it is not there. It may as well be a pile of leaves that have been blown onto my porch. I’ll get to it one of these days.    

-YB

10.31.11
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Trying To Keep My Little Girl Off The Pole

I expose my 7-year-old daughter to as many things as I possibly can. We go to the Museum of African Diaspora together, and she has already been to several readings and open-mics. The girl paints, creates music, plays soccer, and loves math. Like all good fathers I try to be as supportive as possible. Even though her mother and I split several years ago I have always been a consistent presence in my little girl’s life. This is mostly because of my love for her and my strong desire for her to one day be a successful woman but it is also driven by an uncontrollable fear. I want my daughter to be talented and I want my daughter to be artistic but I do not want my daughter to become a stripper.

Over the past decade no institution –besides the penitentiary—has come to symbolize the failure of African-American father’s more than the strip club. Stripping is big business in every American city but it is even more lucrative in the Southern United States where a disproportionate amount of blacks either reside or send their children to Historically Black Colleges and Universities to be educated. There is a whole subgenre of hip-hop music made specifically for strippers to dance to; Pop Lock and Drop It, Rock her Hips, Shake it Like a Salt Shaker, Back That Thang Up, and a dozen other booty worshipping songs that cause me to quickly change the dial every time my daughter is in the back seat. “But I like that song Daddy,” she often says. “Well I don’t,” I tell her. At least not with her in the car I don’t.

The role of the stripper in society has been reinvented in the modern-era which adds a whole different dimension to my worst parenting nightmare. No longer is the stripper’s pole reserved for the neglected, tragically beautiful, young lady who grew up in foster care. Instead there is a huge cross-section of sisters who find themselves flinging their bodies from the stainless steel sphere and landing in a perfect split. There are graduate students, daughters of the bourgeoisie, former high-school athletes, and aspiring entrepreneurs all collectively making it clap for crisp new bills. Alas stripping has become a completely socially acceptable profession.

Not that I have anything against these women. I honestly believe that it takes a tremendous amount of swagger for these ladies to dance naked in front of total strangers as if they were dancing alone in front of a mirror. So many women have extreme insecurities about their bodies that it is somewhat refreshing to see females shake it with pride. My only issue is that I am scared that the incessant stream of black women dancing half-naked in music videos, and on billboards, in magazines, and in low-budget hip-hop movies, will force a whole generation of girls to think that is their only option in life.

No longer will young African-American females want to win gold medals like Dominique Dawes and Gail Devers. They won’t know that they can go to outer-space like Dr. Mae Jamison or make millions of dollars by starting their own business like Madam C.J. Walker. Instead they will think the only way they can get rich is by catching a hand full of bills thrown to them by some drunken rapper who was gracious enough to “make it rain” all over their once sacred bodies.

Needless to say I do not want that for my little girl. I want her to defy societal expectations and choose her own path. I want her to be socially outgoing yet ferociously independent. I want her to be proud of her culture while at the same time being aware that her people need her help. The last thing I want to do is fail like so many other black men.

Sometimes I close my eyes and I am haunted by the fact that every stripper had a daddy once. It is oh so troubling.

–YB

10.30.11
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She’s Really Gone

 

                                                                                October 30, 2011

She spoiled me, but I didn’t realize it at the time because I’m so spoiled. She would be there for me first thing in the morning or during the dusk—it all depended on when I called her. I treated her like the cold floor beneath my feet and now that she has disappeared the void she has left is immeasurable.

I know I could have her over if I put in enough effort but it wouldn’t be the same. What I loved about her is I never had to sweat her. All I ever needed to do is send a text message and she would cling to me like a leaf to a tree. I thought that was so sexy. I have always been drawn to vulnerability and that’s my problem. What happens when that weak girl gets strong? When she gathers enough strength to leave your black ass? Then where are you going to go?

If I would have told that girl how I really feel then she would be here right now. But I didn’t so now she will never know. I take an enormous amount of pride in my stubborn ways. If only this pride would console me the way she did.

Damn she’s really gone.

-YB

10.30.11
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Oakland’s Finest

October 30, 2011

Police in my city have made world-wide news for brutalizing peaceful protestors and I truly hope that no one is surprised. After all we are speaking of the same police department that served as the foot soldiers for the unlawful dismantling of the Black Panther Party. Therefore should it really shock anyone to discover that a young man can survive two tours of duty in Iraq completely unscathed only to live in Oakland, CA for less than a year and have his skull fractured by the police?

 

Before Occupy Oakland became an official part of the movement Oakland was already occupied by the boys in blue. I grew up in an impoverished underserved community on the East side of town in which a police station was built before we even had a grocery store to buy fresh food. As a matter of fact the very room in which I attended preschool in Eastmont Mall has since been converted into jail cells to temporarily house inmates on the way to county lock up. I’ve seen police brutality, I’ve experienced police brutality, and I’ve known police brutality for as long as my skin has been black.

 

So I see this young man named Scott Olson lying helpless in the street with blood streaming down his face. I see the cops continue to pump rounds of “Nonlethal” projectiles into anyone who is brave enough to cross the line in an attempt to retrieve him or offer him medical-aid and I think to myself; how vile, how disgusting, how typical of police in Oakland.

I must be honest with you all when I say that I am not a very well traveled man. I’ve never spent a semester in South Africa, or been to a convention in Spain. I’ve never studied in Iran either. However I always had a hunch that the police officers that I deal with on a near daily basis have got to be one of the most repressive forces in the entire world. Of all the places around the globe being “Occupied” I have yet to see a crack-down remotely similar to what took place in my town a few nights ago.

 

As enraged as I am about the whole situation, I can’t help but to feel just a slight bit validated and if you were from Oakland then I’m sure you would feel the same way.

 

-YB

 

10.25.11
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The Plague of Quitting

October 25, 2011

I am fanatical about boxing. With that being said I am also a realist. Therefore I am fully aware that most Americans are unaware that the sport still exists, and probably about 25% of those who know wish that it didn’t. So it is for the oblivious masses of this country that I would like to briefly recount the latest fight that has made me sick to my stomach.

On October 15, 2011 a very decrepit 46-year-old fighter named Bernard Hopkins squared off against challenger and former undisputed champion Chad Dawson on pay-per-view. The fight started out very boring as the fighters felt each other out and made very little contact with one another. Then in the 2nd round controversy struck as Hopkins, who has been known to be a slightly dirty fighter, missed his opponent with a right hand and proceeded to climb onto his back. Dawson then lowered his shoulder which sent Hopkins falling to the canvass where he would remain for several minutes complaining of pain in his shoulder. The referee asked him could he go on and he said no. So the referee—well within his rights—ruled the fight a TKO victory for Dawson. Only to have that ruling overturned a few days ago by the WBC who decided to rule the fight a draw and allow Hopkins to keep his belt.

The truth is that Bernard Hopkins does not deserve to keep the belt and he needs to exercise his option of retiring from the sport immediately. In boxing you do not quit—period. If Hopkins corner wanted to throw in the towel then that would have been acceptable, if the referee would have stopped the fight then that would have been understandable, however, a fighter is never supposed to quit.

We all know that there is a serious economic crisis right now so how can Bernard Hopkins get paid $1,000,000 to behave like a coward. I hate to say it but boxing is not football where time stops because a man is injured, it’s not soccer where faking injuries are part of the game, and it’s not basketball where fouls are called every time players make serious contact with one another. On the contrary boxing is not merely a violent sport but rather boxing is violence. It is controlled, trained, beautiful, pure, violence. Furthermore boxing is combat and if you quit during combat then you are as good as dead.

In the past fighters have finished fights with broken arms, cut, bruised, blind, and out on their feet, but they finished. Nowadays fighters quit all the time and people condone it [see Devon Alexander vs. Timothy Bradley earlier this year]. Journalists condone it, ring analysts condone it and then they wonder why every fight fan under 25 would rather watch the UFC than suffer through a telecast of the ancient craft of boxing. I’m sure college students equate boxing with the medieval sports of fencing and jousting.  I’m sure they can’t name the heavyweight champion of the world, and I’m sure many of today’s young athletes can get a man in an armbar but can’t throw a basic jab. It shouldn’t shock anyone that the younger generation has quit on boxing because boxing quit on itself.

Bernard Hopkins is not a champion. He was at one point but now his career is over. Boxing needs to make some serious changes before the plague of quitting gets any worse.

-YB

10.20.11
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Chains of the Mind

 

October 20, 2011

                I’ve been thinking about barriers a lot lately. Sometimes I feel as though I put so much energy into keeping myself in the same place that if I were to just ease up slightly then I would be an overnight success. I’ve become so guarded over the years that I would imagine my heart looks something like the outside of a maximum security prison; if only I could see it.

                I could go anywhere I want to. I mean literally, I have the means to travel but I don’t. I stay here as if something else is going to happen. As if I’ll actually meet someone new while I stay in the same spot. No one has ever treated me crueler than I treat myself. I can’t blame anyone else for me being where I am right now as opposed to where I should be. I shouldn’t waste any energy hating who I can’t see. I look at myself grow older every day.

                I have salient thoughts about those few righteous women who I have known and I curse myself for not plucking them up when I had the chance. Those utterly perfect women. In the end I couldn’t handle them. At some point I found it to be too painful to reciprocate their love and so I escaped into me before I gave away all that I had. And now I still cling to those same emotions. I fear that my heart has become obdurate and my soul is all but trapped inside my flesh.

                Everyone speaks so highly of dreams yet very few are willing to suffer for long enough to taste them. I could release myself if I really wanted to. I could create dozens of flawless manuscripts if I only put in the work. The work, the work, the work…. I know that I am the only one hindering my progress. The only question is why. Why do I torment myself? Why do I hate on myself? Why do I put so much effort into keeping me down?

-YB

10.17.11
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Work Sucks for an Artist!

 

 

October 17, 2011

                When I was a senior in high school I worked at a movie theater and I hated it. There was something extremely traumatic about having to sweep up the spilled popcorn of the girl you had a major crush on while she was on a date with the captain of the basketball team. I couldn’t wait until I went away to college so I would never have to work in that pissy place again. Now over ten years later I have a much better job as an educator; molding the minds of young people, changing society one child at a time and blah, blah, blah—to be honest with you I hate this job too.  I realize now, however, that it’s not so much the gig that I hate as much as I just have an extreme dislike for working.

                Just in case you were wondering, I am fully aware that it is a recession and I should be grateful to have a job at all. And for the first week or so I was very grateful but now it’s just lame all over again. It’s not the daily tasks that bother me so much, nor is it the students. What I find to be so unbearable is the hierarchy. During my adult life I have had an impossible time dealing with people who feel as though they have the right to tell me what to do. It just really annoys me. I mean supervisors, coordinators, leads… often times the fake titles become too much for me to stand. And the extent to which people internalize these titles can be downright laughable at times. But then again maybe it’s me.

                 I must confess that I have always been an odd ball. Even at the movie theater when we were getting paid minimum wage I remember some people trying to make a career out of it. I have had so many jobs in my life—some a lot better than others—and I have always managed to mentally check out of all of them. I never cared. They always tried to brainwash us with that propaganda of being a family whether it be the movie theater, the grocery store, the restaurant, the electronics store or wherever, yet they always fired people for bogus reasons. I never bought into that trash, not even as a teenager.  

                My obligations in life are pretty simple; I work to keep a roof over my head and I write to stay out of the psychiatric ward. But if I had to choose between the two I’d rather be homeless with a pen in my hand and less than a penny to my name.

-YB

10.12.11
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Brief Thoughts on the Occupation

 

October 12, 2011

                It’s easy for me to forget that I’m a writer when I’m at my job working all day. It’s easy for me to let my best thoughts evaporate into the idleness of my mind. It’s easy for me to become blind to beauty. The world is dramatically shifting all around me; therefore I cling to employment so I don’t lose my balance. But then again maybe I need to be pushed down like a wooden domino. Perhaps I should allow myself to get swept up in all the change.

                Lately I’ve been wondering if I have become a bit of a hypocrite because I only write about my radical ideas as opposed to running out in the street and screaming about them to whoever is listening. It’s been several years since I’ve participated in an organized protest. It’s been equally as long since I’ve collaborated with like-minded luminaries. I’m concerned that I have grown to rely far too heavily on the tactic of guerilla warfare that is my writing. It may be time for me to join the disenchanted masses.

                At present I don’t know what to make of the occupation of big cities across America. I mean I know I agree with just about every homemade banner and sign that I have seen (raging against unemployment, corporate greed, bailots, etc), and lord knows that I support drastic change in this country. I just feel like something else will need to happen in order for me to be reeled in. Forgive me for what I am about to say but when I see footage of the unrest; I see a lot of white boys with bull horns. I see white guys leading chants, and blocking freeways. I just see a lot of white males— period. All of this makes me wonder whether or not we can we really call what is happening around this country a revolution if is led by the world’s most privileged demographic.

                I am not trying to be overly simplistic nor do I intend to come off as being too caught up on race but this is what’s making me hesitate. This is what keeps me wrapped up in my own occupation instead of jumping head first into theirs.

-YB

10.07.11
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Success

 

October 7, 2011

I never know how I’m feeling until I start writing, which goes to show how truly numb I have become. What good are feelings anyway? There is always something to be depressed about and there is always something to be happy about, it’s up to each individual person to decide which end of the spectrum they would rather live on….Well isn’t it?

It’s amazing to me how mankind can spend billions of dollars probing outer space and analyzing rocks from the moon when we know so little about what happens in our own heads. People master the art of suppressing their own emotions in order to thrive in a culture that fails to acknowledge the human spirit. Everyone wants to stand upright, get a high quality education from a prestigious school, make a lot of money, get married, and die wealthy. The whole notion that there is a formula to success always struck me as being preposterous. After all how can one develop a formula for something as ill-defined as success?

Success is happiness; therefore it can mean a million different things to a million different people. The man who walks down the street mumbling to himself while pushing a shopping cart may be experiencing complete internal bliss while the wealthy man with a mansion on the hill may be suicidal. A major problem with western society is we value the worst ideals. How can we thrive as a people if we place the pursuit of capital above the pursuit of love?

A few years ago I read a book entitled; Bombay-London-New-York by Kumar. The book is a kind of literary autobiography that also speaks on the Indian Diaspora. During one nostalgic passage Kumar writes about the good old days in the Indian country when—and I’m paraphrasing here—, “A man could look forward to dying in the same house that he was born in.” I can’t exactly tell you why but to me that is peace, that is fulfillment, and that is success. I can’t imagine anything better than to be able to have it all end where it all began with your grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and children all around you. When it is my turn to perish I want to go out surrounded by love so that all of my descendants will be assured that capital is ultimately irrelevant, and then hopefully they wouldn’t be tempted to die for something that doesn’t really matter.

-YB