Roger Porter

June 10, 2011

When I go to sleep at night I have nightmares about being a basic man. In the dream I am usually wearing cream-colored slacks, a tie, a collared shirt, and a v-neck sleeveless sweater. I’m working a 9-5 in some large building with a lot of other people. When I come home all I can think about is work, and when I meet people on the street I give them my company card. During my free time I only hang out with people from my job. Our idea of having fun is going to a trendy bar during happy hour to have cocktails and talk about work.

In one variation of the dream I have one drink too many and I begin talking about how foolish I was in my youth. How I used to think I could change the world through writing. I laugh hardily and all of my coworkers join in. Then we argue for about 15 minutes over whose turn it is to pay the tab. That’s when it becomes too much and I force myself awake.

I don’t sleep much and this is one of the reasons why. I fear what I will become if I don’t make it as an artist. I am frightened by the prospect of being yet another cog in the machine. I hate that I may have to sacrifice my passion for a consistent paycheck. I might have to pawn my dreams to feed my child. Some say that’s life but I think that’s death. We shouldn’t have to bury our souls while our bodies are still alive. We are all born pure yet it is only the artist who fights to stay that way.

I don’t want to be normal. I don’t want to give up. I don’t want to go to sleep.

Roger Porter

June 8, 2011

There is a juncture in society when what is considered to be high art reaches the commoner. This happened to me in elementary school when the Oakland East Bay Symphony used to come and do an annual assembly. They would perform such classics as the theme to Jaws, The Entertainer (or what we called the ice cream truck song), and the theme to Rocky. The idea was to get an auditorium full of young black children to appreciate fine arts and in my case it definitely worked—well to a certain extent.

The truth is that I consider the music of Marvin Gaye to be just as significant as that of Mozart. I appreciate Brahms in the same way that I do Tupac, and I think that classical music has no more or less to offer than soul music. But when these two genres are mixed in the right way I am always enraptured.

Recently I came across a video of a violinist named Daniel D. doing a cover of Souljah Boy’s Kiss me Through The Phone and I had a moment. I think it strikes a perfect balance between popular art and that which is said to be refined. If only we could reconstruct society to reflect the perfect fusion of this song then the world would be a much more ethical place.

This video inspires me in more ways than one.

Roger Porter

June 6, 2011

Believe it or not I try not to trip off of petty things. I do put a lot of time into choosing my battles in an attempt to keep from completely losing my mind, but sometimes I can’t help it. Sometimes little things just bother me and bother me until I can’t take it anymore. Today’s example of this is the phenomenon of club cards at the grocery store.

Why the hell do I need to be in a special club to save money at Safeway? Since when did buying things on sale become so esoteric? As a matter of fact if I have to give you my name, phone number, and address to save 50 cents on some Oreo cookies then it really isn’t a bargain.

What do they do with that information anyway? It’s kind of creepy to know that someone out there has complete access to your diet. Once again I don’t know what someone would do with this information but I would much rather they didn’t know everything that I like to eat.

I can imagine a lot of people writing me off as being paranoid for this entry. I mean I guess it feels good to most people when they swipe their card and the cashier (unless it’s the self check-out line) tells them how much money they’ve saved and circles it with a red pen, but I’m not buying it. If something is on sale then it’s on sale. They’re already receiving our business. Do they need all of our personal information as well?

Roger Porter

June 6, 2011

I just found out that last Thursday former black panther Elmer “Geronimo” Pratt died at the age of 63 in a village in Tanzania. Although Pratt was a charismatic leader and an extremely determined man, he is best known for being falsely convicted of murder in 1968. Geronimo Pratt served 27 years in prison for a crime that he did not do. He wasn’t released until 1997.

Nelson Mandela also served 27 years in prison on trumped up charges. And when both of these men were released they showed no bitterness. They only aimed to move their lives in a righteous direction. I really can’t understand the mental and spiritual strength that it would take to get through a 27 year sentence, let alone for a crime that you did not commit. I consider myself to be very passionate about my political beliefs, however, I don’t know if the passion burns bright enough to survive 27 years in an institution that was created to destroy me.

Once again I find myself taken aback by the fervor of that era. I’ve barely been on this Earth for 27 years and these men served that time in prison because they were committed to bringing about change. They demanded that their people be treated like human-beings and that was considered to be a subversive act. Well then let their collective power continue to inspire us all. May Nelson Mandela continue to age in grace and may Brother Geronimo rest in immortality.

We will never forget your sacrifice.

Elmer “Geronimo” Pratt

September 13, 1947- June 2, 2011

Roger Porter

June 5, 2011

Often times I wonder what kind of parent I would be if I had a son instead of a daughter. I am positive that I would be a pretty bad one. I know I would be very hard on my son and probably justify it by telling everyone I was trying to toughen him up or some crap like that. Having a girl is so different. For a man it is as transformative of an experience as he allows it to be.

I can remember walking into my ex-girlfriend’s house without saying a word, picking up my 8-month-old daughter and leaving. Even infants can sense tension so when I walked out of the door with her in my arms she would cry hysterically. She would cry the whole way home and I being a 23-year-old man would actually get mad at her. It sounds ridiculous to me now but I would raise my voice to an 8-month-old child. I would tell her about all of the sacrifices that I was making to come out and get her, all the hours I had worked to buy her things, all the studying I was doing so I could provide for her in the future and she, of course, would just look at me and cry harder. Not just a normal cry either. It would be one of those cries that makes babies gasp for breath. It was loud, incessant, and oh so hurtful.

It took me a little while to figure out but although she didn’t respond to my lectures she did respond favorably when I started singing Summer Time to her. When I would kiss her little toes and tickle her feet. When I would make up funny rhymes with her name in it and when I would ask her “What ta matter suga, suga?” like I really meant it.

Now that those days are over I wonder did I take the time to soften my stance because I realized that I was talking to a baby or was it just because she was a girl. It’s kind of sad but I don’t know if I would have shown as much affection to my child if she was a boy. I’m not sure I would have been as aware of his humanity.

Roger Porter

June 4, 2011

               Yesterday in El Dorado superior court in Placerville, CA Phillip Garrido was given life in prison and his wife Nancy was given 36 years for the kidnapping and sexual enslavement of Jaycee Dugard. Although the case received international media attention when it first broke in 2009 the graphic details of the abuse suffered by Jaycee Dugard, who was kidnapped at the age of 11 and held captive for 19 years, had not been made public until today.

                When I read about it in the paper I couldn’t help but to compare it to the autobiography of Harriet Jacobs who was born into slavery. She wrote the slave narrative under a pseudonym and it is called Linda Brent, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. In the book Jacobs recalls confining herself to a small garret for several years to escape the sexual advances of her philandering owner. Similarly Dugard lived in a tent in the backyard of the Garrido’s property for 19 years until she was rescued, but unfortunately for Dugard she could not escape the advances of her captor. Dugard was raped repeatedly and had two children by Phillip Garrido.

                The element of the story that most reminded me of something from the antebellum South was that Jaycee had to go by another name while in captivity. Phillip Garrido called her Snoopy and eventually she chose the name Alissa for herself. It was this kind of resocialization that led Dugard to believe that she was living a normal life and that the people who had stolen her off the street really loved her, therefore she refused to run away even when Phillip Garrido went to prison for a parole violation. Dugard said that she never ran away because if she did she wouldn’t know how to take care of herself or how to make money. She worried that her two girls would starve to death.

                I once read in an article that when West Africans were marched from the inlands of Africa to the slave fortresses on the coast in preparation for the brutal middle-passage, everyone would be chained or bound together except the women with very small children. The reason being that the possibility of a woman running away with a baby in her arms was very low and if she did try to run then she wouldn’t get far; thus the baby in itself served as a form of shackles.

                The Jaycee Dugard case is a reminder that slavery is not merely the physical ownership of a human being but it is mental control as well. Once a person convinces another person that they cannot take care of themselves then they have effectively transformed that individual into a submissive being. Just like the pimp does the prostitute, like the missionary does the native, like the master does the slave, and like the police do the poor.

              The Jaycee Dugard story is woefully sad and I pray that she will have the ability to rise up from slavery like my ancestors did.

Roger Porter

June 1, 2011

It’s insane how they slang education like dope in this country. And all the unemployed higher education junkies are so quick to hop in line for their next fix. To make matters worse they raise college tuition every semester. I mean at least marijuana and cocaine are somewhat affordable. It’s sad when you have people in their mid 20’s who are upwards of $50,000 in debt and discover after graduation that there are no jobs; so what do they do—they go back to school.

It’s a sick cycle that I myself have managed to get wrapped up in. It bothers me that my generation was lied to continuously about pursuing higher education, as if that would solve all of our financial problems. On the contrary it actually creates severe financial problems.

Sometimes I feel as though the Education Industrial Complex has surpassed the Prison Industrial Complex in terms of sheer treachery. They distribute thousands upon thousands of dollars in loans to teenagers, leading them to believe that as long as they are in school they won’t have to worry about them. But Sally Mae doesn’t forget, Citibank doesn’t forget, Bank of America doesn’t forget, and 6 months after graduation if one is not in school then please believe they will hunt you down like the mafia.

To make money off the backs of young people who are trying to do something positive with their lives is extremely shady. It appears that the University has become nothing more than a grand hustle; it is merely a manufacturer of false dreams.

Roger Porter

May 31, 2011

You know I used to have really good handwriting back in the day when I used to actually write things out longhand. In high school I used to hate those teachers who would force us to type the final draft of an essay. It bothered me because up until that point every English/ Language Arts teacher I had ever had placed a huge emphasis on our handwriting.

When I was in the 1^st grade my teacher used to make us copy a paragraph from the chalkboard. Then when we were done she would go from student to student making sure she could place her index finger between each word and if she couldn’t she would make us rewrite the whole thing. It was a heartbreakingly tedious process but it did instill a respect for calligraphy in her classroom. Unfortunately, over the years I have lost that respect. As of today I can’t remember the last time I have handwritten anything. Since I created my blog site I don’t even journal any more. All those countless hours I spent learning how to write in cursive—what a waste.

And who can forget those teenage years when you used to ask a young lady for her phone number and if she wanted you to have it she would reply; “You got some paper?” Then you would look all over the ground for a brown paper bag or rifle through your pockets for a gum wrapper so she could give you the digits. After you finally got it you would analyze her handwriting. You would see if she dotted her eyes with hearts, or wrote down a specific time to call her. If she wrote in cursive then she was sophisticated, if she wrote in print then she just might be a freak. Now all she does is put your number in her phone. How boring.

Needless to say I miss those days of everyday art; before texting, laptops, and facebook. Back in the good old days when people had to put pin to paper and express themselves the old-fashioned way.

Roger Porter

May 30, 2011

Is there anything wrong with watching a woman dance? Is it a crime against manhood to be perfectly content with watching a strikingly seductive lady in heels move to the music before you with minimal conversation, no touch, and no future plans of hooking up?

I was at a lounge with a small dance floor. I had a little Hennessey, shared a few laughs with my friend, and began to relax. The woman was with a friend as well. She was the kind of lady that wasn’t afraid to be goofy. Incidentally the D.J. was on that night; playing every song that you remember and love from the early 90’s. She did The Robocop and The Butterfly for a few songs before she got serious and broke it down slowly.

She seemed to be O.K. with dancing with her friend the whole night—in a way that only two women can do—but every now and then she would peek at me over her shoulder and I would smile at her. Maybe she wanted me to approach her or maybe she just wanted to see if I was looking but we definitely made a connection. I admired her in the same manner that museum patrons admire the art— from a short distance and without touch.

Earlier this year I got a chance to see Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhone when it was at the Fine Arts Museum in the city. The difference between the original painting and the highly ubiquitous replica was stunning. The colors were so vibrant, the paint was so thick, and the yellow stars actually appeared to glow. I liken it to hearing your favorite song on the radio versus sitting in the front row of an arena when the artist performs it live. They just aren’t the same. So when I saw the painting I really wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel the individual brush strokes, to rub my fingers across the uneven surface, but that would have been distasteful. The natural oils from my skin could have ruined the art; and what would that make me if I were to ruin something so perfect.

I do not wish to objectify this woman but to me she was as sacred as a Van Gogh painting. I didn’t want to touch her or get too close. I only wanted to appreciate her from a short distance.