Roger Porter

May 17, 2011

Sometimes I have to literally laugh out loud at my dreams of becoming a writer. It seems almost as random as having ambitions of being a professional fencer or fly-fisher. I mean sure it’s a beautiful craft to learn but who cares.

No one reads books anymore. No one has the patience. As a matter of fact there are very few people who will read a blog that is over 200 words. It becomes difficult to explain why I would invest money that I have never seen into an art form that will probably never pay me back. I am the first to admit that it was a completely illogical decision on my part; however, I have never really been a logical decision maker.

Writing is about passion. It’s about having the ability to wage guerilla warfare anytime I want. I don’t have to depend on politicking or incessant networking, all I need is something to write with. I’m not a member of a powerful church, I never pledged in any fraternity, and I wasn’t born into an influential family yet the ability to write gives me the unique ability to move on my own.

I once heard Amiri Baraka say “writing is a very lonely enterprise.” At the time I didn’t realize how true his words were but even if I did they wouldn’t have altered my path. There is nothing stronger than an individual who is not afraid of standing alone. A person who refuses to follow yet does not wish to lead; a person who belongs to self.

Roger Porter

May 16, 2011

I can’t tell you how bad I wanted to hate on Drake when he first burst onto the music scene. The more I learned about his background the more I wanted to dismiss every notion of him being the next big thing in hip-hop. After all he is a Canadian-Jew that got his start on a Nickelodeon drama. Not that I have anything against Jewish-Canadian teen actors but it is a long way from Ghetto-America where all of my favorite rappers just so happened to be raised. Which brings up the most significant reason why I wanted so desperately for Drake to flop and that is, quite simply, because he grew up privileged.

I said to myself there is no way this dude should ever be taken seriously as a rapper. I figured that his outside of the hood experience would prevent him from writing any noteworthy lyrics, boy was I wrong—Wow! So I definitely can’t take anything away from him now. He’ proven his worth, the kid is certified Ill and he seems to be getting better with each guest appearance. It’s kind of wild when you think about it but the lyrical prowess of somebody like Drake reminds us that below the hyper-masculine/superthugginit surface hip-hop is still an art form, and Drizzy-Drake is a trained artist.

Somewhere on the hip-hop timeline people began to believe that being incarcerated and shot multiple times transformed an average unlucky street thug into an outstanding rapper. Somewhere along the way the consumer became more concerned with street credibility than with one’s dedication to his or her craft. In essence the packaging became more important than the product.

The reality is that Young Jeezy is not a dope rapper because he has been incarcerated but because he spends hour after hour trying to master his craft. Lil Wayne is not at the top of the food chain because he accidentally shot himself or because he is from the Holly-Grove section of New Orleans but because he studied the great rappers of the past and tries to emulate them. Finally Jay-Z being widely regarded as one of the best to ever do it has a lot less to do with the fact that he used to sell crack than it does that he reads books and stays informed.

Now I’m hoping that the emergence of Drake puts the emphasis back on the music as opposed to the hype. I would love to see hip-hop get to the point where the artistry is placed before the image.

Roger Porter

May 14, 2011

I was heading into the last straight away of my daily run today when my body screamed for inspiration. So I hit the next song button on my beloved I-pod. Bobby Brown, no. TLC, no. R. Kelly, no. Green Day, ummmm no. Rick Ross, lets get it!

As soon as I heard the beat drop to “Push it to the Limit” that’s exactly what I started doing. I was caught up in some gangster fantasy and convinced myself that I was running from federal agents or chasing down some coward that violated me until next thing I knew I was finished with my work out. The song ended and I went right back to being a square ass struggling writer.

But it was something about that moment that made me wonder what it is about gangster rap that I find so irresistible. And it’s not just me. All of my college educated friends have a favorite thugged out song that they like to go crazy to. Whether it is in the car, at the gym, or in the club, there is something about the latest hood anthem that brings out the primal instinct in all of us. We mean mug, bob our heads to the beat, throw our fingers up and scream along with the chorus; “If you don’t give a damn we don’t give a fuck!/Hey!”

To make matters worse usually the more violent, vulgar, and extreme the song is the more we love to hear it. I don’t know. It really doesn’t make sense. I mean it’s not like we want to be thugs or think the criminal lifestyle is all fun and games. Every last one of my friends has lost a loved one to the street life so it isn’t like there is a detachment either. It’s just something that comes over us that we can’t stop when we hear Young Jeezy, Lil Wayne, or Rick Ross. I suppose it’s something similar to when educated white men watch a Godfather marathon, or Scarface, or the Sopranos. While you are watching it you become equally as invincible as the characters and you never have to spend a day in prison for it. The truth is that at times everyone wishes they didn’t have to care about the consequences of their actions or observe the law, so when we hear the voice of a rebel we respond—even if that voice is fictitious.

Gangster rap is a lot of things at the same time. It’s oppressive, repressive, corporate, poetic, real, fake, and liberating. Therefore I think it’s safe to say that it is not for everyone but if you have the capacity to feel it then you really feel it.

So to all the critics “Don’t talk no shit won’t be no shit!” LOL.

Roger Porter

May 12, 2011

It’s really strange how violence is so woven into the social fabric of manhood.

Yesterday was my little cousins 9^th birthday and since he thinks he’s practically grown I wanted to get him something memorable. So I paid for him to try out for the local youth football team. It made so much sense to me because he’s already been playing baseball for three years and he hates it. He can’t really explain why he just knows that he doesn’t like the sport. Then there is his living situation. He lives in a house with my aunt (his mother) and his 4 sisters. Needless to say he feels very alienated at times, therefore when I pitched the idea to my Aunt she thought it sounded great and he did too. But now that I’ve given them the gift I’m having serious reservations.

I can remember the first year I tried out for football in the 6^th grade. I remember showing out in practice, instantly being one of the fastest players on the team, and having ambitions of being a star running back, until we actually got the pads that is. Once we got those 8 lbs of gear— which in my case included a helmet that was way too big with a bar going down the middle of the face mask that was awkward as hell, and not to mention big bulky shoulder pads that bounced every time I ran—and started hitting it was like a completely different game.

The first day of tackling practice coaches noticed that when it was my turn to run the ball I would avoid contact by slowing down or stopping right before my teammate hit me instead of lowering my shoulder and trying to run him over. It was a basic instinct for me. I mean why would I just let some kid plow right into me? After about the third time I did this I overheard one coach whispering to the other that I was soft.

“That’s O.K.” the other coach responded. “I got something for him.”

With that he made all the boys on defense get in a single file line so that the line leader was 5 yards across from me staring me dead in the eye. He instructed the other players to run at me full speed each time he blew the whistle. Then he instructed me to make each tackle. Before I could fully process my fear the whistle blew and the ball runner knocked me flat on my back. When I got back to my knees he blew the whistle again and I was back on my back.

“Faster! Faster!” He screamed before blowing the whistle again.

This time I grabbed the runner’s jersey but before I was able to wrestle him down he blew the whistle again and a player rammed his helmet right into my shoulder knocking me backwards but I didn’t fall. I grabbed my shoulder in pain and he blew the whistle again. He blew the whistle again, and again, and again, until he felt like I was no longer afraid of contact, that I could tackle, that I was no longer soft.

 After that practice my shoulder was purple and my neck was aching. I kept at it and eventually I became a pretty solid little hitter. I impressed the coaches so much that they gave me a spot on the starting defense. In retrospect I’m still glad that I made the team but I can’t help but to think that on that first day of hitting I lost something that I have never gotten back.

Now I’m stuck wondering whether or not it’s the best decision for my little cousin to lose the same thing at an even younger age?

Roger Porter

May 11, 2011

I read an article in USA Today last night entitled “More families hungry in post-recession America.” The article was about blue-collar working class families going without food because they aren’t aware of the government resources that are available to them. Like just about every article in USA today it was a very well written piece. It was engaging, it flowed well, and it seemed to be thoroughly researched but to be honest it took me longer to get past the title than it did to read the article.

“Post-recession America,” who comes up with this stuff? That’s only slightly less ridiculous than the term “Post-racial America” which was used in the months after President Obama was elected. I’m not sure what economic formula was used to determine that the recession is over but it really doesn’t matter. What matters are all the foreclosed homes that I see around town, and all the businesses that have closed their doors. What matters even more than that is the dejection in the eyes of first generation college graduates as they take baby steps through the unemployment line.

When I walk downtown, uptown, on the east side of town, anywhere in town it is obvious to me that there is still a very serious economic problem. Who are these people who come up with this propaganda? How can they tell me that I don’t see what I clearly see?

Roger Porter

May 9, 2011

One place that I like to visit when I need to reflect is the Piedmont Rose Garden. I tend to go there in the late afternoon on days that I feel like my day job has taken up way too much of my day. I sit within close proximity of the waterfall and begin writing in my notebook. Not that I can’t write anywhere else because I definitely can. It’s just the dynamics of that place that inspire me to think deeply even when I don’t necessarily want to.

The city of Piedmont represents segregation at its finest. It is a small white affluent town that is surrounded by Oakland on all sides. If one were to look at it on a map, then one would see that technically it should be a part of Oakland. It’s a little white island in a black see, an island of sanity I suppose. Or maybe one can look at it as one of the last surviving white settlements before the Negroes ran-a-muck. No matter how you see it, every American city that has experienced white flight has one. We tend to think of racism and segregation as something relegated to the South but that notion couldn’t be further from the truth.

It is true that when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was asked to name the most hostile place in which he had ever tried to march for desegregation he answered Chicago—not Selma, not Birmingham, and not Memphis. It is also true that the transit cop who killed Oscar Grant was found innocent on charges of manslaughter, even though the prosecution had it on tape, in Los Angeles, CA—not in Louisiana, Mississippi, or Tennessee.

So I go to the rose garden to try to put things in perspective. The same rose garden that I just learned about a few years ago after living in the general vicinity my whole life. I come cloaked in the mortal sin of envy. But I do not envy any man; instead I envy the roses that bloom every spring while the human race remains closed all year round, and I envy the water for always finding a way to flow downstream while man remains so still.

To put it simply I go to the rose garden because I am obsessed with contradictions. Contradictions like a bright sun in an otherwise dark ghetto, people who use the word justice to describe murder, and roses that grow to be so beautiful in such a hideous world. I write until the sun inexorably sets then I leave, refusing to write under the manmade lights because they are too dim.

I touch a few rose petals on my way out put I never pick one. Over the years I have learned how to show my love from a distance.

Roger Porter

May 8, 2011

There are very few things in this world that are sadder to watch than a busted fighter in a championship fight. I just had the misfortune of watching Shane Mosley lose practically all 12 rounds to Manny Pacquiao. In retrospect it isn’t just that he lost the fight its how he lost. There were moments when you could tell he wanted to let his right hand go, there were several more moments when everyone watching the fight could see that Shane wanted to follow his jab up with a combination, but he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get off, he couldn’t pull the trigger, he’s too old mentally, and he really needs to retire. But see that’s exactly the problem. You can never tell a fighter to stop fighting, for that is what they do. To tell a boxer to retire because they aren’t as good as they used to be would be just as absurd as telling Terry McMillan to stop writing books because she will never be able to top Waiting to Exhale.

Writing and fighting come from the same part of the soul. Both of these crafts require moments of extreme social isolation which often times lead to feelings of intense loneliness. Both of these art forms stress individuality, and when done effectively, always bring out the deepest secrets of a person and place them on center stage. It is said that you can learn more about a person by watching them fight for one round than you would by talking to them for an entire lifetime. Indeed when you watch a person spar in the boxing gym it is the equivalent of reading their journal, their blog, and their autobiography all wrapped up into one.

So what did we learn about Shane Mosley tonight? We learned that his mind and body are no longer united, thus forcing his soul into a state of confusion. This is extremely problematic because you cannot win a championship fight—especially not against Manny Pacquiao—without mind body and soul working together in complete harmony. As much of a warrior as Shane is he can no longer will his body to do the impossible, yet when asked about retirement after the fight he stated with a bruised face and a battered heart that he “could still get in there with these young guys.” It was astonishing.

It is this mentality that kept Mark Twain writing books well into advanced stages of dementia, and it was this mentality that enabled John Milton to write Paradise Lost after he lost all of his sight. A true champion can’t help but to keep going. To keep doing it. Even after dawn has turned to dusk, even after the once large crowds dwindle down to only a faithful few, after the last bell has sounded, after the last page is published, there are still punches that need to be thrown, there are still so many words that need to be said. How can a person quit what they truly love if in fact they truly love it?

I supposed I may have to answer this question at some point in my life, but for Shane Mosley that point is right now. Shane needs to ask himself whether or not his personnel happiness is worth more than his physical health. And that is perhaps the toughest question for a real fighter like Shane Mosley to answer.

Roger Porter

May 5, 2011

There is something about spring that makes me realize how spectacularly beautiful the human race is…well at least on the surface.

I was walking down Market Street in San Francisco yesterday and was taken aback by how alive everyone looked. I almost had to squint my eyes to adjust to the glow emitted from the faces of passers-by. I walked down the middle of the sidewalk and people seemed to move past me in either direction with a determination that was almost surreal. Panhandlers pleaded for money to the rhythm provided by the street musicians. Women showed flesh and wore sunglasses, and even the air tasted sweet. Yesterday was one of those outstanding days that made me feel a little guilty. Perhaps even a little ashamed that I can catch a train in the afternoon and not have to worry about deadly nerve gas being released in the station. Or that I can walk around a densely populated area in a major metropolis and not even consider the possibility of a drone attack, or a suicide bomber taking out as many people as possible. As a matter of fact at that moment in the city I must admit I felt very carefree. The only thing that concerned me was the movie that I was about to watch in the theater.    

I’m thinking I should be grateful for days like yesterday and I genuinely am, but that does not mean that I am ignorant. At this point in the history of this country I am very aware of all the global bloodshed that enables me to be so complacent. Yeah the weather feels good but I also feel guilty. I suppose that’s the very downfall of being conscious. It’s strange but sometimes I wish I could sleep as hard as everyone else.