Roger Porter

4/22/11

Sometimes when I’m in the midst of people watching while at a Cafe or walking down the street, I admit to having very random thoughts. Often times I see people who are mentally ill talking to themselves and blurting out obscenities or whatever else comes to mind and I become envious. I know how strange that must sound but I cannot deny the truth.

I am aware that most people are either repulsed by the mentally ill, indifferent, or sympathetic however you must be aware that I’m not most people. I honestly think that it takes a lot of courage to walk down the street wearing whatever clothes you want to wear, unkempt hair, and an unshaven face knowing that people are going to point, laugh, or stare and not care at all. I admire the people who we tend to call crazy in a way because no matter what happens they continue to sing their song. They refuse to fall in line like the rest of us and do normal things, and have normal ambitions, and wear normal clothes. Assata Shakur once wrote; “Only the strong go crazy. The weak just go along.” Therefore the mentally ill people who we see on the streets may not have families or homes like us “sane” folks but they have something that we don’t have—the strength to go against the grain.

 And on these days I just want to give up my laptop and roam the Earth until my shoes get holes in the bottom. I want to wear a full length leather jacket in the middle of July and walk around shirtless in the winter not caring if I live or die. Then maybe I’ll meet a friend that no one else can see but me and we’ll have lengthy conversations about love, hypocrisy, sweet potato pie, and The Little Mermaid. And when we walk down the street people will clear the way and give us the whole sidewalk because they respect us that much. And we will have peace of mind, we will have healthy souls, and we will truly love ourselves. People will look at us and shake their heads as if to say what a shame, and we will have pity on those poor unfortunate souls because both of us had the foresight to jump out right before the whole thing exploded while they all died in the wreck.

Then my daydream ends. I save my document, logout, and close my laptop.

Roger Porter

4/21/11

Tyler Perry recently said that Spike Lee can go straight to hell during a press conference for his latest Madea movie. Apparently he is still irritated by Spike Lee saying his movies are “coonery, bafoonery” back in 2009. So now we officially have two more prominent African-Americans that have decided to have beef. Sometimes it seems like beefing is our most celebrated past time. We’ve had WEB Dubois and Booker T. Washington go at it, Zora Neale Hurston and Richard Wright, James Baldwin and Eldridge Cleaver, Martin and Malcolm, Ralph Ellison and Amiri Baraka, Pac and Biggie. Sometimes it seems like you can just sum up black history by reading “The Battle Royal” scene in Ralph Ellison’s book The Invisible Man. That is to say it seems like we’re just fighting one another blindly much to the amusement and benefit of the ruling class. Now I’m not saying that there is anything wrong with having opposing viewpoints–after all it would be impossible to have meaningful discourse if everyone had the same opinion–all I’m saying is that as black people we take it to the extreme. It seems as though there are no respectful disagreements in our culture. When two black people have an issue, especially two black men, it’s almost always a fight to the death. Internalized racism is a beast. It never ceases to amaze me how programmed to hate one another we truly are. Whether it be on the streets, in the press, on a record, or on the written page–we are consumed by our disdain for ourselves. We hate one another everyday and in every possible way.

Roger Porter

April 19, 2011

It’s kind of funny to me when I see these young high school kids with high top fades and intricate designs cut into their heads trying to bring the early 1990’s back. It makes me think about the sheer irony of that era. It was a time when you could find bootleg Black Bart Simpson T-shirts being sold on the street corner with Bart saying things like; “We come from Kings and Queens man!” I remember the fashion of that era being very vibrant like purple and yellow Cross Color overalls, and the music was extremely proud and bold.

There were groups like Arrested Development, Public Enemy was still heavily in the mix, and of course you had the X-Clan which was my favorite of all the black nationalist hip-hop groups. I used to go crazy when the chubby dude  would say “We are protected by the Red, the Black, and the Green, and we have the key– SISSY!” It’s hard to even imagine a time when there was a multitude of popular hard-core conscious hip-hop artists but when I was a boy in elementary school it was a reality. People used to wear Malcolm X hats and use picks with a black fist design serving as the handle to pick their afros. It was cool to wear African medallions and beads in the streets, indeed it appeared to be a brief era of Afro-centrism and racial solidarity. Beneath the surface, however, it was one of the most violent era’s on record. Homicide statistics were through the roof and black on black crime was at an all time high.

But then again I wasn’t really into analyzing crime data as a young kid so I didn’t  know how bad things really were. Me and my sister thought it was a natural thing to have to watch American Gladiators on the floor Saturday Nights because we heard gunshots, or to see the light from the police helicopter shining through the living room window. We figured that was the way it was supposed to be. We knew nothing of housing segregation, unfair lending practices by the banks, crack epidemic, blah, blah, blah.

 My major concern was why didn’t my high top ever grow. I wanted it to look like Kid’s from the House Party movie but it was just a little nappy puff. And when it did grow the barber would just cut it back down again and tell me he was trying to shape it up. Now that was a tragedy to me. Hmmm its interesting because when I think about it maybe that’s why I laugh at these little retro kids running around town. Maybe I think it’s a joke that they get to pick what they want from the era of my childhood instead of experiencing it all. They get to have their high top fades without the Malt liquor commercials and daily gunshots.

 Sometimes I feel like they don’t realize how good they really have it, but then maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

Roger Porter

April 17, 2011

This past Tuesday a New York woman named Lashanda Armstrong drove a minivan occupied by her 4  kids into the Hudson River killing herself and all but one of the children. Recently some family members have confirmed that Lashanda was involved in an abusive relationship which is more than likely what triggered her suicidal actions. Newspapers have reported that she felt alone and overwhelmed in the months leading up to her death. I think the situation is completely disheartening and I hope that this will help to make mental health services more readily available, particularly to single mothers, but other than that I cannot sympathize with those who take the lives of their own children.

If Ms. Armstrong would have only killed herself then that would have been another issue all together but I can’t make an emotional connection with a person who drowns an 11 month old child. I do realize that I speak mostly out of ignorance. It is true that I have no idea what it’s like to have a child at the age of 15 and to be strapped down with 4 by the time you are 25. I also realize that as a man I will never know what it’s like to be a mother; to have a baby grow inside your womb, suckle milk from your flesh, and to cling to you 24 hours a day. Yes I am aware of all of these facts, however, from reading about this incident in the paper and watching the coverage on television I feel as though we need to be careful. I don’t want to dismiss Lashanda for I know that she could be any young abused mother anywhere in America. What I do want to say is that regarding this particular situation sympathy can only take us so far. We as a country have got to care enough about our families to say what Lashanda did was absolutely wrong and we as a society have got to make sure that this never happens again.

We need more mental health services such as counselors, clinics, psychiatrists and psychologists in our communities and we need them right now. We also need to monitor the behavior of our neighbors in order to make sure children are not being abused. We need to be more supportive of single mothers and care about other peoples children, not just our own. I know it can be difficult but there is nothing more difficult than dealing with the murder of 3 innocent children.

This should never happen again.

Roger Porter

April 15, 2011

Is there such a thing as too much freedom? I pose this question in response to the extremely high divorce rate along with the very common American practice of having children out-of-wedlock. I feel like part of the problem is we’ve advanced as a society perhaps a little too much and we’ve become liberated in all the wrong areas.

From the time of the very first homo sapiens until right now I doubt that human sex practices have changed very much. As long as there are young people with very little responsibility they will always take chances. Translation: Unexpected pregnancies are bound to happen. This is the same thing that happened to our parents, our grandparents, and our great grandparents. They got a little frisky in their youth, one thing led to another, and they became pregnant. The only difference is when they got knocked up they got married and for the most part we don’t. And why don’t we? Well basically because we don’t have to.

Back in the day, however, it was mandatory. If you got a woman pregnant you were stuck with her for life. And once a couple was married there was no getting a divorce. A woman couldn’t leave a man under any circumstances and so she was stuck with him as well. He could be beating on her and she could be cheating on him but it didn’t matter–you worked things out. And I know it sounds oppressive (well basically it is) but at the same time there’s a certain honor in that. There’s a certain pride in being down for somebody for the rest of your life and having them be down for you. I kind of admire a society that pressures couples to stay together no matter what as opposed to being OK with spouses who file for divorce over secret text messages.

I don’t know maybe I should enjoy the new freedoms that we have but it becomes hard when I look at the poor shape of our families. I mean I’m not saying that people should live a lie when they are clearly unhappy but the truth is no one is perfect. We all have our issues so what’s wrong with suffering a little bit for love?

             Roger Porter

April 13, 2011

               Just a few hours ago I found myself rereading James Baldwin’s Sonny’s Blues for probably about the 35^th time. One of the reasons why I enjoy reading the story as much as I do is because it is so rich. It’s one of those stories where each time you read it you notice something amazing about it that you hadn’t noticed before.

                There’s a scene in the story when the narrator goes to pick up his baby brother Sonny from jail. During the cab ride home Sonny requests that they take the scenic route because he hadn’t seen the city since he was arrested. Initially the idea appears to be a good one as they ride through an upscale section of town but ultimately they wind up driving through the same ghetto that they grew up in. It is at this moment that Baldwin provides the insight that only he can provide; “Some escaped the trap, most didn’t. Those who got out always left something of themselves behind, as some animals amputate a leg and leave it in the trap.” And when I read the passage in silence I had to reread it, and then reread it yet again, and then finally I had to read it out loud.

                It’s kind of wild to me that James Baldwin was calling the ghetto the trap at least 4 decades before Young Jeezy and TI ever mentioned it on a rap record. And the sheer accuracy of the metaphor is mind-boggling. How naïve are some people to actually believe that they can erase all remnants of their ghetto past by going to an elite school or marrying someone who is from a well off background? If you were raised in the ghetto then the ghetto will inevitably affect your behavior for the rest of your days even if you move out. I mean how could it not?

                One thing I noticed relatively early on in my hood upbringing is that to be smart—that is to do well in school—is  equal to treason. I’m not exactly sure why this is but I do know that in the 7^th grade I once made the inexcusable mistake of getting a perfect report card and was traumatized by the reaction I got from my peers. I was branded a square, the worst thing a kid in an inner city public school could possibly be. In fact I was derided so relentlessly by the other kids that I ended up having to get into a fist  fight to prove that I wasn’t a punk. Not only did I win the fight but I was also suspended from school for 3 day which, thank god, made me cool once again.

                But the damage was already done. I immediately began to conceal my intelligence as if I were ashamed of it. And even to this day it is very rare that I will discuss my education in person. So unfortunately, even though I’ve successfully navigated through all the pitfalls of the ghetto I have left pride in my education in the same trap that James Baldwin so vividly depicted in Sonny’s Blues– a story first published in 1957.

                I guess when it comes to the hood things never change.

Roger Porter

April 12, 2011

I’m a 22-year-old English major at UC Berkeley. After I listen to a lecture on Chaucer’s The Parliament of Fowls I go to the library and try to get a descent sense of what I just heard by studying my notes. After I leave the library I hop on the 40L toward East Oakland. As the riders on the bus change from geeky college kids to Berkeley Bohemians and then to average everyday hood folks, I sit in the back corner seat looking out of the window trying desperately to daydream.

When the bus reaches Havenscourt and Foothill Boulevard a young man gets on the bus. He is even younger than me. He is wearing a thin knee-length black leather jacket, blue jeans, a gray sweater, a black beanie, and black Lugz boots. His skin is the same shade of brown as mine. He stomps to the back of the bus and sits down hard into the seat directly in front of me. The seats are set up so that I am facing his right side.

The young man looks forward at nothing and blinks half a speed faster than it seems like he should. He turns to me and asks if I want to buy a bottle of cool water cologne. I say no. He turns back forward and shakes up a bottle of cologne in his hand as one would shake a can of whipped cream or spray paint. He sprays some cologne on his jeans, he sprays on his leather jacket, a few squirts on his face, and finally he sprays some into his mouth.

It troubles me that his mind is deteriorating at such a young age. I am also troubled by my decision to stay in my old neighborhood to save money instead of moving somewhere by campus. At this moment I want nothing more than to live in some apartment on College Avenue in order to escape the ghetto for once in my life.

As I get off the bus it pains me that I saw myself in that young black crazy man.

Roger Porter

April 11, 2011            

At this very moment that I am writing this blog I am 29 years old. Not that there is anything wrong with that. In fact I am truly blessed to have made it this far when so many people have been lost along the way. In addition to that I’ve accomplished quite a few things  in my life that make me very proud. For the most part, however, I’m still trying to figure everything out. I’m trying to determine how I can impact the world in the most positive way and feed my family at the same time. And on the most basic level I’m still trying to figure out me.

That’s why I find it to be so astonishing that someone as great as Fred Hampton was killed at the age of 20. It’s hard to believe that he could do so much for his people and rise through the ranks of the Black Panther Party all before he was able to legally have a drink. In a similar vein Assata Shakur was only 25 when she was involved in that infamous shootout with police on the New Jersey turnpike. In only 25 years she managed to become one of Black America’s most important revolutionaries. Assata fought everyday for what she believed in and is still struggling for equal rights in Cuba to this very day.

My admiration for these two  prophets, as well as countless others, is ineffable. To be so young and to have so much clarity is really rare. At 20 years old I was so lost and at 25 I was just coming out of my youthful stupor. It is only now at the age of 29 that I genuinely feel as though I’m headed in the right direction. Therefore on this day I salute Sista Assata Shakur and Chairman Fred Hampton for being so strong and so wise so early on in their lives, and I thank them because I know they did it for me.

Roger Porter

April 9, 2011

I was watching an old school Bell, Biv, Devoe video posted by a friend on facebook when I noticed a familiar face wearing a sexy dress with a bass guitar in her hand. I looked a little closer and realized it was none other than the respected actress Ms. Nia Long. This was the video for Do Me Baby which came out in 1990, almost a year before she was introduced to the world in the film Boyz in the Hood.

Nia Long of course is not the only one. Both Jada Pinkett-Smith and Vivica A. Fox starred in music videos before making the leap to the silver screen as well, which compels me to pose the question “Whatever happened to actresses being able to use music video’s as a vehicle for their burgeoning careers?” I don’t know exactly when but at some point all women in music videos became “video hoes” destined to be nothing more than big bootied strippers for the rest of their days. I mean could you imagine any of the girls in Nelly’s Tip Drill video or Buffy the Body playing a supporting role in the next Tyler Perry movie?

It’s kind of sad actually because I’m sure every woman who dances in a video is not turning tricks in the back of a strip club or making pornos for a little extra money. For all we know some of them could be world-class thespians who graduated from Julliard and are trying to pay back their student loans. It doesn’t matter anymore though because the stigma now associated with dancing in a video is way too strong. It’s like a trap that young women can’t seem to get out of these days.

As if breaking into the industry wasn’t hard enough already. It’s really unfortunate.

April 7, 2011

Crazy things happen when you don’t have cable. I was just flipping through the few basic channels that my TV receives when I caught a rhythm, so of course I stopped flipping and listened. It was a local station that plays videos from all over the African diaspora late at night. And the image on my screen was that of slender, brown-skinned gentleman, with curly hair that goes by the name of K’naan.

The beat that he rhymed and sang over was pretty catchy and his lyrics were somewhat profound, but what really caught my attention was the name of his album. It was called The Dusty Foot Philosopher. It’s such an incredibly humble image reminiscent of the barefoot servant. When I read it on the screen it made me wonder what happened to our humility here in the United States. What kind of inner-confidence does K’naan–a Somali born Canadian MC– possess that all of my favorite American born hip-hop artist have lost? Because, honestly, I can’t see the most righteous American rapper giving his album such a bold title and expecting it to sell. Why is that? I mean shouldn’t we expect our artist to be humbletruthsayers and not extravagant egomaniacs? Or maybe it can never be that simple.

On a personal level I am extremely ambivalent towards materialism. I am opposed to ostentatious displays of wealth through jewelry and fancy cars but at the same time I just spent $117 dollars on some tennis shoes that I don’t need yesterday. That’s pretty far removed from being either a barefoot servant or a dustyfoot philosopher. Or sometimes I’ll go through a phase where I’m deep in my craft  of creative writing and I’ll wear old worn out jeans everyday and refuse to shave or cut my hair, but then I’ll take my daughter to the mall and let her get whatever she wants. Is that not the same thing?  Is that not evidence of me being just as blinded by capitalism as the man who raps about his Bently or the woman who sings about her designer handbag? It seems like I have the same mentality as they do it’s just that they have more money to burn.

But once again the truth is never that simple. I would be remissed for not giving myself credit for at least trying to be a more humble person. In the end, however, I do wonder whether or not that will be enough. I don’t know but then again that’s not for me to decide.