Viewing happiness through my own lens

At some point you’re guaranteed to feel like a fool when you’re searching for something that may not even exist. Too many of us look outward for love instead of staring at our souls and preparing ourselves for whatever life may make of us. Just because you’re by yourself does not mean you have to feel lonely. And of course the inverse of this fact is also true, as my life has proven.

 

I’ve been in very large rooms full of people with alcohol flowing and music vibrating the walls and all I wanted to do was leave. I just wanted to be as alone as I felt. I’ve lain beside women that I find to be repulsive only because I didn’t want to sleep alone. And as they took up space in my room and marred my faith, I only wished that they would leave. Or better yet that I would have had the strength to never have invited them.

 

I have just recently begun asking myself if instead of looking for a life-partner I should be searching for spiritual contentment. Perhaps this contentment will include a wife and more offspring but then maybe it won’t. There are many forms of happiness just like there are many forms of misery. The question that resonates in my mind as I compose this piece is ā€œIf joy should come into my life in completely untraditional garb would I be able to recognize it?ā€

 

I need to care even less about what people say and how I may look. I need to be able to see positivity through my own lens and completely disregard how that may appear to someone else.

-YB

Where I am

Jesus Christ never raised his voice at his followers. That’s what I think about every time I’m sitting in a church and the pastor begins to yell at the congregation. I think why is all of this necessary? When is this going to be over? Why am I here?

 

Sometimes I just want to experience the gospel without the theatrics. Sometimes I want to give to people in need on my own accord rather than to place my money gold-colored collection plate. Well actually that’s more like all the time. I’m at the point in my journey where I no longer want to dress up in luxurious clothes so everyone can admire me while I worship. I no longer want to nod my head, say amen, and get down on my knees because another man tells me to. I want to follow god and not a preacher’s interpretation of who god is. That’s where I am right now.

-YB

When Manhood was a Myth

 

And then sometimes I want to go back to the days when manhood was just a myth. When we used to sell wolf tickets about the girls we had been with to try to conceal the fact that we were still pure. When we used to pay local drug addicts to buy us cheap liquor from the Arab stores and drink until we threw up. When we used to have cap sessions for hours. I talked about his fat bottom lip because he tried to clown me about my wide nostrils. Then he talked about my old shoes so I got on him about his black ass mama. That’s when he started getting serious which meant that I had won.

 

This was before Sean got shot to death and before he went to San Quentin and even before juvenile hall. This was before H.G. lost his mind and started living on the streets and before his girlfriend had his baby and didn’t let him see his own son. This was before Kamari went to prison for life. Before he violated those women and told us that he didn’t do it but the newspaper down in San Jose said otherwise and so did the jury.

 

This was when we all played junior varsity football and we all wanted to play in the NFL and be millionaires and have all the women and pull up to the club in an old school Mustang or a brand new Lamborghini like Latrell Sprewell, C&H, and The Luniz. When we used to get on the bus all musty after practice and see a girl from school and argue over which one of us should go and try to get her number.

 

This was before I lost touch and shut down. Before my daughter was born. Before I got arrested for the first time but was never charged and started having daily fantasies about killing the police officers who harassed me and sneaking out-of-town never to return again and being a ghetto folk hero like Frank Matthews.

 

These were the days when I used to fall in love everyday with some beautiful girl that I couldn’t have as opposed to this day where I have a beautiful women that I don’t know how to love. When we believed in our future success like we believed in the words of Tupac. When we used to roam the halls of our high schools together acting way harder than we ever were. Before I had to write them letters in prison and before I had to visit them in the cemetery and before they came to my house in unkempt clothes and disheveled hair asking for a dollar, we were all friends.

 

We all wanted to be men. We all wanted to be somebody.

-YB

Soulful V: “Only the Strong go Crazy” is 12/7/13

If you are anywhere near the San Francisco Bay Area then you need to get to this event this Saturday Night…Thank me later.

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ā€œSoulful V: Only the Strong go Crazyā€ is going to shine the artistic flashlight on mental illness in our community. It was the great revolutionary Assata Shakur who once wrote ā€œOnly the strong go crazy, the weak just go alongā€ so on Saturday, December 7th at 8:00pm at the Grand Lake Coffee House six of the best independent artists in Oakland (Amol Ray, Demetrius Raiford, Luisa Lejia, Taijhet Nyobi, Victoria Michelle, and Do DAT) will refuse to just go along. We will read dynamic poems, perform passionate prose, and sing beautiful songs to create awareness for mental health.

It’s $5 at the door and a portion of the proceeds will go towards ā€œBeats, Rhymes, & Lifeā€ a community based non profit in Oakland that is dedicated to promoting positive mental health outcomes among marginalized youth through hip-hop.

Also please support the closing act DO D.A.T. who will be selling his critically acclaimed album ā€œSkinny 2: Bare Bonesā€ for only $5.

Check the line up!

Luisa Leija’s work arrives in the form of dances, prayers, and invocations of a universal spirit. Her words call us to recognize ourselves within the world we inhabit; a world that equally inhabits us. Drawing from the indigenous traditions of the Americas, Xican@ and Mexican culture, Luisa unifies themes of community, family, history, and ceremony into a seamless journey through the mystery of human existence. A search for transformation, for truth, for connection, is ever-present throughout Luisa’s work, an endeavor that is both timely and inspiring for our present world.

Demetrius Raiford is a writer, poet, hip-hop artist and current student at Laney College. He is originally from San Francisco, CA but now currently resides in Oakland.

Taijhet Nyobi teaches poetry and performance art to youth in the Bay Area. Her poetry has been published by Saul Williams and various literary magazines. Currently, she performs with local Bay Area theater productions and independent film projects, and is the 2013 recipient for Astraea’s Global Arts Fund. She is currently starring in the Oakland based web series ā€œDyke Central.ā€

Somewhere between a fond love for the double helix, a youth spent making music in various forms, and an attempt at anthropology, you have Victoria Michelle. Frequently noted as a “wordsmith”, Victoria is currently a graduate student in Anthropology at UC Berkeley who has been making her way through the Bay Area open mic scene since April 2012. Her style employs philosophy to a flow in hopes of building a bridge between academic and public discourse. But at the end of the day, her primary goal is to excavate emotion from the depths to provoke the possibility of genuine feeling and thinking. She is currently working on her first chapbook of poetry titled “She” as a reflection her journey as a young woman coming-of-age in her own skin.

Davin A. Thompson, professionally known as Do D.A.T, is an emcee, arts educator and event host, born and raised in Oakland, CA. Throughout his career, Do D.A.T has released four albums, as a member of ā€œThe Attikā€ crew,
as a solo artist, and most recently collaborating with DJ/Producer Malicious.
Listen to his music @bandcamp.dodat1.com

Amol Ray is the son of Indian immigrants and was raised in Saint Louis, Missouri. He has a writing style that is just as unique as his upbringing and he possesses a natural ability to poke fun at the cultural practices that most young Americans view as being normal. He is an alum of the highly prestigious VONA workshop and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College in Oakland, CA. He’s a also a very proud father.

Why am I educated?

Why am I educated if I still have to live from check to check? My car overheated and now I have to borrow $440 to get it fixed. I’m already behind on my student loan payments and child support so I guess owing one more person won’t really make a difference.

 

Why am I educated if my cousin still suffers from mental illness? Of all the fanciful philosophies and culturally relevant literature that I studied while at University I can share none of it with him. He is released from the county jail and comes straight to my doorstep in his county issued slippers. He asks to come in and I allow him to as long as he understands that he cannot spend the night. I give him clothes and food and he takes a shower. He wants to tell me his sad story but I don’t want to hear it again. After all the letters I’ve written and the money I’ve lent him I’m burnt out. I usher him out of the door at about 10:30pm. He bangs on my door again at 6:00am and said he left something at my house, on the table. I check for it but by the time I go back to the door to tell him it isn’t there he’s gone. How is my education going to lessen the grief that nearly overcomes me when I have to tell him that he is no longer welcome in my house and that he must never come back?

 

Why am I educated if I’m still going to live in the hood? I don’t stay on the block for street credibility or because I think it’s fly or because it’s convenient but it’s because I’m trapped. Just like the guys who hang out on the corner or the woman next door with all the children. I can’t leave. I can’t get out. I’ll probably die here overeducated and in extreme debt.

 

Why am I educated if Sean Scott, Ronnie Kid, Lamar Brown, Kevin Reese, and Eric Allen were still going to be blown away? How is my education going to stop a man from shooting 8-year-old Alaysha Carradine to death while she was at a sleepover? Is my education really helping anyone or is it creating a distance between my community and myself?

 

Why am I educated if I still can’t find full-time work? Why did I listen to the propaganda about education opening up all doors and guaranteeing success? Why am I educated and still poor? How does this happen? Is it me? I don’t get it.

 

Why am I educated if I’m still going to be confused?

 

-YB

The League of Denial of Racism

Dr. Bennet Omalu

 

I just watched the highly anticipated Frontline documentary League of Denial. It was billed as a no holds barred expose on the NFL’s insistent denial of the connection between playing football and traumatic head injuries, and it was. What bothered me way more than the concussions, however, was the unexplored theme of racism that was prevalent throughout the piece.

 

The discovery of chronic traumatic encephalopathy or CTE in NFL players can be accredited to one man— Nigerian born Dr. Bennet Omalu. He made the startling discovery, which eventually lead to massive rule changes in professional football and a $765 million settlement by the NFL when he performed an autopsy on Hall of Fame center Mike Webster. Once he published his findings the billion-dollar behemoth that is the National Football League promptly railroaded him. They had closed-door meetings based on the fallout from his research which they intentionally failed to invite him to. They discredited him personally and professionally. The NFL made things so difficult for him that he had to move across the country to Lodi, CA.

 

Apparently they had no choice but to respect Dr. Omalu’s groundbreaking research, they just needed it to come out of a white person’s mouth—enter Dr. Ann McKee. Based on the evidence depicted in the two-hour documentary it was very clear, to me at least, that Dr. McKee completely hijacked Dr. Omalu’s research and what made it even worse is NFL representatives actually sat down and spoke with her like she was the first person to present that data. Dr. McKee then complained about being treated in a sexist manner when she presented ā€œherā€ discoveries on CTE. I found it to be quite bizarre that the documentary devoted about five minutes to her claims of sexism but never spoke to the fact that she was standing on the back of a black man the whole time.

 

It was as if all fingers needed to point to the NFL in order for the viewers to receive the message, therefore analyzing institutionalized racism in the context of medical research would have been too much to process. Overall I was underwhelmed by League of Denial. It was extremely oversimplified. I really dislike it when so-called documentaries attempt to make the world resemble a comic book; good versus evil, light versus darkness, the forces of heaven versus the forces of hell, the NFL versus retired players. When will we realize that life is more complicated than an old episode of Full House? There are multiple issues functioning simultaneously that prevent us from reaching our full potential and we need to acknowledge them all.

 

I want to give a special shout out to Dr. Bennet Omalu for his bold and courageous efforts to save lives and improve the human condition. I do acknowledge you sir, even if your colleagues don’t.

-YB

Live from the Piedmont Rose Garden Part II

My life is so chaotic right now that I welcome the clichĆ© of fully bloomed roses. I take in each one as I sit on the steps of a brick waterfall. The shadows of a small exotic tree intersect with mine own and I’m ok with that as well. My muse is the same muse of many thousand other writers and that’s alright too. My mind lifted a few moments ago. It was racing down the runway at a very high-speed and then it got off the ground. It isn’t flying yet but for a very quick moment it was in the air.

 

Fall is upon us and the roses are still quite lovely. Even the dying roses possess a striking regality. People still smell them, the honeybees patronize them, and they provide the perfect contrast for their resilient freshly bloomed relatives. While here amongst the roses in Piedmont, a town that a person as dark as myself is welcome to visit but is strongly discouraged from buying property in, I almost forgot about what brought me here in the first place.

 

In the ghetto from whence I come from people tend to die several years before their actual death and not a living thing around them actually cares. No one values the life of the man himself, no one stops to admire the drug-addicted woman who has stolen from her mother to get high. In the ghetto a person enjoys no serenity in the presence of the dead. So I have temporarily escaped my circumstance to be amongst these flowers—these petaled things that I only find to be pretty because a dozen poets told me they were.Ā  I have come to these stairs to sit down because I have grown weary of standing and fighting. The romantics created an image that I believe is real. Even when I can’t see it I still believe it. I believe that flowers are more perfect than people could ever be and then I ponder whether or not William Wordsworth would shake my hand. Would Mary Shelley give me a hug, would Blake? Do they know that I’m here? Do they care?

 

-YB

The Gay Wrestler: When Coming out of the Closet isn’t Really Coming out of the Closet

What does it truly mean for a celebrity to ā€œCome out of the closetā€ in the year 2013? I mean are they doing it for the general public or are they doing it for themselves? I pose this question on the day that WWE star Darren Young tells a conniving TMZ journalist with an Irish accent that he is indeed a homosexual while at the baggage claim of an airport. Wait hold on, let me backtrack a little. Maybe the first thing I should have said is that before today I had no idea who Darren Young was. Now I’ll know him as ā€œthe gay wrestler.ā€ In a very similar fashion before Orlando Cruz came out of the closet I had no idea who he was but now I know him as ā€œthe gay boxer.ā€ The latter is probably more noteworthy because I am an avid boxing fan but I will use the former to illustrate my point.

In his coming out video Darren Young answered the question of did he think a gay wrestler could be successful in the WWE to which Young replied; ā€œAbsolutely look at me…I’m a WWE superstar and to be honest with you I’m gay and I’m happy.ā€ Then the interviewer goes into this routine where he acts like he’s shocked. If anything he’s ā€œflabbergastedā€, as he said, because Mr. Young actually told him his personal business. It wasn’t because he didn’t already know that Young was gay before he met him at the airport to ask him that question. Are we to believe that TMZ always asks male professional athletes about their sexual preferences or did the gossip site have a little inside information?

At any rate I wanted to discuss the idea of happiness as it relates to gay celebrities. Darren Young stated that he was happy and to his credit he does look very happy in the interview. With that being said it’s hard for me to believe that he is somehow happier now that he’s admitted to some dude who works for TMZ that he’s gay. I think it’s important that any one who is gay, bisexual, transgender, or questioning to tell their family and friends about what they are experiencing and who they really are on the inside. In essence I do understand the need for a gay person to come out of the closet, however, in the case of many celebrities it’s not a matter of them being in the closet at all, it’s just a matter of whether or not they want to tell millions of strangers what they prefer in the bedroom.

I’m sure Darren Young has done whatever he wants sexually with whom ever he wants for a very long time so why should that impact his professional life in any way shape or form? I honestly think that his life will be a lot worse now. What I mean by that is before some guy from TMZ put him on the spot after waiting for him in the baggage claim of an airport and asked him a question that he already knew the answer to he was able to create his own public image, now he will be dubbed ā€œthe gay wrestlerā€ for all eternity.

I can see how the interview will benefit TMZ, I can see how it will help launch the career of the mystery man behind the camera, but I don’t see how this will make Darren Young’s life any better.

 

So what do you think? Drop a few lines below.

-YB

Parisian Customs -A photo story

After spending three days in London I was blessed enough to be able to travel to Paris for the weekend. Here are a few pictures that I took during my weekend in France.

"Help us"

“Please help us” The Roma people also known as Gypsies have it very rough in Paris. This family begs for change right outside of a bustling shopping district.

American Gospel Choir is coming to Paris!

American Gospel Choir is coming to Paris!

Love Padlocks

Love Padlocks at the La Seine River

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I hope Nikita and Liza are still together.

A Brick

“A Brick” with tomatoes, eggs, ham, and cream.

Oh the irony

Oh the irony

Accordions aren't dorky in France

Accordions aren’t dorky in France

Street show

Street show above Republique Metro Center

One of my African brothers getting his hustle on

One of my African brothers getting his hustle on in front of the Eiffel Tower.

"How to Steal a Million Dollars"

“How to Steal a Million Dollars” starring Audrey Hepburn was played in the plaza directly adjacent to the Eiffel Tower on my last night in town.

Upstairs at The Ritzy

 

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I must confess that London and I got off to a very bad start. I was initially very excited to finally leave America and experience the world outside of East Oakland, CA USA. After the heinous murder of 8-year-old Alaysha Carradine, the kidnapping of another 21 month old girl, and the unrest after the travesty of justice that led to George Zimmerman being found innocent of murdering Trayvon Martin, I needed to get as far away from my ghetto as I possibly could.

I came to the United Kingdom for respite, but what I got was reality. Before I could officially set foot on foreign soil for the first time in my life this racist over zealous security agent spotted me; ā€œBlack man alert! Black man Alertā€ she must have thought. ā€œYou looked confused,ā€ is what she actually told me.

ā€œI’m searching for the exit,ā€ I said while thinking oh shit, here we go again. My instinct was right. This chick started interrogating me like she was training to be in the CIA. She asked to see my passport, what do I do for a living, where was I coming from, and ā€œOh you’re going to Paris? Paris is expensiveā€ then she looked at me with great consternation.

I didn’t say anything but eventually I asked her why this was happening. I mean I had already been questioned at the UK border and they approved me. I had the stamp on my passport to prove this but obviously my stamp wasn’t enough for her. Right after I asked her this question another agent positioned himself about 15 feet behind her. He was on the ready just in case I should get out of control. But I was cool, externally at least. She told me that she was with security and she could ask as many questions as she pleased. After a little more verbal sparring she finally let me go. As I walked to the underground I couldn’t help but to think about how ironic it was for me to be heading to the birthplace of modern racism for some kind of escape. I literally laughed out loud at the notion. The words fuck her resonated through my brain. I wasn’t going to let her take my joy away and I proved that by having an absolute blast in Brixton last night.

I went to an open mic event at a venue called Upstairs at The Ritzy. Brixton is like the hood area of London therefore I, being the lifelong ghetto dweller that I am, felt perfectly at home. The Ritzy is Brixton’s local movie theater and they reserve a room upstairs for artists to share their work. Now when I heard that there was going to be an open mic naturally I thought spoken word poetry—boy was I wrong. Everyone that got on the stage was a musician. The first five acts where all guitarist, damned good ones at that. One of them had a Bob Dylan contraption in the front of his face and played his harmonica while he strummed away on his guitar. There was a trio as well. The lead singer sang and played the guitar, there was a heavily tattooed sista with an afro singing back up, and a violinist in the group. They played a beautiful mixture of folk music and hip-hop. Needless to say I was enthralled the whole evening. I was also quite a bit puzzled. I wondered why does the open mic scene in the San Francisco Bay Area continue to be dominated by people who seem to be auditioning for a role in the movie Love Jones. I’m not saying Love Jones was a bad movie I’m only pointing to the fact that it came out over 15 years ago. Get over it people! We have way more to share.

At any rate, the open mic event in Brixton was amazing.Ā  It was precisely what I needed after that lame ass woman tried to hold me up at the airport. I’ve come to far to let racial profiling dictate my mood. My European adventure is officially underway. Stay tuned for more stories.

CHEERS! šŸ˜‰

 

-YB

 

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