Roger Porter

May 27, 2011

I got a letter from cousin the other day. He wrote it from the California State Penitentiary in Chino. Until I got the letter I thought he was still in San Quentin. I have no idea why the powers that be would send a man who was arrested in the Bay Area more than 400 miles away. I suppose they want to add to the mental torture and isolation that comes along with being in prison by separating him from all of his family. Or maybe the prison industry in Northern California was becoming more lucrative than the Southern California branch so they decided to ship them some business. I’ll never really know. All I know is what he said to me in hurried handwriting on that sheet of lined paper. He wondered why some people hadn’t returned his letters, he said he would be getting out in late August, he asked me how I was doing, he even apologized for not writing a longer letter because he had waited until the last minute and the County Officers were about to collect the mail, but nowhere did he mention why the hell he had to do his time in Chino. He didn’t even question it. It causes me great concern to know that my cousin is now taking a natural attitude toward not having any control over where his body is placed. It forces me to compare him with chattel or with a slave who has been shipped down the river to the Deep South. Although the latter reference is probably a bit disrespectful to my ancestors because after all my cousin did allow himself to be put in this situation. He wasn’t born into prison like blacks in the antebellum south were born into slavery; he did something stupid that put him there. It was a crime heinous enough to shock our family; however it was also a crime only worth a 2 year sentence. At times I feel just as helpless as he has now been rendered behind bars because all I want is for him to come out and be able to function in society as a man, and be able to stand on his own two feet and provide for his family. In an ideal world he would come out relatively unscathed and be able to move on with his life. In an ideal world he wouldn’t be in there in the first place. But as we know this country is not ideal for a black man. My cousin will inevitably come out traumatized and shell shocked. He’ll be paranoid and feel out of place in the real world. He’ll be upset when he notices that the world continued to move while he was away and perhaps most significantly for the first time in his life, he will be a convicted felon. He will have to go to job interviews with a giant CF carved onto his forehead. He will ultimately have to move in with his sister. They will argue, it will be chaos, and he will fall. I don’t want him to fall. I pray that he doesn’t but how can he stay upright with the world on his shoulders and memories of Chino and San Quentin weighing on his brain? I fear that the world, which wasn’t enough for him before he went in, will become way too much once he is released. I wish that I could step in and give him an honest job. I wish I could make the situation right but I can’t. I have to make my own situation right and I know that sounds shady but that is the truth. I don’t have the resources to guide my cousin down the right path and I don’t have the patience to allow him to live with me, all I have is my ability to write. I will return his letter sometime this weekend. I just needed to clear my head. Now my head is clear.

Roger Porter

May 26, 2011

I’ve been listening to Adele’s new album entitled 21 everyday for about a week straight. It’s a beautiful feeling when you put a CD in and you can tell by about the 2^nd song that what you are listening to is classic material. Adele put every emotion she has ever experienced into each note of 21. When I listen to it I wonder how far is too far for an artist? I mean can you ever give too much?

Adele made such a tremendous sacrifice by sharing her pain with us in such a visceral way. When I listen to her she inspires me to go even further with my work. If Adele can give everything then I can too and I will have no shame. And I will become stronger for doing so, and then once I’ve given all there is to give then maybe I will be able to feel her music even more. Then it would all be worth it.

Roger Porter

May 25, 2011

I was at the boxing gym one day jumping rope while watching these two men spar in the ring. One of the men was young, tall, and frail. The other was older, shorter, but more muscular. The younger fighter was around 20 years old and he turned out to be no real match for the more experienced boxer. By the end of the 1^st round there was a slow trickle of blood streaming from his left nostril. The trainer of the young fighter sent him out for two more rounds and although he showed heart he took a lot of punishment for it.

By the end of the session blood flowed freely from both of his nostrils. He tried to sniff it up but it began to pour onto his top lip as he climbed out of the ring. Perhaps it was because he was embarrassed or perhaps he was still high off of adrenaline or maybe it was both but as he approached me he wore a deep goofy grin—the kind I’ve seen on the faces of teenagers high on ecstasy pills. Before he went to the bathroom to clean his face he said to me;

“That’s the only time I feel alive when I’m in that ring.”

Initially it sounded troubling coming from the mouth of a man so young but as I began to ponder his statement the truth was undeniable. As adults we learn to keep everything inside until the time is appropriate to release it; all of our fears, all of our pain, and all of our regrets. When we bleed, however, it is a rare instance when what moves around inside of us comes out for the world to see. If one has ever seen his or her own blood pouring from ones flesh then one knows that initially it is almost always shocking to be exposed in that manner. For everyone knows that blood is the fluid that courses through our veins but to actually see it is something else all together. In a very real sense blood represents life. Thus when we bleed it makes a moment real.

And then sometimes when we don’t bleed it makes a moment even more real.

As in when one discovers that they are going to have a child. When the normal flow of blood is interrupted by a new life it forever alters ones universe. I received this information from my girlfriend at about 11:00pm one night. It was a very surreal conversation that took place over 6 years ago. It was a wild experience for her to discover that there would be no more blood for at least 9 months; no heavy flow, no light flow, no flow at all. Something that had been a regular occurrence to her since adolescence had vanished and there was an actual creature moving, growing, and kicking inside of her. It took away her appetite sometimes and increased it at others. Ultimately it consumed every aspect of her being until alas a woman child was born; a little 6 pound thing that shared our blood and screamed with life. This little baby now represented more than the stoppage of blood, she was now truly alive.

During my existence on Earth I’ve seen blood in many forms. I’ve seen it run in rivulets, I’ve seen it collected in pools on the concrete, I’ve seen it make white shirts bright red, and I’ve seen it make blue jeans dark and wet. Every time I see blood I become hyper-sensitive to the world around me. I am forced to remember that life can be such a brutal journey. I realize that it is everything beneath the flesh that gives us depth and makes us real, for everything else is merely on the surface.

Roger Porter

May 23, 2011

Remember that brief but magical period of time after Barrack Obama was elected president and before Oscar Grant was murdered by BART cops? I am convinced that the months of November and December 2008 was the absolute high point for American politics. It was a golden minute if you will.

I must admit even after I voted for Obama I never, never, never, ever thought that he would actually win. I just knew that white America would never allow a black man to run this country so when they did I had to question myself. I had to question the radical agenda that has come to define me since adolescence. I recall contemplating for hours about how much of a pessimist I had become and how it was eating away at my soul. For it had now been proven that America was nowhere near as racist as I thought it was—it was a very strange time.

During those last months of 2008 I felt, dare I say it, almost patriotic. I felt like I was included in the American dream. I honestly felt proud of the system. For two months I was lost in a state of bliss only previously known to the American elite.

And then no sooner than I went to sleep I saw the video tape of Oscar Grant being murdered on the 5:00 news and was forced to wait about a month before any official charges were filed. This caused me to wake up flustered and embarrassed with myself for believing that things had changed; that progress had been made, that WE were headed in the right direction. It’s a shame.

I am, however, still grateful to say that I lived in the golden minute of American politics. I will cherish that moment for the rest of my life.

Roger Porter

May 22, 2011

I sit down to write this blog entry a day after Harold Camping falsely predicted the world would end in a biblical apocalypse known as rapture. I can’t really go in-depth as to why Camping chose May 21, 2011 as the last day for the human race because I, like the vast majority of people on Earth, refused to take Camping seriously so I tuned him out.

But what if we lived in an era in which a very large percentage of the American population was so disenchanted with the ways of government that they bought into Camping’s ideas? What if almost every young luminary had an idea about how to shut down this country’s government and create a new one that benefitted ALL the people? What if instead of rapture there was revolution? And what if people—similar to Nat Turner looking up from the slave quarters of the plantation upon a blood red moon—believed that the day of revolt was upon us?

I’m referring to that timeframe from the late 60’s to the late 70’s when people talked about revolution like it was a political party. There was so much change but there also seems to have been so much chaos and disillusionment. On one hand you have the formation of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense along with young people embracing peace and love but on the other hand you have the Jonestown Massacre and Charles Manson’s vision of Helter-Skelter. Either way it’s amazing to me to be able discover a time when radicals were brought to the table to have a discussion along with democrats and republicans. I believe this made a much more intelligent and open-minded society.

It always seems kind of funny to me when I watch John Stewart and Bill O’Reilly go head to head in a debate as if they represent two opposing sides of the political spectrum when in actuality they do not. The truth is that both of these individuals believe wholeheartedly in the American political system. In order to make it a true debate you would have to have one of them verbally spar with a real revolutionary; not a democrat, not a republican, and not an independent.

At any rate a friend of mine posted a video on facebook that got the wheels of my brain spinning in this particular direction. Pasted below is a link to the incomparable John Lennon on the Dick Cavett show. Check it out!      

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRq1mp4VArA&feature=share

Roger Porter

May 20, 2011

There is no better place to be in Oakland, CA USA than Lake Merritt on a sunny day. The energy is so positive that it is almost unbelievable. It must be the only place in the town where everyone who you see smiles at you. I must say that I love the lake so much that I can actually jog there with no I-pod on. I just listen to the sounds made by all of the beautiful things around me. The families with the small children riding bikes with training wheels, the middle-aged man huffing and puffing trying to make it the whole 3 miles distance, the two women chatting about work while speed walking down Lakeshore Boulevard, the storks, the cranes, the pigeons, the ducks, it’s all good and at night-time it gets even better.

The sight of Lake Merritt all lit up at night is one of the more breathtaking things I have ever seen. It exudes a very real sense of calm and appreciation; an appreciation of life, of earth, and of all things lovely. Lake Merritt is right in the middle of the town and therefore it is considered to be our heart. It pumps life into every person who has ever called Oakland home. The sight of it revitalizes us all.

Roger Porter

May 18, 2011

Today I found myself engaged in a conversation with a group of kids who attend a local continuation high school. We talked about the war, and their futures, and then somehow we ended up talking about the movie Poetic Justice. It was at this point in our chat that I had to show how much older than them I was because while I saw the movie with my older brother in the theater, it came out before any of them were born.

It made matters even worse when I began sharing memories with them about the day Tupac died. It was really interesting because they only know of Pac as a legend or some kind of symbol. They know him in the same way that I know Marvin Gaye and Jimi Hendrix. Tupac represents something instilled in them by their parents not as something they themselves discovered and learned to appreciate.

It’s crazy but I remember not really understanding Tupac’s music until the posthumous release of the Makaveli album. When Me Against the World came out I was merely a 12-year-old child. I had no idea that Pac was prophesying the rest of my life to a beat. All I knew was that it was one sad song after another and I wished my brother’s tape would break so I didn’t have to hear it again.

Makaveli made me stop in my tracks. By then I was a mid-teen and I had experienced a little something. So the first time I heard “Hail marry” I just had to put it on repeat (thank god we had gotten a C.D. player by then). In a few days I had memorized the whole song. Pac’s voice on that track was so eerie, so wise, and so profound that it made me go back and listen to all of his other music. It was only after he died that I realized how great he was and how truly righteous he wanted to be.

I tried to explain this to the students though I’m not sure they got it. A few of them just nodded their heads and one of them said “Yeah Pac shit be slappin.”

It’s fascinating how history works.

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.