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.

Roger Porter

May 2, 2011

There is so much trouble in the world right now, so much confusion, and so much futility.

I’m sorry but I won’t allow myself to confuse murder with justice. I understand that a lot of people feel like Bin Laden deserved to die for what he did, and maybe part of me does too, but that doesn’t make it justice. Justice in America is due process and, for all of those who have recently forgotten, we pride ourselves as a Christian nation. As followers of Christ and believers in Holy Scripture it’s hard for me to see how we can celebrate the murder of 5 people. If murder is an abomination then that should hold true for everyone. As a civilized people we should not make exceptions for anyone no matter how heinous their crimes. It is our duty to show enlightenment even in the way we punish criminals— especially in the way we punish criminals. But in the case of Bin Laden there was only a dead body dumped in the sea. There will be no prison time for him, no reformation, no suffering, just the martyr’s death that he has probably dreamed of since he was a little boy.

And what do we make of the heavily populated city where Bin Laden was killed? Pakistan has some of the poorest regions in the world, yet Bin Laden was able to walk around town with a $25 million price tag on his head for years. In the end it wasn’t a member of his organization or any of his countrymen that killed him for the money; to the contrary, it was US Navy SEALS who killed him because it was their job. This speaks volumes to the dedication of his followers. And it makes me question our objective in this so-called war on terror.

 I mean are we supposed to bomb these people into submission? Are we supposed to show them the light of democracy? Are we supposed to just keep slugging it out until we win? Well then what classifies as a victory because, as capitalists, there is no way we are going to change the ideology of a culture that has very little regard for money. How does America defeat an organization that would pass up on $25 million everyday for 10 years straight in the name of faith and honor?

The death of Bin Laden has been touted by some as the biggest victory in the war on terror but I see it differently. All I see is yet another casualty in a war that should have never been started in the first place. I see several more strikes from both sides in what now amounts to global gangbanging. I see a lot more deaths, I see continued military presence, I see a lot of things, but what I don’t see is an end. I don’t see justice and I don’t see god. All I see is death.

Roger Porter

May 1, 2011

I would much rather have heard that Osama Bin Laden had been captured than to find out he has been killed. It would have brought me a terrific amount of joy to know that Osama Bin Laden was in federal custody somewhere on US soil awaiting trial. Then he would be forced to answer personally to the family members of the many thousands of people whom he has massacred not only in America but in Kenya and Tanzania as well.

I would have liked to see Bin Laden do life in the penitentiary just like my uncle is doing life. Perhaps it would have been comical to hear stories of Bin Laden walking the yard barefoot because no one put money on his books. Or to hear of him flipping out on a correctional officer because he couldn’t get a phone call, or they skipped his turn to take a shower, or because his commissary was late, or they refused to give him his mail.

I would have been elated if Osama were made to suffer like my people suffer over dope charges, robbery beefs, and the infamous 3^rd strike. For if anyone deserves to have their minds slowly debilitated in the United States prison system it’s Osama Bin Laden. Not Leonard Peltier, or Mummia Abu Jamal, but a real killer of innocent people.

If Osama Bin Laden was given a fair trial and sentenced to life in a maximum security federal penitentiary somewhere in the state of Colorado then that would be justice. His being killed inside a mansion in Pakistan is not. Osama Bin Laden never had to do any time for his crimes against humanity.

Osama Bin Laden got off easy.

Roger Porter

April 30, 2011

Today I found myself at Natural Bridges State Park near Santa Cruz, CA. Natural Bridges is the perfect place to go on a warm spring day because of its magnificent beach and the breathtaking views. The people are beautiful too, and they seemed to represent every corner of the world…every corner except mine. I realized as I was showing my daughter the amazing tide pools at the park that outside of us there were no other black people there.

The beach was really crowded as a matter of fact. There were Pakistanis, Indians, Filipinos, French people, Mexicans, Whites, Asians, but no black folk to be seen. I thought to myself maybe it’s because Santa Cruz has a very small African-American population but then as we walked through the park I heard several different languages being spoken and I smelled a very diverse array of ethnic foods being cooked on the grill. It became pretty clear that everyone there was not from Santa Cruz proper or even the surrounding area.

The lack of blackness at the beach puzzled me a bit. I can’t understand how a group of people who lived on the coast of Africa for thousands and thousands of years, unlearned loving the beach so quickly. And it isn’t just the beach either. It’s also understood that hiking, and camping are extremely uncool things for black people to do (incidentally I enjoy doing all of these activities regularly). How did this happen? How did appreciating the beauty of the Earth become strictly forbidden for the Earths original people?

I can’t give a very thorough answer to that question; however, I know it has a lot to do with the legacy of slavery and segregation. I know a large part of institutionalized racism is confining an oppressed group to a certain space and disallowing them to ever come out. That’s what ghettos, barrios, shantytowns, and favelas are all about and today was proof as to how effective those constructs have become. After a while people don’t even try to leave their boundaries. Not even on a gorgeous Saturday in the liberal state of California.

It was a very nice day at the beach though. We saw starfish, crabs, and jellyfish, built a sand castle and played in the water until close to sunset. I made it a point that we were among the last people to leave just to represent because after all, you know how we do— LOL.

Roger Porter

April 28, 2011

I listen to Nina when I’m feeling really down. It’s been this way for about 5 years now and I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it’s because when I hear the pain inside her voice it makes my own issues seem insignificant. Maybe it’s because her voice is as pure as the church house is supposed to be thus I have come to appreciate the way it washes away my daily sins and past transgressions.

I have never heard a Nina Simone record played on the radio which undoubtedly adds to her mystique. An old girlfriend of mine introduced me to her music some years back and I’ve been in love with Ms. Simone ever since. There’s something about discovering a musician through word of mouth that is extremely empowering. I feel as though I have a personal relationship with Nina. It is as if I have access to a secret that only real music fans know about. When I hear Wild is the Wind I know my baby is singing to me. I know she is striking those piano keys for me. I know she misses me. I know she loves me. I know she is as obsessed with me as I am with her and it is only through the appreciation of timeless art that we are allowed to be in love.

I once tried to share my adoration for Nina Simone with my mother over Sunday breakfast. I asked her whether she listened to Nina when she was younger. She scrunched up her face and replied; “I don’t know. She’s just so ugly.” I immediately changed the topic, feeling let down and oh so hurt. I was also very perplexed, wondering why her looks mattered at all. Of course I think she is beautiful but that’s not the point. The reality is that most Americans would probably side with my mother on that issue. Moreover it strikes me as absurd to know that if Nina were an aspiring artist today she probably wouldn’t be able to get a record deal for that exact reason. Never mind the fact that she was a classically trained pianist, disregard the intense spiritually of her recordings, and her dedication to uplifting oppressed people. Ugly women don’t sell records. Even the most righteous woman I have ever met can’t help but to prove that theory to be correct.

Thank god mama’s baby child has learned to choose his own path over the years, for this is a love that I am willing to fight over. I would disassociate myself from the whole world to be with the woman who reminded me that I am Young Gifted and Black at a time when I felt like a failure. There were moments when I forgot who I was and she sang to me in the middle of the night; “You kiss me and with your kiss my life begins. Daddy you’re Spring to me, all things to me. Don’t you know you’re life itself?” With that I became rejuvenated, refocused, resurrected. Maybe I would have given up a long time ago had I not known that Nina would never give up on me.

So I think of her when I am uninspired and I call on her when everyone else claims to be unavailable and Nina has never let me down because My Baby Just Cares for Me.

Roger Porter

April 27, 2011

Remember when we were young and higher education was marketed to us like the latest toy during Christmas time, except it wasn’t just seasonal it was all year round? When I was a kid the media, teachers, and adults in general made it seem like if you got a college degree then you were set for life. Now you’ll find people with BA’s, MA’s, and PhD’s in the same unemployment line as high school dropouts.

It’s a shame and I didn’t really start thinking about it until I was driving through the city running some errands while listening to Young Jeezy (who is a very underrated M.C. by the way). Jeezy dropped the lines; “I said I’m so hot/ but my house cool/ So many rooms that it look like a high school/ Speaking of high school/ I never passed that/ No work right here/ Know where the cash at.” As I listened to the record I thought damn, knowing what I know now should I continue to stress a college education to the younger generation or just encourage them go out into the real world and pursue their dreams as soon as possible? It’s true that if they drop out of high school they probably won’t make it but if they finish high school—and college—then they probably still won’t make it.

With the current economic depression people may as well just go for it. And I’m not saying people should put all of their energy into buying a million dollar home, jewelry, and a Lamborghini. What I am saying, however, is the time is now propitious for people to chase their wildest dreams. At the present time everyone should go for broke because chances are you’ll wind up broke anyway.