They asked me to read so I’m reading. Forgive me in advance if I read out of tune, for it’s been a long while 😉

Save the date for the third installment of Brown People Don’t Read? at LitCrawl 2013.

• Saturday, October 19, 2013
• 

  8:30pm until 9:30pm

  Gravel & Gold

  3266 21st Street, San Francisco, California

Hear stories and poems from emerging Bay Area writers of color who will prove that brown people do indeed read and write. Featuring Scott Duncan, Lisa Gray, Sylvia Eugenia Kakassy, Roger Porter, and Blanca Torres.

https://www.facebook.com/events/163316000540668/

I love people but I hate the way people act around other people.

February 6, 12

I remember how I used to stare at her while she looked away

It’s funny how confidence always overpowers shame

Before I learned by limitations I thought I could have her

I used to think that I was that guy before I realized I was this one.

I’ve never been a big dreamer

I’ve never allowed myself to get lost

I’ve never been able to believe that lie

I’ve never been able to visualize what separated me from him.

I can’t recall how it all became so confusing

Pain remains consistent and violence is inescapable

It hurts to be aware of who you are

I wonder what happens to unrequited love

I wonder if it will ever come back to me.

YB

Roger Porter

May 19, 2011

Relationships are very difficult in general. Being in a committed relationship with a black man probably makes that task 10 times more difficult—Ok sisters I get it. As a black man I am the first to admit that sometimes we make it impossible to love us. For a lot of brothers the issue is that it is hard to love someone else when you do not love yourself. For this black man it’s trauma and baggage. After all being hurt really hurts, what else can I say.

So now with all of that being put out there, I would like to ask all of the scorned black female lovers of America to please tone it down a little bit. I’m getting so tired of hearing women talk about all black men being dogs, and how it’s so difficult to find a good one because of “the shortage.” Black men are in prison, black men are gay, black men have multiple babies, black men are abusive— damn hearing that crap seriously makes my head hurt.

As always the media is a huge part of the blame. It appears that the fallout from the exposure of The Down Low will never subside. I understand the fear and paranoia which stems from it to a certain degree—I mean the thought of being exposed to HIV would freak anyone out—but at some point we have got to get better and move on.

And I’m sorry to say it but if 2 people are in a relationship and it doesn’t work out then it’s a collective failure. When I’m in a situation with a woman and it goes terribly wrong (which is almost always the case) I can’t blame it on the state of black women as a whole, as a matter of fact that would be very counterproductive. All I can do is gather myself and mull over the question, “What did I do wrong this time?” It is only after I figure this out that I can move on.

The shortage of the black-man thing is used as a cop-out far too often. When it comes to the abysmal state of black male/female relationships both sides need to share the blame equally. I will take accountability for what I’m doing wrong as long as you do the same. Is that asking for too much?

Roger Porter

May 5, 2011

Note: I recently got a chance to do a profile piece on an amazing Airbrush artist for www.OaklandLocal.com. Here’s how it turned out.  

“Guerilla customer service” – that’s what Ronald Allen Jr., aka Mr. Airbrush Hands, calls it when he gets back to potential customers within five minutes of them leaving a message on his cell phone. And that is exactly what has made him one of the most popular airbrush design artists in the Bay Area. Oh yeah, that and an enormous amount of talent. Growing up in a tough North Oakland neighborhood with no father (Ronald Allen Sr. was murdered in 1982), many people doubted that Allen would amount to anything. Even he admits to being lured into the street life at one point, but it was his God-given talent that kept him from drowning in a sea of drugs and violence. “My art was like a life raft,” he told me. “I didn’t know where it was going to take me, but I wasn’t about to let go.”

Indeed the craft of airbrushing – which is a method of painting using a small air operated tool known as an airbrush – did take Allen away from the streets of Oakland and down to Fresno where he ran an art shop in 1991 while attending Fresno State. The man who originally opened the art shop and gave Allen the position was a well-renowned painter by the name of Ron Artis.

It was in Fresno under the tutelage of Artis that Allen began to appreciate the true power of his gift. It was in Fresno that he began to understand the impact that his art could have on common working class people not just in California, but around the world. Soon Ronald became inspired by the notion that one “shouldn’t have to be rich to enjoy art.” Thus he set out on a journey to prove it.

Mr. Airbrush Hands is a business that Allen started with the unwavering support of his wife Pam and his two children, Ronald Allen III and Sahara. He specializes in airbrushing T-shirts and sweatshirts and runs his business out of his Oakland home. Allen’s clientele often ask him to do RIP portraits, something that he has expressed a certain ambivalence toward.

“RIP shirts are the hardest for me to do,” he said. “Not because I can’t do it, but because the person has passed and I’m painting them … I don’t do as many RIP shirts these days, but when someone does ask me to do one, I feel very honored and will do the job to the best of my ability.”

Allen also has done murals and considers his greatest artistic achievement to be a ceiling that he painted at a friend’s music studio. The painting was a depiction of such fallen musical icons as Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez, Marvin Gaye and Tupac Shakur.

Allen had to endure extreme physical hardships to complete the work. He had to crane his neck for hours on end while paint dropped onto his face, yet and still, he finished the ceiling in a day and a half. Like Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, many that have seen Ronald’s work in the music studio are awed into complete and utter silence, which makes Ronald very proud.

Through all of the adulation, the constant demand for his work and the monetary benefits of being as popular in the art world as he is, Ronald somehow manages to remain humble.

For Allen is not in it for the money – “It’s not about what you earn it’s about what you learn,” he said.

I think every living person can learn a lot from the undefeatable spirit of Ronald Allen Jr. I know I did.

Allen can be reached at (510) 435-6172, on Twitter and Facebook and at mrairbushands.com.

Roger Porter

Written in Fall 2008

The Mexican Fighter

His jump rope never stops whipping the floor.

In between rounds he jumps and after our hands are wrapped and our gloves are on he still jumps.

His shirt with the red white and green flag is badly faded but there are three drops of blood above the eagle in the center which bring a certain vibrancy to the old garment.

Left foot out right foot down, Right foot out left foot down.

 He jumps tirelessly while we pound slowly on the heavy bag.

Finally he is done.

 He quickly puts his rope into his gym bag and snaps off his warm ups to show sharp pointy knees under green shorts. Very thin yet chiseled calves and ankle weights atop laced white shoes.

One of us encourages the other to keep swinging on the bag while holding it steady for the other. The thuds become softer and several seconds elapse between each sloppy punch until the round is over. We double over searching for breath.

He wraps his hands and leaves his gloves in his gym bag. He stands facing the mirror. Knees quarter ways bent. Left foot in the front. Right foot in the back. Both heels on the floor. Left fist sideways about 8 inches in the front of his mouth. Right fist pressed against his temple, and he just stands there in front of the mirror like a 65 inch bronze statue. Then he starts throwing punches into midair.

Light and fast, chin down, elbows in and he pivots around in tight circle as he cuts the stale, pungent, gym air with each precise blow.

What heart this man has, what dedication, what a damn good boxer as far as we can see.

We catch his attention in between rounds and nod our approval as we mouth the words;

“Good work.”

Round 1

The taller guy shot a job but the smaller guy countered to the body;

Ksss

then stepped back and fiented another one.

They dance.

“Don’t be lazy with that jab Will!”

The buzzer sounds and the green light changes to yellow.

Thirty seconds left in the round.

The smaller fighter is faster on his toes and quicker with his hands,

he goes once more to the body.

This time the bigger fighter deflects the blow

with his left elbow then one- two;

Ksss Ksss

A left jab overhand right combination sends waves through the smaller fighters face

but he has heart and he has a good left hook.

He throws it wildly but it still connects to the jaw.

“Keep your left hand up when you throw that right Will!”

The larger fighter withstands the blow and throws a right cross downward to meet his smaller

opponent but he misses badly.

The buzzer sounds again and the light turns red, the round is over.

The larger fighter taps the smaller one respectfully on the top of his head gear with his glove.

They go to their corners heaving air in hard through their mouths.

The smaller fighter gets a mouth full of water from his trainer,

he spits it into the bucket.

The water comes out bright red.

The buzzer sounds and the light turns green.

The fighters come out for round two.

When Andre Comes

He walks in and the whole gym stops for a quarter second. Then when people realize who has come everyone starts working twice as hard like a power surge after a black out. The speed bag thuds fast like rain coming down in torrents on a rusted tin roof. The punching bag pops in a quick up tempo rhythm and the jump ropes whip the floor hard and fast like a mother spanking her child for public misbehavior.

 It is a working man’s symphony

A harmonious cacophony

Everyone sweats but no one is tired. He walks into the gym as comfortably as a man walking into his own living room. His eyes intense but always relaxed. He is always relaxed. He does his mitt work relaxed. He spars relaxed, and he beats men into submission completely relaxed. His arms hang nearly to his knees as he walks toward his trainer. They stretch.

We work but we glance, some stare, but we all respect

 Our Olympic gold medalist

Our warrior

Our champion

Our fight when we are too weak to fight

Our Andre Ward