Jeremy Discusses Literature: "Apollo" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I read "Apollo" sitting in the Weinberg Center at Johns Hopkins University. It was in the "New Yorker", sitting on a regular coffee table in the waiting area and I only noticed it after skimming through the magazine. 

I was supposed to read six books this summer by request of my English Professor A.J Verdelle. I only read two- one being Balm by Dolen Perkins-Valdez and the other being a book on screenwriting. But I've been all into short-fiction, rereading classic authors like Vonnegut and Bradbury, teasing the science-fiction part of my mind. But "Apollo" was a very captivating story. It was short and sweet and a reminder that not all stories had to be bizarre or carry a large scope.

"Apollo" is a brief glimpse into a young man's relationship with his houseboy. An interest in kung fu created ___. The two grow close, and things start to change for the both of them, until Raphael, the houseboy, catches a disease called Apollo. The narrator, Okenwa's, parents split the two until Raphael can get better, but Okenwa, not having any of it, breaks the rules and gives Raphael his medicine. Once Okenwa catches the disease, things get even more complicated and emotions turn towards malice. "He spoke as though I were a child, as though we had not sat together in his dim room." In an act of frustration, Okenwa does something unthinkable.

Apollo is a great story from start to finish. It doesn't go right into the story, but takes us outside of it starting with introducing the parents and his growing up. The characterization of the parents makes them human, and all too real. They're strict, they don't take any mess, and they're full of love and concern - much like the African parents in the memes. If you don't know, check out the Twitter hashtag #GrowingUpAfrican.

From the language to the storytelling, Apollo is a very nice ten minute read. The strong characterization, without knowing too much about setting or time, creates enough of a story for us to attach ourselves to the characters. Apollo creates a story using people and action moreso than background noise. She writes with a rhythm that's easy to follow; sentences have this smooth flow and the words she uses seem to be chosen wisely. It's an easy read. The information isn't an overload and action keeps the story flowing.

Have you read it? What do you think? Let's discuss below!

For Jeremiah and the Kids Who May Have Died Before They Lived

Today was my second day volunteering with Operation HelpOrHush, giving out food to the Gilmor Homes community in Sandtown, Baltimore. The name may not sound familiar, but this is where Freddie Gray lived. Yes, the same hashtag Freddie Gray that caused the media to run to Baltimore and make a frenzy out of everything. The air was hot, but it was fine. I walked past empty abandoned house after empty abandoned house. As I walked from Upton/Avenue-Market Metro Station to the where the tables were set up, I saw death. Little dead kids. Old dead adults. Everything and everyone just looked dead. Being in Baltimore, I was used to seeing the walking dead - Lexington Market had enough zombies to make its own apocalypse. But this was different. The death was the same death in Lexington Market, but even the environment was death. Each apartment was a casket where the dead rose and fell, ate and drank, lived and died. 

We served the kids first. Hotdogs and hamburgers came and went as I poured relish, mustard, and ketchup. It was an odd experience. Some kids seemed ashamed to ask for condiments. Some of the kids didn't say anything at all. I asked some of the kids their names. I hardly got a response on the condiments, so it shouldn't be too much a surprise that I didn't really get any names.

But then, an older woman with a child who couldn't be no older than three came up. I don't remember whether she got him a hamburger or a hotdog, but I poured ketchup on something. The woman then said "Jeremiah, you want relish or mustard?" and the little boy shook his head. Anyone who knows me knows as much as I dislike my name, I love the name Jeremiah, so I smiled first and said, "His name's Jeremiah?". The little boy then looked at me. He was short. Had a good bit of hair from what I remember. But he looked at me, and for some reason, it felt like he looked into my eyes. 

The woman nodded her head. She was one of the nicer adults we fed. I could imagine her being a maternal figure in the community, the one who looks after everyone's kids and makes sure they doing right. I told her my name - Jeremy - and how it was cool. Jeremy helping Jeremiah. 

The strangest thing was just seeing a face with a hint of vitality. Amongst so much death, I saw life in little Jeremiah who very much didn't want relish or mustard. I didn't catch too many eyes that day. Most of the faces I'd seen looked aged beyond belief. The skin seemed to drag as if they came out the womb angry and upset; as if gravity was somehow stronger in their space on the planet. 

Dealing with many of the adults seemed to be a challenge. I thought about my respective twenty year-old youth and my environments and my upbringing and all the blessings I had in my life. I thought about who these people may have been at my age and how they got to where they are now. I saw death and poverty. In a few I saw entitlement, angry at us for running out of hamburgers when they came late to the line. In a few I saw impatience, catching the slightest bit of attitude at the pace of the line. I wondered if they went to college. If they had internet access or even heard of #BlackLivesMatter. I wondered what they thought of the uprising. I wondered a lot about them. 

But more than the adults, I think about the children. I think about the future that lies in them. I think about the potential they may have. I wondered if any of them liked art. I wanted to ask. I could teach them art - it wouldn't be my first time. I thought about the life they represented, the spaces in America they'd take as we vacate ours. The children who might being dentists or the next big CEO. 

And so I write this for them. I write to keep my spirits up. I write in hopes that you'll take time to look at the ghettos in your own communities. I write this for little Jeremiah and the kids who may have died before they lived. For the kids who may be alive, but can't truly live. For the kids who's parents come home tired from work, or for the kids whose parent's choose to stay on welfare for government benefits, or for the kids who feel ashamed to take free things because they can't afford to get it themselves. 

For those kids in Sandtown, Baltimore, I'll see you Monday.

My Very First Music Monday Post!

Music is a big part of my life and so you don't really know me unless you know the music I listen too. I've noticed some people blogging about Music Mondays and figured why not? Today was actually a pretty good day for me as far as music goes.

My All-Time Favorite Band Florence + the Machine released a double video, melding "Queen of Peace" and "Long and Lost" into one story about two families and a love that, unfortunately, couldn't bring them together. QOP might be my third favorite song on her latest album, How Big How Blue How Beautiful. "Which Witch" takes the top spot and the title track is tied between "Various Storms and Saints" for number two. But the song has this magical cinematic essence to it. I thought about it while watching the Battle of Hogwarts last night. The video is beautiful and the cinematography just showcases the detail of director Vincent Haycock's work.

In my quest to find interesting Black musicians to listen to, I stumbled upon a singer named Connie Constance, which is interestingly what I call my sister and her first name together. This girl has a voice! I repeat, THIS GIRL HAS A VOICE! Constance is a singer-songwriter from LDN who's new release "Stars" just makes me want to build a spaceship in the courtyard. "Want to leave Earth and learn to live on Mars" she says continuing the theme of space throughout the song. The song feels vast and open as space itself. The beautiful layering of sounds and the storytelling lyrics caught made me go through several emotions on the light rail as I headed to work. I also went through many megabytes of data, with replay after replay of the song. But of course, I wouldn't talk about it and not spread the good word. Check out the song here.

Meanwhile, I've been listening and loving Niki and the Dove again. "Last Night", "Gentle Roar" and "Somebody" continue to capture me, reminding me that it's been three years since any new music from the group. (No, "Rock You" with Kleerup doesn't really count. Neither does "Safe With You") I'm not sure how I feel about Strange Talk's transition from indie pop to electro (and the reduction to two members). Empress Of's Kitty Kat probably has 76 plays and counting. 

It's been a good week in music for me.

Building a Universe When Da Stress Tew Much

There's this thing floating around Twitter known as "Calling Out Black" where people call out of their jobs for the day due to the societal pressures from being black. My aunt calls it a mental health day. I do the same. 

With the news of Sandra Bland, coupled with a lot of other similar events going on, being bombarded with all this murder and injustice is traumatizing. Sometimes I dread coming to the mall, considering my place in all this chaos. In fact, people who know me know I'm not a gamer, but I've been taking Xbox side at work just to play Minecraft, grabbing the attention of little excited kids who want to play as well. Seeing little Black kids playing Xbox is a joy, but beyond the little spurts of Black happiness and Black love, everything else in the mall is annoying and frustrating and, well, stressful. It's hard to tell whether customers are rude because of casual racism or not (or maybe because we're a kiosk), but either way, I've learned through my retail experience that people aren't that pleasant to be around. Especially people who feel entitled. 

In order to deal with my stress, I've decided to back away from topics on racial discussion on social media. In real life, the conversations can be quite informing and affirming. But in cyberspace, I've decided to back away from it. Interestingly enough, a lot of my favorite people on Twitter have done the same. We pull back not because we don't care, but because its important to take care of our minds as well. Its irresponsible to digest and digest more and more of the videos, the violence, the injustice, the hate. It does something to the psyche. 

It is now where the topic of healing spaces is important. What can we do to help our minds heal? Where can we release this tension, this frustration, this anger.

For me, I've reinvested myself back into my writing. Instead of working on my screenplays, I started reading and writing again. I took it upon myself to reread Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's "Apollo", published in the New Yorker not too long ago. The short piece was a very quick read, but captivating nonetheless. I've also started on a few short story pieces, one of my favorites being "One Stop On the Way to California". Again, I wanted to capture an Edward Hopper-esque vision of solitude. I wanted to be the microscope focusing on intimate moments where either everything has been said, or nothing has been said at all.

With "California" I've envisioned old basketball players, two lovers, and a nice bowl of much-too-spicy chili. It was inspired by this painting I saw and a poem called "Basketball Player" by John Updike. I can also say Chicago inspired me. Chicago will probably inspire a lot more as time goes on.

I didn't watch the Sandra Bland video. I could hardly look at her mugshots without cringing. Writing as a form of release is important as I take care of myself. Putting my energy into this world-building, scene-setting, and characterization has taken me away from the police brutality, subtle racism, and the gross images often appearing on my timeline. Besides, I need to work on material if I plan on releasing "Cape Cod Evening and Other Stories" sometime next year.

I know I'll find myself back on the scene. My Twitter will once again be fueled with social justice tweets and organizing. I'll be reading more about the election and policing and political policy. But for now, I have worlds to build and people to make.

Being and Belonging to #BlackTwitter

When I get home from the long, skressful (yes, skressful) days of work at Towson Town Center, I kick my shoes off and plop myself into my bed and log onto the internet. I used to spend my time on Reddit, but after the recent controversies surrounding its racist population and ultra-libertarian policies towards "freeze peach", I now go to my Blackfellas and Blackladies subs before logging out. I used to spend my time with Tumblr, but pictures and fantasies, and aesthetics, didn't inspire me the way they used to. But now, I'm at a point in my life where I'm back to the old game of Twitter, and it feels so good.

Black Twitter refers to the large group of Black Twitter users who make up hashtags and tweet for several causes, moments, and movements. One of my favorite writers, Ebony Senior Editor, Jamilah Lemiuex, said Black Twitter was what happens when Black folk get together during any occasion. After she said that, it all made sense. Between the jokes, the mischief, the discussion, and the activism, Black Twitter makes itself a force to be reckoned with.

On the outside looking in, it's an interesting phenomenon to look at. But on the inside – living, loving, and learning within #BlackTwitter – the feeling is one similar to finding yourself. Meeting a cousin at a family reunion that you may not have seen in a long time.

Other hashtags, like #AskRachel and #WhoIsBurningBlackChurches, have brought attention to the new phenomenon. And it is on Twitter where we do what we do best. Instagram relies too much on pictures. Tumblr can be a mess to find things and really have discussions. Reddit is, well, Reddit. But Twitter is as brief as it needs to be. In fact, Black Twitter is such a phenomenon, that there's a subreddit dedicated to it. I refuse to name the wretched thing, but it's definitely popular if you Google (or Bing) it. 

And I do say this, a lot of people's experience within Black Twitter won't be the same. Black people are not monolothic, so why expect someone's experience as a Black Twitter user to be monolithic. Your experiences will definitely be different depending on who you follow. I'm more interested in social justice and radical politics, and my Blackness, and thus, the people I follow mirror that. I also tweet about Florence Welch daily, so my following includes some of her as well. Twitter is an individual experience, but that's what makes Black Twitter so profound. Like supporting Black-owned businesses, to HBCUs, finding our own space to celebrate ourselves is a revolutionary thing, mostly because it's not supposed to happen. Black people are either supposed to assimilate or dissolve. But nope! Here we are, doing what we do. 

On the same day #GrowingUpBlack came out, I had this extreme rush of emotion as I realized everyone's else experiences were my own experience. I've been legal for two years, but the memories that the tweet brought back, made me feel like it was decades ago. I felt a strange belonging as if these people lived in my same household. From the slick-mouthed parents, to the cousins who might not be your real cousins, to the cleaning on Sundays, there was a sense of commonality. Cherry Koolaid didn't exist; it was simply red. Yes my mom and her friends had that same classic picture in their household. Every person at the grill has those same sandals, and you know the food's going to be good. If there's furniture wrapped in plastic, it's best you leave it alone. These are truths in the Black community. This is our culture. And it feels amazing.

PS: If you like what I have to say, follow me on Twitter @jer_collins

Cosby, Rape Culture, and Black Women

My oh my. Anyone who's been following the news has probably heard about the Bill Cosby scandal.

The responses seem to have gone everywhere. From celebrities demanding proof, to the accusations being called a threat to the Black family, the situation has shown a side of rape culture within our own Black culture. And thus, we look at a group of people who are the most visible and invisible at the same time.

Black women. So let's talk about it. Black women are our mothers, sisters, daughters, aunts, coworkers, friends, strangers, acquaintances. Every Black person knows a Black woman. Yet, we are perfectly fine with telling them their trauma, their feelings don't matter.We need proof of their rape as if we're going to grab some rubber gloves and investigate their vaginas ourselves. 

Again, black women are the most visible and invisible at the same time. Everyone seems to either want one, or want to be one. Gay white men seem to have one inside of them (oh yasss, sassy diva, girl!). Black men either desire them, or desire other women with Black features. White men love Black women as well, which is how mixed race babies were born during the slavery era. (Read my review of Wench, by Dolen Perkins-Valdez, relating to slave women)

It's absolutely gross and disgusting how we gather to discredit the words of forty women. What do we tell the other women who are too scared to speak about their rape? What do you tell your daughter who may have been assaulted by her boyfriend after a movie night at his house? What do you tell your daughter who was inappropriately looked at by her teacher, too scared to confront administration? 

Rape culture and celebrity idolization is strange. We put people – from football players and musicians to great respectable fathers – on pedestals, and excuse them from their wrongdoings. It's time to hold people accountable to what they do. What Bill Cosby did wasn't just wrong. It was horrific, dehumanizing, and hypocritical.

There's no reason to apologize for the predatory poundcake-eating figure hailed as America's Black father. He's lived a comfortable life eating for free at Ben's Chili Bowl, enjoying his successes and his shine. We need to apologize to the women we've hurt and failed, who we've told aren't valuable.