some things don't work / making lemonade

Some days I want to be a professor, other days I want to be a filmmaker, and on other days, a creative director. But most days, I just want to be alright.

I was kicked out of a fellowship program because I worked when I wasn't supposed to; when I signed a contract explicitly stating I wouldn't. I can be honest and upfront about it. My research was on segregation in Baltimore today - with the development of Port Covington - and segregation of the past, and how the media - Black/White - covered the different topics. My research dealt more with Black politics, both electoral and cultural.

I refused to commit my life to struggle again. I am not the exception to the rule either. A colleague of mine had to quit their job. We were both in the same type of friction, having to choose between a working life and a temporary internship. I work a good job that makes well above minimum wage with benefits and good stable hours, something a lot of my peers aren't able to have; I was not going to leave my job to lose all that I worked so hard for. 

One thing I need Black academics to do is to not pretend they don't understand struggle. While discussing my dilemma, I was describing very real things, but the response to my story was full of abstract concepts like integrity and respect and whatnot. When I tell you I'm paying my credit card debt, student loans, and taking care of myself - please don't tell me about integrity as if I'm really concerned about that. I did not kill a person. I did not roofie someone's drink. I did not cheat on an exam. I did not egg a car. 

Throughout the struggle of keeping my fellowship, the issue of fairness often came up. My opinion was this: don't lecture me on fairness. That battle is better fought elsewhere. If you choose to talk about fairness, take it to the police departments that extrajudiciously kill Black people. If you choose to talk about fairness, I would rather see some proposed legislation or a letter to a state congressperson about raising the minimum wage. If you want to engage in conversation about fairness, let's talk about how unfair it is that we normalize poverty for kids and then hate them when they grow to be unproductive members of society. If we not talking about that, let's not talk at all. 

Where the Black professional class seems to miss - is that the tide that lifted their boat may not have lifted their neighbor's. Not all waves are the same height, or the same strength. Black academics who treat struggle like some abstract need to connect themselves to a community and realize that these things are realer than words in a dissertation. 

I violated a contract and that was dishonest. My mission towards honesty should've started before I confirmed my space in the program. But, with a great job and a great opportunity, which one do you choose? Why do you have to choose? Why does the world punish balance? The world said choose, but I didn't, got caught, and got kicked out. I couldn't believe I was being kicked out of a program I thought would be the bridge to academia. When I found out, I weeped outside the office, harder than I had in years. I went back to my dorm, exhausted and tired taking a nap absorbing the entirety of the situation. I was thankful I lived just a few miles down the road. Otherwise, I would be stuck figuring out a way home.

I am now home. I do wish I was back at campus, whirling away at my computer studying modern day segregation in Baltimore with the discussion and development of Port Covington. But I also have access to ProQuest, where I can continue my research and my educational journey. Immediately after receiving my aunt's affirmation, I felt a wave of peace. I started packing the little that I had, and before the night was over, my room had been all packed. I moved out Friday afternoon, picking up my check shortly after. 

The funny thing about all of this is, I was able to give myself back to my community more once my time in the program was over. I participated in a rally/march downtown for Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, where I would've been restricted to writing on campus that evening had I been in the program. I began volunteering at the Freedom School again, where I approached the building on my first day, not even being able to open the door before one of the kids screamed "BABA JEREMY!".

There is a place for "the work" in the academy. Study is an important part of understanding Black struggle, freedom, and justice. But the academy isn't the only place for labor. It is important we take that understanding of things and bring it to the real world. I also believe there's a future for me, as I continue my research independently of the program.

In the end, learned some things don't work. But, sometimes they do. Like many people have said, "What the devil meant for bad, God meant for good." Or in today's terms, like the true Beyonce fan I am, I took lemons and made lemonade. Sweet, sweet lemonade. 

<3

I Went to a Plantation

The day before Juneteenth, I visited the Hampton Mansion - a former slave plantation reserved for history. 

Let's start with Juneteenth. if you don't know what Juneteenth is, it is the day that enslaved Africans were finally emancipated on June 19, 1865. 

My colleague Elijah and I took an Uber to the mansion. We got there around 12:45, with our recommended tour starting at 2, so we had some spare time. We walked up to the mansion, where another tour, a separate one, was to start at 1, so we walked the grounds outside until it was time to enter the mansion. Before the tour, Elijah and I walked towards the hill at the back of the house, both of us noting our disgust with it all. But I found it strange, the sound of it all; the chirping of the birds and the noise of the highway nearby made me wonder about the sound back then. I thought about the birds, and wondered if the birds had any stories passed to them of the things that happened here. Before going on the tour I had to touch one of the large trees, wondering what it remembered from long ago.

I Went To A Plantation

As I walked through the halls of the mansion I felt burdened by the history and the pain. I saw all these nice paintings of White people; people who I thought were evil. These people were some of America's greatest liars, cowards, and savages. You can probably feel the rage stirring in me right now. 

We walked through large drawing rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, and more. The decorations were ornate; the furniture lavish. The colors of the walls were rich and the large windows brought to life the richness of it all. My favorite room was the big blue room with the wallpaper, but probably because that was where the food was eaten. I love food. 

The Ridgley family clearly enjoyed luxury. They also owned hundreds of enslaved Africans throughout their time. The size of the mansion itself is a testament to the fact, but the large paintings inside, as well as the fine imports from Europe and Asia, also make it clear. In the main hall sat The Lady and the Harp, the painting that saved the estate in the 1940s, when failing business forced the descendants to sell the remaining property. 

The first tour finished after an hour. By then, the tour Elijah and I were supposed to have gone to had left from the park and went to the grounds down the road where the enslaved were housed. We eventually caught up to the crowd, meeting up with another colleague of ours, Omar.

This part of the tour was even more gut wrenching as the others. Being in the house of the overseer was even more awful as the tour guide pulled the actual bell used to call the enslaved together. We eventually got to a part where we were able to touch and feel replicas of items used to keep the enslaved in order. For some reason, I was able to touch the chain and the neck brace, but the whip was just too much for me, so I let it skip me as it made its way around the room.

During this time, I learned a new word - manumission - after hearing how one of the Ridgleys, then governor of the state, freed some of his slaves. I originally thought this was good. But the tour guide reminded me of the families split apart, mothers ripped from their children, brothers and sisters ripped apart - reminding me slavery was so complex. I couldn't imagine being split from my little brother Justin. Hell, in ninth grade I moved from South Carolina to Maryland to be reunited with him and our mom after separation started affecting my grades and behavior. 

My attention was mostly to the mansion and its grandeur. I was enraged at the undeserved beauty of it all. Quite honestly, I wanted to burn everything in the building and walk off. The video we watched beforehand described the wealth as fabulous, reminding me on a talk about objectivity, history, and context. And then not only history, but historiography- the way a story is told. A Black woman told the story in the slave quarters. A White man led the tour in the mansion. In considering how the story is told, the emotional connection must be considered, with the relationship to the history. Two hundred years ago, one of them would've been property; the other not.

I Am Allowed to Be Mad; I Am Allowed to Mourn

In my freshman history course, we read the diary of a slave-owner who's life literally consisted of traveling, having sex, and reading. The having sex part may be an exaggeration - it may not - but that's what I remember. Either way, when I think of slavery, I think about the enslaved Africans, the denial of their humanity, and the denial of freedom in the one life we know. I think about the Black enslaved boys and girls unable to read books like their white counterparts. I thought about Black fear post 1850, when everything was at stake as the Missouri Compromise changed the nation. I think about the families hiding from dogs, families split apart, families denied the pleasure of reading and dreaming and simply being. I think about Black girls raped without protection from the law, only seen as animals and chattel, mere objects.

I've brought it up here several times, but truthfully, I always forget slavery was for two hundred years and very well could've been longer. That's the part people always seem to forget when talking about it. In the larger part of history, I can't wrap my mind around 200 years, mostly because I can hardly wrap my head around 10 years and how much has changed in between. I think about the technology, the fashion, the laws, the people. These are things that define a time, and so much can change between it. Yet, for 200 years, the system stayed in tact.

I am so appreciative of my grandmother and my mother who taught me never to give a fuck. I can imagine, if I was raised by adults concerned with the white gaze, my reactions would've been different. But my grandmother, fearless as she was, projected unto me an attitude that allowed me to express myself as freely as I wanted. I took ownership of my expression and feeling; and was thus unafraid to be vulnerable. And in that room, that's how I felt. 

I don't have to apologize for my rage. I will continue to talk about slavery and anti-Blackness in the country, giving no fucks as to who is offended or why. I have a right to be angry. I have a right to demand justice. I have a right to mourn.  

I Will Continue the Fight

My pastor, Dr. Rev Heber Brown III asked a question that always stayed on my mind: What would free people do? He asked this at the first freedom school I went to and it's been on my mind since. I'm not sure what freedom means to other people; and during my lifetime I do want to understand more about what freedom meant to the enslaved and how that shaped politics, especially Black politics. But I think that critical question would lead to a lot of different answers, which is fine because not everyone is alike. Circumstances meant different free people did different things, but there is a certain type of freed person I want to be like. I wonder if today's free Black traders and free Black entrepreneurs understand the implications behind global trade and industrialization, and if they're able to make that connection to their own history. 

I'm always asking myself questions, but one I find myself asking so often, especially in Baltimore, "Is this all we deserve? I ask that last question when I see public housing and consider the divestment of resources for poor Black people. Context is important, as well as the burden we carry from generation to generation. That means, whether right or wrong, I don't find Black poverty to be the issue of the Black poor because the we didn't create our poverty, it was created for us. How and where does accountability come in, many ask? A professionalism centered around whiteness, the inability for Black folks to be themselves, and the lack of support systems for Black people signal an oppressive system larger than us. I want to address more perspective on Black opportunity and accountability in another post, but this is as concise as it gets for now. 

This just speaks to Black people again being robbed of our destiny; this time, we just have the tools to rob ourselves and each other. And when I say robbing each other, I mean more than just taking someone's iPhone in a snatch and grab. Sometimes we rob each other when we say "hate the sin, love the sinner." Sometimes we rob each other when we say "How you gonna find a job" when talking to Black Studies Majors. 

But its easy to get lost in these words and lost in this study. I warned my professors early on - I didn't want this project to consume me. Black struggle is more than a study piece, more than a curriculum, more than something to observe. I don't want to be that Blacademic who sits on the sideline watching history happen around me.  The Black political builds itself encompasses my work in the Baltimore Green Party. The Black educational struggle builds itself my work at the freedom school and my work at Morgan State.

Visiting the Hampton Mansion brought me closer to the history than I wanted to be, but its not like nightmares haven't done worse. One particular nightmare I had, brought slavery to the modern day. This tour, however - touching the grass, feeling the trees, and hearing the birds -made it real in a way that books couldn't. This history is full of love, pain, hurt, and escape. But, it is ours and I'll make of that what I must - the same way the ancestors had.

Special thanks to the amazing Park Ranger who led the tour. She did an amazing job, and I wish I knew her name. 

Stopping Trump.

This election has been exciting and tiring both at the same time.

From the start of campaigning, it's been a rat race and nobody is really certain about how we got where we are, although the answers are right before us. But there's one thing we can be clear on.

The goal is stopping Trump.

Or, that's what its supposed to be. Hillary Clinton excites a lot of people from white feminists to racists who don't want to align too closely to Trump's campaign. Hillary's fence-playing neoliberal rhetoric is even more rightward than centrist politician President Obama, and for the left - this election is ultimately a loss. 

On June 10th, an interesting thing happened. Shortly after President Obama had a meeting with Bernie, he, Vice President Biden, and Elizabeth Warren lined up behind Clinton announcing their endorsement. The timing of it all merits suspicion, making me assume that these politicians waited intentionally for her recognition as the presumptive nominee, and that they supported her from the get go. Values be damned, its almost like the Democrats want people to lose faith in the election. Of course, President Obama had to save face for the party in his endorsement video thanking everyone for voting. I felt like a citizen in the Hunger Games watching state-sponsored propaganda. I do applaud Bernie for taking the fight to the convention, and there's a lucky-charm marshmallow-sized piece of hope that he comes with the Democratic Nominee.

Even in local politics, depending on where you are, people can be the most uninspiring and flimsy. Baltimore's brand of Democrats continue to sell the city out to big businesses, meanwhile the investments in the people are so small. 

But back to Trump. Fuck him. How a talking tangerine with a dollar store toupe was ever able to rise to popularity doesn't baffle me. I've met Donald Trump before. We went to middle school together. His name wasn't exactly Donald Trump though. In fact, he had many names. In fact, he was many people. The only people surprised about the rise of the talking tangerine are those without any type of awareness. Trump is America's patron saint of ignorance and bigotry - a posterboy for White American terrorism - and now he's the face of the Republican Party. Cool.

In fact, I wonder if its a conspiracy that maybe the Republican Party is using Trump as a temporary poster boy to win November and then he'll either resign or his party will terminate him. Or exterminate him. Paul Ryan and his cronies aren't above it. Crayola Fiorina doesn't seem above it either.

But again, I've seen him before. And there's Trumps all around us. In fact, our college campuses breed them - they're called Young Republican Parties. Just in Chicago, a group of activists had to remove awful human being, Milo WhateverHisLastNameIs after their Young Republican Party campus group brought the hateful person to campus. 

With all that being said; when I cast my vote for Jill Stein in November, don't get too upset.  Or rather, don't be upset at all. Don't tell me I wasted my vote either, because while nonviolence is a key value in the Green Party, I am not opposed to squaring up. My agenda may not be your agenda. I am not voting to stop Trump. My vote is against white supremacy, economic inequality, and a better cleaner planet. All of those things are good things to vote for, and I don't mind voting for my beliefs. If progressives really voted for our beliefs, the Democratic Party wouldn't be as big as it is. But then again.....thats another blog post.

I'm looking to stop anyone advancing the interests of capitalism and white supremacy. If we're being honest, that disqualifies both candidates in the major parties and even Bernie to an extent. I mean, the BernieBros really have some things to learn about engaging with Southern voters and Black voters. Berners really need to understand racism. But, because Black lives matter across the planet as well, electing a President who suggests Africans get over colonialism is greatly disturbing. Electing a President who invokes "radical Islamism" to excite people is disturbing. Because I am not a woman, I am not able to feel the symbolic connection that women have with Hillary Clinton. Clinton and I share nothing in common. However, if we all want to be #withher, there are so many other "hers" who deserve attention. 

Stopping Trump may be your thing, but understand it's not mine. 

Twenty Out.

At the time I'm writing this sentence, I have forty-three minutes until the calendar date of my birth. I don't know the exact time, but, irregardless, I'll be 21 in a matter of minutes.

19 was lit. Or at least the last half of it. I went to concerts and New York like it was nothing. I saw FKA Twigs, Florence and the Machine, Lissie, and more. It was an amazing time.

20 was.....whelming. The first quarter meshed with the greatness that was 19, and then everything post-August felt like a blur. Life was okay, I've done a few exciting things - like meeting Marc Lamont Hill and Jill Stein - but overall, it was stale. Oh, and I went to Chicago. That's a big one since I fell in love with Chicago. Otherwise, 20 was what it was.

I lost my aunt Katie last year in November just a day before my little brother's birthday. I still remember the funeral; her honor. She lived an impactful life. I went to so many funerals this year, I kinda don't want to get any older than 23; just enough to be grown, but young enough to be youthful. I was in my room listening to Ellie Goulding when I got the call. That whole weekend felt...disturbing. So much death. So much loss. 

The better parts of this age was spring semester where I started having fun with friends staying out late and doing things grown folks in TV shows seem to do. In a way, 20 was everything it should've been; 19 was a hard act to follow. 

Jack is still sitting just as it was a long time ago. I haven't written any fiction in a while; mainly focusing on poetry and non-fiction writing. But I do plan on working immensely on that since the story was so good. My poetry feels more free; less conformed. I get to do with it what I want and that's all I want really, freedom. 

Tomorrow, when I'm actually 21, I'll write about my goals and what I'm looking forward to as a 21 year old. For tonight, 20 out!

A Short Message About The Green Party and Me.

When Margaret Flowers opened up her home for a Jill Stein event, I accepted the invitation excited to meet the Green Party Presidential Candidate face to face. Even though I was a few minutes late, I had a seat saved between Flowers and Stein as the discussion continued. I learned about their passion and their politics as constituents asked questions and important topics were discussed. Foreign policy, the environment, and economics is where I really found the difference, making me more comfortable with my switch. 

My time with the Green Party, if characterized by one word, can be described as "learning". Listening to white people talk about issues like the environment, really opened up my eyes to some issues I never really considered. 

 Even as I think about the election today, if voting Jill Stein means I'm throwing away my vote, then my vote was trash to begin with. I would never consider voting for Hillary Clinton, but the response from Bernie Sanders voters have thus been disrespectful and condescending. "Oh, you're voting for her? But will she win?", once again reminding me that electoral politics is built on celebrity. But, I digress.

Sometimes I felt I was tokenizing myself in these majority white spaces. I often thought to myself, "What is my place, a 20 year old Black man, here around all these non-Black people discussing fracking and charter schools?" But then, I realized that in this space I can bring something back to my peers and, as Marc Lamont Hill said, "change the conversation". I can take what I learn back to my circles where we can have conversations on the privatization of education, the corporate media, and universal basic income. I can take these ideas back to my Black spaces, so that we can talk about structural issues - so that our discussions around Blackness can be less reactionary symbolism and more institutional progressivism. Besides, in the Green Party I join some other great Black activists like - Rosa Clemente, Jared Ball, Cynthia McKinney, Elaine Brown and more. There's no doubt that people of color have more living room in this party. 

I've seen the limits of the Democrats and how soft "trickle-down economics" works as banks get bailouts while the people continue to get cuts in welfare and social programs. "Pragmatic" neoliberalism continues to sustain businesses and corporations, who already see benefits of wealth. As someone who believes in nonviolence, the Democratic love for war, violence, and empire is one entirely off-putting. Militarization, both globally and domestically, is dangerous as drones and the war on encryption threaten American privacy, and the sovereignty of those abroad.

The Green Party, for me, offers a greater alternative of ideas and that's what progressivism is supposed to be about - looking at the future and saying, "What new ideas can we bring to the table?" The Green Party is bringing those new ideas, from the grassroots, to the people. 

I'm excited for the work that the Baltimore Green Party will do, especially after seeing the work our people have done. I don't want to just tell you. But you can see, here and here, the way that politics is less something our people do, and more a medium of bringing the change we need to see. Our values are consistent. Each day is a new day to learn and open the mind to new ideas and I'm somewhere I can do that. I know I'm in the right place. 

Connecting the Dots of Hip Hop and How We Got Here

I've been rereading "It's Bigger Than Hip Hop" by author, filmmaker, professor and more, MK Asante and this time, I've been reading word by word and sentence by sentence looking at the details and truly absorbing the information I've read. The information I read in the first two chapters spurred a line of thought, connecting the dots on how we got to the state of Black music and pop culture today.

Hip-Hop being born post-Civil Rights Movement gave a whole new generation a voice. A counterculture of mainstream America, Hip-Hop really captured the political and social essence of Black life. Black people making their own art is nothing new; and neither is the appropriation of it.

While one could argue that hip-hop itself was hardly intellectual, at least it was challenging. But what we have today seems to be garbage. Even the local rappers today might have a line on their mixtape talking about "Black-on-Black" crime. But anyone who actually studies intraracial violence in impoverished communities would actually know that violence isn't tied to skin color but to circumstance and environment. 

Asante talks about how mass media has evolved hip hop. Industrialization, like it did in the greater United States as a whole, create two classes of music and artistry. Industrialization has also, like it did in the greater United States as a whole, took power and control out of the hands of the people and put it into the hands of boring-color collared executives whose life experiences look nothing like those of the consumer class.  

In the same way the Republicans of Civil War Era aren't the same Republicans now, mainstream Hip Hop has morphed into some sad skeleton of what it used to be. "The Market" has turned our beloved medium into "Scramble-Coke-And-Smack-Crack-And-Pop" and "Dirty Sprite 24: The Spritiest Sprite Ever!". Thankfully, socially responsible artists use the medium to promote healthy behavior and challenge the status quo.

One could say that we do have hip hop today still, and I would say they're correct! We have production on Soundcloud, mixtapes all across the internet and more. But the general essence of hip hop- the funk and the fun - seems to have drawn away to the margins as the public eye turns towards to Billboard and other corporatized places to draw how rap/hip-hop gain success. But, one question could be, how do you measure success of music?

 This post will be continued.