People, Places & Things - PP&T

No Frills, No ills...

Sat, 07 Aug 2010 07:03:53 -0800

pic stolen from The Onion

I wonders whose job it is to come up with the names of No Frill Cereals? Do they get paid a lot for thinking up blantant rip offs such as Coo-Coo Os or Capt'n Munch? And are they hiring?
Better yet, are no frill cereals and name-brand cereals made in the same factory. Because these no frill frosted flakes taste exactly the same but $1 and a half less.

Staff Fun Day Smells Alot Like Team Spirit

Sun, 01 Aug 2010 06:31:16 -0800

So my boss decided that we needed a staff fun day. YEAH? – and that’s a bit of sarcasm if you didn’t pick it up.

Initially, she wanted us to do a team building exercise. We are a small staff of five, confined to even smaller spaces and a few of us weren’t getting along very well - actually my boss’s concerns about my “moodiness” and complaints of having to do actual work, may have something to do with that. Our boss, let’s call her Megan for the sake of job security, felt it best that we work together on some sort of project to improve relations. I wanted to go to the movies but she had other ideas.

Her original plan was for us to do a white water boat excursion where we would work together to paddle a raft up the river. And then afterwards we would hold hands and sing an acapella version of Kumbaya by the camp fire. Ok, that part I made up but she did think paddle boating would be fun. We vetoed that instantly. Actually, I was the lead opposition to this idea and quickly devised a plan to get my other coworkers to co-sign. I filled their minds with horrible thoughts and images of the boat hitting a rock, flipping over and us drowning to our deaths. Better yet, the boat hitting a rock, flipping over and us ladies getting our hair wet. It was the hair trick that worked.

I did it for purely selfish reasons: The River and I are like oil and …well, I guess river water; we just don’t mix. Not only do I hate swimming but I hate boats. Last time my people got on a boat, we ended up here in America. I wonder how many of my ancestors were tricked onto the boat with promises of a day off from work.

All the clans of Gbahama gathers in the center of the village, anticipating the wisdom of the great Jaiama-Bongor Chiefdom

Chief: Soooo, I’ve notice a lot of moodiness and complaining in Gbahama [pause to point to my great-ancestors] – mainly from Charing-ma and Charing-pa about why they have to work all day. To restore order to this great village, I am requiring a mandatory clan building exercise.

A collective groan could be heard from the clans. Many of the clans whisper plans of retaliation against Charing-ma and Charing-pa after the meeting.

Chief: Oh, come on clans. This is will be fun. [Reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a small booklet and holds it up to the villagers] I’ve even got this great excursion brochure from those sickly-looking albino men that hang out by the beach about a free boat trip to this new land called America…

Besides, we were planning our outing for the dead of summer, why would I want to be out on a stupid boat, in the blazing sun, doing extreme exercise? I mean, am I getting paid for this? Ok, technically I would have been getting paid for the day regardless, but funk that river boat trip.

After two months of negotiating, delays and weaning Megan away from various boat trips ideas, including the now-infamous Duck Boat , we finally dropped the team building plan and opted for a Staff Fun Day – Yeah? Again, I proposed that we to go to the movies – at least if I was being forced to socialize with my coworkers, I might as well do it in the dark (wait, that didn’t come out right) but Megan said no. Instead she wanted us to do a Mural Art Tour – Yeah?

Ok, for those, who have no idea what I’m talking about: a Mural is a piece of artwork painted directly onto the wall. A Mural Art Tour is a ride around South Philly on a corny, festive colored street trolley with the most uncomfortable seats you have ever had the displeasure to sit your ass on. For two hours, you get the joy of having to hunch your legs up to your chest, in an effort to avoid hitting knees against the oddly place bar on the seat in front of you, while listening to Jean, our cute little old lady tour guide, tell riveting tales of the mural arts planning meetings and the cool shopping bag with a picture of a mural, she received after attending one of these meetings. Oh the excitement.

If that doesn’t sound unbearable enough, try having the screeching babbler mural snob, sitting in the seat behind you. She’s one of those types of tourists that likes to research every single fact, just to show the rest of us stupid tourists, who may be here just to look at some cool wall art, just how intellectual superior she/he is by challenging the poor little old tour guide on every single point. Maybe I could have paid her no mind, but her high-pitched voiced clawed at my eardrums like fingernails on a chalkboard. At one point, I thought my ears would start bleeding.

Screeching babbler mural snob: EEEEVA, EEEEVA, EEEEVA…oh, why won’t she answer MEEEEE?

Well genius, maybe it has something to do with her name being Jean - not Eva.

Screeching babbler mural snob proceeds to tell us about the difference between the murals in Paris and the murals in Philadelphia. Then she complains about the lack of depth in the free Mural booklets that were given out before the tour. But the finally straw happen when she blathers on and one in my ear about of all things; cheesesteaks.

“I know because I am originally from Philly and I tell EVERYBODY to go to Geno’s for a cheesesteak. They are hands down the best.”

Well, if you are a flaming bigot, who likes cheeseteaks but hates immigrants than this might be the spot for you. Besides, really authentic Philadelphians knows that the best steaks are NOWHERE near that intersection of Tourist Ave and Tourist Road. Good cheesesteaks are mostly made inside the corner steakhouse deep inside the 'hoods. Moreover, who has “the best” is probably one of the longest running debates happening in the city. Scholars have tried to write dissertation on the best cheesesteaks only to drop out of grad school from the sheer complexity of the issue. Politicians have lost elections by aligning themselves with the wrong steakhouse. I have even seen people lose an eye over their preferences for cheesesteaks.

Man 1 breaks bottle on barstool and waves the chards of jagged glass in front of him.

Man 1: “I told you Pagano’s has the best cheesesteak. They melt the cheese in BETWEEN the meat, that’s what makes it taste good.”

He jabs the broken bottle at the Man 2.

Man 2 picks up a chair and uses it as a shield against the jabs with the broken bottle from Man 1.

Man 2: “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Everybody knows that it’s the meat/hoagie roll ratio at Max’s which makes it far superior than any other steakhouse in the city. Besides who puts Cheez Wiz on a steak anywa…Owww, my EEEYYYEEEE”

At that point, I was ready to turn around and shake the hell out of the woman. Pagano’s you fool, Pagano’s has the best steaks. However Megan eyed me suspiciously as if she knew what I was planning on doing. She already thinks I have an attitude problem, hence why we were on this stupid Team Building/Staff Fun Day outing in the first place. But I kept my eyes straight and counted daggers to the heart of screeching babbling mural snob woman in my head. I was not going to give Megan the satisfaction of killing this woman, just so that she can say, "I told me so." Oh no, I let that woman live. Shoot. I sure showed her.

Overall, once you get over the feeling of being a tourist in your own city, you will come to find that the tour itself isn’t all that bad. In fact, it’s pretty cool as I was able to view Philly in a new whole light. I actually got to see some beautiful pieces that normally I would have passed by without even a second thought. And yes, I did take pictures. Plus, after our outing, Megan treated us to a five –course lunch at Maggiano’s Little Italy – with plenty of take homes - so I was pleased. Plus it was a day off, couldn’t get any better than that.

Sleepy, Gargling Hippies have no Place in the Library

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 06:55:01 -0800

William Jelani Cobbs

Don’t be rude Sapp; Maybe he just has one of those sleeping disorders or something…

I sat fifth row back, inside the Free Library’s conference room, trying my hardest to concentrate on what William Jelani Cobbs, who was reading from his new book, The Substance of Hope, was saying. It wasn’t that he was boring or anything. To the contrary, his theories on the relatively short rise in popularity of Barack Obama were quite thought-provoking. Not to mention that he wasn’t bad on the eyes either. Tall, brown, bald-head, strong-physique and smart; if I had a type, Cobbs would be it. He looked like the type that if some random dude decided to take him for bad, he would beat his ass down to a pulp - and then pick the dude up and give him a good lecture about choosing your opponents wisely. And as a black history and sociology professor (at Spellman no less), Cobbs can study my social impact anytime, if you catch my drift. But as fascinating as Cobb spoke - and looked - I still found myself distracted.

It wasn’t his bewitchery that steered me away from his dialog. No, I have mastered the art of combining intellectual discourse into my fantasies years ago (It’s how I got through college. One day, I’ll share with you my tantalizing tale of how I envisioned Manifest Destiny really happening). No, I was distracted by the white middle age man, sprawled out on two chairs, sitting directly in the row in front of with me. He looked like one of those old-school hippies that never grew out of the sixties. Talk about getting your bubble burst.   He kept fidgeting around and adjusting himself in the seat, never seeming to get himself completely settled. Occasionally he would cough and make these noises like he was gargling phlegm or the likes around in his throat. It was quite off-putting, especially since I was trying to sneak and record the discussion to later play on my blog. Actually, I wouldn’t call it sneaking as it was a public event in a public space, which technically means that I am legally absolved of any criminal liability (glad to know those years in J-school paid off). Let’s just say that I was trying to avoid questions as to why I was recording. Anyway, I had to hold my recorder’s microphone away from him, which meant that it was away from Cobb, who was articulating handsomely at the podium, just to avoid catching any audio of the gargling hippy man’s coughing and fidgeting. It wouldn’t be until I got home that I realized just how much of detriment my constant shifting had on the quality of the audio. So consider this an apology in advance (distorted audio below).

Anyway, the gargling hippy had finally settled down long enough for me to redirect the mics to the front of the room. Actually he fell asleep. But as long as he was quiet, I was cool. During the gargling hippy’s nap, I found out that Cobbs and I shared some of the same views about Obama’s rise in popularity.    I too have long held the belief that most of Obama’s attractiveness was based on a combination of his ability to remain ambiguous on many issues and the unrealistic expectations set upon him. I would even take it a step further to say that Obama’s main appeal to voters was that he was polished and black. Meaning that it really didn’t matter what he said, just as long as he looked and played the part quite well. During his campaign for office, I remember getting into heated debates with my black friends about their cult-like support of Obama. I mean, it was one think to enthusiastically support a candidate for office, but the whole Obama-mania thing – including the Obama paraphernalia, the Obama songs and artwork, down to the Obama decked out car I witnessed along Germantown Avenue – came mostly from folks that never paid much attention to the happenings in political prior to the 2008 election.

My frustration levels sometimes would max out and I’d ask, “What have you heard from Obama that you hadn’t heard from other middle-of-the-road politicians? What has he said that he plans on doing that different than Hilary [Clinton] which compels you to parade down the street in full Obama gear and pledge your unwavering support to his campaign? He’s a politician, not Jesus you know.”

I never could get a straight answer. Sometimes their only reply would be to sucked teeth, roll eyes and hurl nasty accusations of haterism (which happens to be one of my favorite meaningless street terms). But no one ever admitted that the main reason they had planned on voting for him were largely due to his race. Nothing wrong with that per say. I mean, when I watch Jeopardy, I always route for the black guy too.

Alex: “This president pledged to pursue more aggressive strategies in two unpopular wars against terrorism despite public outcry and no definite reasoning as to why America is over there in the first place.”

Tyrone: [hits the buzzer] “um…Who is Bush?

Alex: “oooooh sorry Tyrone. The answer is President Obama. You would probably know that if you didn’t vote for him because he was black.”

Damn, we never win on Jeopardy.

The reality is that for many folks – black, white or in between - Obama became a symbol for a vision of a country we all wished we lived in; folks thought that by casting their ballot, they would somehow reverse 400 years of race relations and mistreatment of black folks in America. However, as we are witnessing now, some things are just so engrain in the fabric of our society that it will take more than electing our first black president to cure them.

Anyway, back to the gargling hippy dude. Perhaps he knew all of this, which is why he fell asleep during the reading and discussion. However, he did manage to scribble some notes down on a notepad prior to drifting off. It actually looked like he had fell asleep mid-sentence as the pen was still stuck in his hand. During Cobbs question and answer session, gargling hippy man committed a major faux pas; he started snoring. I mean wide mouth, deep throat snoring. I took it upon myself to elect me as library regulator and kicked the shit out the back of his seat. The pen fell to the ground. Nobody interrupts my Cobb/Obama fantasy.

Ideas Conceived on the Toilet are Usually Bad Ones

Fri, 16 Jul 2010 20:42:02 -0800

Dang, can’t a girl get some privacy, Gheez.

I was sitting on the toilet and as usual, Coltrane barged in the bathroom. he barged in like he had to talk to me about something. But he's a dog, so he can't talk. Instead, Coltrane sat between the tub and the sink and started staring at me. I’m sitting on the toilet, trying my best to avoid eye contact but he keeps staring at me. He watches me, so I watch him back. Our stare off goes on for about another 30 seconds until I’d finally peaked and asked, "What do you want dog?"

He motioned his head upwards, which meant he wanted me to pet him. Why he'd chosen that particular moment to decide to be affectionate is beyond my reasoning. But I didn't have anything else to do, and it wasn't like I was going anywhere for a while, so I obliged. I stroked his head and scratch behind his ear. His fur felt icky. I smelled my fingers and they smelled a little funky, like unshaved armpits that had been playing sports all day under the hot sun.

"Dog, you stink," I said to him, half expecting Coltrane to respond back.

Instead, he looks at me and started panting through this wide mouth grin, which makes it look like he’s laughing at me. Oh, he thinks it’s funny.

“Go Away Coltrane, I’m serious,” I yell.

He moves to the bathroom door but just before he walks out, he turns to give me the biggest, doughiest, orphan dog, sad eyes I have ever seen. Now he’s playing on my emotions. Still bored and sitting on the toilet, I called him back and proceeded to scratch him some more, hoping that he would stop looking at me that way. As I scratched behind his ear, he wiggled his leg, which let me know that it was feeling good. When I reached a spot around his neck, he wiggled his leg harder. Maybe it was feeling a little too good. Then I felt it. A tiny little ball rolled against my index finger. I located the spot on his neck, dug into his fur and picked it off. It was a flea. Heavy sigh. I shooed him away again and finished my business. Eight o'clock on a Wednesday night (a work night at that), I had decided that I needed to wash the dog.

Now washing the dog probably doesn’t sound like much of a chore to most folks. However, in my case, I’m dealing with a 110 pound American Bulldog and I don't have a garden hose. So washing him outside in the yard like normal folks wasn't an option. That meant that I have to wash him in the tub, which means I have wash the tub, which means I have to clean the bathroom, which means I have to mop up the wet dog paw prints in the hallway, which means I have to do the dishes...I think you get my drift.

Actually, in a normal circumstance, doing the dishes is not mandatory when washing a dog. But again, my life is not necessarily normal and for me, cleaning is like being inside of matrix, everything is connected and there are always anomalies. For instance, let’s say I’m cleaning the bathroom and I find a single dirty sock hanging somewhere over my bathtub’s edge, I would have to go to put that sock in the dirty clothes hamper, which is located in my bedroom, which now means I have to straighten that up because it doesn't make sense to put one dirty sock in the hamper, while there are a bunch of dirty socks scattered around the room. And while I’m picking up socks, I come across the dirty glass from the orange juice I had the other night, somewhere under my bed (where I keep all my dishes), so of course, I would want to take that down stairs (because I’m am now cleaning my room) and place it in its proper place in the kitchen but I can't because the sink is full of dishes. Now I’m deep inside the cleaning matrix and wondering how the hell did I end up taking that blue pill.

Part of me just wanted to spray some Febreeze on him, douse him with that flea control stuff and kept it moving. But I had been so moved by the dog grooming gods, who summoned me from my toilet seat just to remind me that Coltrane was way overdue for a bath and unless I planned on spending $60 at the real groomers, than I better get to it. And considering that this is a recession, spending unnecessary dollars didn’t make too much sense or cents, you feel me?

So there I am, standing inside bathroom, trying my hardest to get the dog from point A, which is the floor, to point B, which is inside the tub. First I tried pulling him in, then I tried standing inside the tub and summoning him with a few “come on boys but neither of those options worked very well. The tub, which is one of those old-school models that are positioned on four legs, was just too high off the ground for him to climb or be pulled in. I even tried to hoisting him up, over and in but I damn near pull a muscle in my back. Did I mention that the Coltrane weighs 110 pounds? Now I’m sweating through my shirt and I haven’t even started yet. Oh dog grooming gods, why have you forsaken me?

After five minutes of plotting my strategy, trying and failing, the heavens finally opened up and the dog grooming gods shine their wisdoms upon me. It came to me like a voice from beyond: "Put a dog biscuit inside of the tub and push the dog in, dumbass" I'm pretty sure I heard trumpets. That makes sense, thank you dog grooming gods. I got out of the tub and did as instructed. And after several pushes, the dog fell over the edge, into the tub. Score one for ingenuity.

Now that I got the dog in the tub, I can get to work. I start wetting him down with the detachable shower head. Coltrane, who thought that he was just going to get a dog biscuit, was a little bit confused as to what was going on. I tried to reassure him that it was ok but the water was touching him in areas, which was usually reserved for his tongue. I bet in his mind he was saying "no, that's a bad touch."

I patted him on the head, “Awe Coltrane, it’s alright. We only got one more step to go and….”

Then it dawned on me: I don't have any dog shampoo. Dammit, dammit to dog hell. The only thing close to dog shampoo that I had around the house was a bottle of Dr. Bronner Magic Peppermint Castile Soap, which would be a great alternative, if only it was in the bathroom. And If I left my post, Coltrane would surely use this opportunity to climb out of the tub and wreak havoc all throughout the house. And that's exactly what happened.

Despite my desperate pleas to 'be a good boy until mommy got back with the soap" and bribes of a dog treat if he behaved, Coltrane, the dog that couldn't find his way into the tub, took two seconds to get out. I hadn't even been halfway out the bathroom door before he zipped by me and darted to my bedroom. He stood in the middle the floor, soaking wet and only a foot away from my bed. He had the devil in his eyes. That’s when our second stare off began.

"You better not do it Coltrane."

He started that wide mouth half-laughing, half-panting thing again.

“I’m warning you Dog, you mess up my bed, you’re a dead man…err dog”

His head tilted to the side and began to shake. Suddenly I felt just like the hero in those action movies, who only had seconds to get to the bomb before it blow up. I ran towards him but it was too late as the tremble had already reached the tip of his tail. The only thing I could do was stand back and try my best to avoid the water bomb that was coming in my direction. When it was all said and done, my bed, laptop and face were soaked with water and dog fur. Without even an afterthought, Coltrane had zipped past me again, ran down the stairs and repeated the process next to my suede couch.

It took me three days to official escape out of the cleaning matrix. Not only is Coltrane clean but so is the entire house. So the moral of the story is, don't sit on the toilet bored or the dog grooming gods may spit their devilish charm your way to get you to join the cleaning matrix. Better yet, kick the dog out the bathroom, use the lock and remember to bring a book.

Jesus Don't Want to See No Exposed Vagina on Judgment Day

Wed, 14 Jul 2010 17:03:13 -0800

this is not the crazy man

Ain’t no love in the heart of the city, Ain’t love in the heart of town…

So today, I was walking down Market Street in Downtown Philadelphia with my co-workers for our first annual Staff Fun Day (don’t ask as I will get to that in another post). We had just finished a tour of the city, which I had been living in for a total of 27 years (my boss’s idea), and were on our way to grab a bite to eat at a local Italian restaurant. We were walking, minding our own business and laughing about the tour, when out of the corner of my eye, I see this dude standing to the left of my one of co-workers. The dude, who was wearing a sleeveless sweater, blue jeans and straw cowboy hat, not only stood out like a sore thumb for his unique taste in summer fashion but the way that he was eyeballing my co-worker. “C,” as we will refer to her, was oblivious to the man with the serious eye problem and was chatting away to me about her sister’s visit to the NAACP convention. As we drew closer to him, I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach that something strange was about to happen. I clenched at the umbrella I had been carrying for the forecasted rain, prepared to use it as a weapon if needed. The man began to pace side to side, still maintaining his stare at “C.” I expected him to reach out and snatch her pocketbook, which she had hoisted over her left shoulder, closer to his proximity. Before I could warn her, the man with the sleeveless sweater and straw cowboy hat, did something totally unexpected.

Instead, he leaped in her path, pointed at her vagina & yell loud enough for the entire block of 8th and Market to hear, "COVER THAT UP. JUDGEMENT DAY IS COMING.” Then he walked away, still mumbling his warning about appropriate dress for judgment day.

My co-worker, who was nicely dressed in some black tights, a multi-colored shirt and some flats, would probably not be considered obscene by even the strictest standards. Therefore, the only logical conclusion was that this man, with the straw hat and sleeveless sweater in 87 degree weather, is what we call out in the streets, “touched in the head.” Admittedly though, He startled the shit out of us. However in true big city fashion, we kept walking like it happens all the time (because it actually does). No need to make a scene because, again in true big city fashion, nobody around us would be willing to help defend us anyway.

Most who witnessed the incident didn’t break step and actually walked faster, I guess hoping to put some distance between them and us. Some brave souls took a peek out of the corner of their eyes, while others kept their head low. I guess they figured that street abuse was contagious and if they met eye contact with any of us, then they would somehow find themselves on the recipient end of the crazy straw man rant. A couple of folks even had the nerve to turned and stare at us oddly as if we were to blame for this. As busy of a sideway Market Street is during that time of day, most people branched away from us as if the crazy man with the straw hat was Moses and they were the Red Sea.

As we hurried away, unharmed, I wondered what if the crazy straw hat man spouting off about judgment day would have attacked me and my co-worker. What if he had a knife or worse? Would folks just walking pass be obliged to intervene then? Probably not. Unfortunately, we live in a time when self-preservation triumphs heroism. And while I wasn’t necessarily expecting anyone to step in and beat the crap out the dude, an acknowledging glance or sympathetic head shake would have at least let me know that we weren’t alone.

But I can’t be too hard on folks. It’s not like we called the police and reported that there was a crazy man about harassing folks out on the street. Perhaps if we did, we could have saved the next passerby with tights the trouble of being scared half to death. I guess that will be our other sin we would have to answer to when Judgment Day finally comes to past. COMING." He kept yelling that shit over & over again.

The Art (and the Smell) of Subtlety

Sun, 11 Jul 2010 04:57:22 -0800

Evelyn Redcross, Foreue

Evelyn Redcross removed the cap off the 2 ounce bottle of room freshener and instructed me to stand back. “I spray over here and you let the scent come to you,” she said. She pushed the pump only once but within seconds, the room was filled with the gentle fragrance of Lime. “Man that smells really, really good,” I said, as I savored the scent Usually, my senses do not take kindly to sweet smells, in particular artificial aromas like room fresheners and perfumes. But this was really soft and reminded me of pleasing to that palette feeling you get from drinking a glass of lemonade. Corny, I know, but true. “You don’t need to use much just one squirt should be enough,” she said. “Some room fresheners, you have to keep squirting, you know?” Yeah, I know. I had stopped using air fresheners years ago and opted for boiling spices and herbs on the stove but this sray, I could stand.

The Lime-Wood room freshener is just one items being sold under the moniker of Foreue natural skin products, which are vegan-friendly and not tested on animals. Hand and body lotions, soaps and facial astringents round out most of the product line. I hadn’t planned on purchasing anything that day; better managing my discretionary dollars had been at the forefront of my mind for a minute. But Redcross infectious smile, coupled with my sudden thirst for a glass of lemonade, convinced me that I could splurge - maybe just a little.

October Gallery

Ironically, I arrived at the Foreue table only after touring an amazing art collection at the October Gallery, which specializes in the artwork by mostly African American artist. Nestled on the tree-lined residential block of Green Street (6353 Greene Street), the secondary space for the October Gallery is a bit deceiving – particularly if you are expecting a store-front, retail shop with big glass windows rather than an actual house (I actually drove pass the gallery twice before I noticed the sandwich board sign on the sidewalk). However, the home-like feel serves as a wonderful way to showcase how certain pieces might look on your own walls or propped up on your mantle. In the kitchen, a woman boiled corn on the stove in preparation for the ArtNik, which was happening later on in the afternoon, while nearby a stirring picture by Amachi Omenihu inconspicuously hanged on the wall. In the converted dining room, Mercer Redcross, proprietor of the Gallery, perfomed his managerial duties of paper work, while the black women figurines by Annie Lee frolicked behind him.

“Are you a collector,” asked Mercer, as I walked through and admired the pieces. I nodded accordingly. I told him how I began collecting earlier this year, after being hip to the amazing artistry that goes into protest posters. Mercer and I engage in a discussion about how many artist present both social and political themes in their pieces without it necessarily being overly overt. He shifted through a bunch of prints, which had been sprawled across a table and shows me prints from Laura Cooper’s White Mask series. Sometimes an artist draws inspiration from the political and social climates that exist during the time in which they lived, he told me. I thought about it for a second, it made sense.

I didn’t purchase any artwork that day as my rigid budget wouldn’t permit it. However, I left the gallery with my newly purchase bottle of room freshener in my eco-friendly paper bag and a new frame of mind. Like the bottle of freshener, it is the subtle messages in an art piece that once discovered and appreciated, could be just a powerful as if the message was sitting your face.

An Appeal for Justice for Oscar Grant: Denied

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 09:21:35 -0800

Yesterday (Thursday, July 9th 2010), the guilty of lesser charges verdict was handed down to the cop, who killed Oscar Grant, an unarmed black man that was shot while laying face -down, restrained and handcuffed on an train platform in Oakland and the country cries for Lebron James. Go Figure.

Just days after the videos of the shooting, caught on over a dozen camera phones, was plastered on Youtube as well as the mischaracterization of the riots in Oakland, I decided to take pen to pad to appease both my anger and helplessness. Short of getting on a plane to Oakland, the only other option I felt I could assist from hundreds of miles away was to make an appeal for justice. Here is my letter and the subsequential responses I received back.

BoardofDirectors@bart.gov,
dchlebo@bart.gov,
ggee@bart.gov
officeofthemayor@oaklandnet.com

To all that it may concern,

My name is [blank] and I am NOT a resident of your community. In fact, I am from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. However, like many people, who had witnessed the recent events on the news of the police shooting of Oscar Grant III, I feel very compelled to write this email as a way to demand justice.

First, let me applaud you all for taking the necessary steps to investigate the matter further and I hope that this investigation is both fair and unbias. With that said, I am a little sadden and frustrated by the facts, as presented in the media, that the investigation into this matter was delayed for six days. I hope that this was just an isolated oversight in policy, rather than the norm.

Besides the investigation into the shooting, I am demanding that a separate investigation be waged to review the training policy and hiring practices within your police force. From what I've witnessed, the officer's conduct in the shooting, particularly the shooting of an unarmed man as he was faced down on the ground and handcuffed, was deplorable. I also understand, from reading published reports, that this officer has a history of irrational responses while dealing with suspects and the broader community. I hope that this officer conduct does not in no way represent the overall policies of your force (s), departments and agencies. But if policies are unclear, than they should be corrected immediately.

Publish reports have also stated that this officer still remains employed on the force. I am also demanding that the officer be taken off duty without pay until the results of this investigation is completed.

I am also demanding that a timely investigation be completed and that ALL witnesses be interviewed.

Finally, I am demanding that BART as well as the Oakland police establish an independent advisory board and incorporate more civic engagement practices into your policies. I believe that the recent riots are a direct result of a disconnection that individuals may feel with your agencies and departments. I feel that an advisory board will help improve those relations as well as hold your agencies and departments accountable.

I hope that you will strongly consider my appeal. Justice is this matter should not be delayed.

Sincerely,

[blank]
Philadelphia

Here is the first response:

fromKduron@bart.gov

Dear [Blank]:

Thank you for your email. Your message will be distributed to our Board of Directors as requested.

The following is a link to the District's webpage with news releases/video of the District's response and comments by our Board of Directors regarding the officer involved shooting on January 1, 2009.

http://www.bart.gov/news/articles/2009/news20090105.aspx

Thank you for taking the time to share with us your reaction and concerns regarding this tragic event.

Kenneth A. Duron
District Secretary
San Francisco Bay Area Rapid Transit District
300 Lakeside Drive, 23rd Floor, Oakland, California 94612
510.464.6080, fax: 510.464.6011, email: kduron@bart.gov
website: www.bart.gov

This is the second response:

from Schuerholz, Keith <KSchuerholz@oaklandnet.com>

Dear [blank],

Thank you for your email regarding the recent BART shooting. Mayor Dellums has expressed his deep concern over the incident. He has said:

“Our entire community grieves at the loss of Oscar Grant III. I am profoundly saddened by the turn of events that resulted in the loss of a young man’s life which has left a family and a community in mourning. Our hearts and deepest wishes for peace go out to the families and loved ones of all the parties involved in this tragic event. While the investigation now underway may shed light on specific details of the shooting, at the end of the day, establishing culpability will not bring back a life tragically lost.”

The shooting is being investigated by both BART and Alameda County officials. The Alameda County District Attorney has legal jurisdiction in this case and will make the decision about any arrests.

We thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts and concerns with us and we look forward to serving you in the future.

Sincerely,

Keith S. Schuerholz
Community Liaison
Office of the Mayor

"While the investigation now underway may shed light on specific details of the shooting, at the end of the day, establishing culpability will not bring back a life tragically lost.”

Tragic is when someone dies in an accident. Senseless, deporable, heinous are all words that I would have used to describe this death. Likewise, while a establishing culpability wouldn't have brought Oscar back, it would have symbolized Justice. Imagine if the roles were reversed and if Oscar had "accidentally" shot and killed the officer. Would the liason for the Mayor of Oakland call it just a tragedy? Would he be so willing to soothe the supporters and morners of this hypothetical dead officer with the logic that "establishing culpability will not bring back a life" lost?

I saved the letters, hoping that the feeling I received from their responses, wouldn't result in the miscarriage of justice I had expected would happen. But yet again, hope failed. And all I'm left with is the sick feeling that this will not be the last letter I write on behalf of poor sap, "accidentally" murdered by the police.

What the 4th of July Meant to This Negro Woman (in words & sounds)

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 18:14:49 -0800

Pam Africa

"Oh Freedom, Oh Freedom, Oh Freedom over me. And before I'd be a slave, I'd be buried in my grave and go home to my Lord and Be Free."

Michael Coard hurried into the square of the Liberty Bell Center at 6th and Market Streets. His long-sleeved, white shirt and beige suit pants, while professional, looked a little overdressed for the above average temperature event. Coard, who is a local attorney and founder of the Avenging the Ancestor's Coalition, was one of the last presentators to arrive, which was odd because he was also the one leading the rally. No problem though, as Pam Africa had his back. Fresh off the energy of the Free Mumia rally, which happened only minutes earlier directly across the street, Africa, member of the Pan-Africanism movement MOVE, had already taken the stage, laying down hard truths about the meaning of the 4th of July. Once Coard got his self together, he apologized profusely for being tardy and told the dozens in attendance that the program would begin shortly. In the meantime, Bro. Farugh had taken to the mic to properly administer libation for the ancestors, and requested, in traditional form, that we call out the names of those whom should not be forgotten. I called out great-grandmother, Marian Catherine Guess. Ashe.

We stood only feet a few feet away from what would be the new site for the Presidents House, a tribute center to America's first White House. On the far side of the construction site, where lines of people waiting in the shade to walk past one of America's most defining symbols of freedom - the Liberty Bell. The weather forecast for the Monday following the Sunday the 4th, would have Philly sitting ugly in the upper 90s - that day proved that the forecast was way already behind schedule. It was hard not to concentrate on anything other than the heat. As I wiped the sweat that began to accumulated behind my ear, I realized for some folks, the idea of standing in the grass with the hot, blazing sun beaming down their backs, may have seem like a chore - especially if it meant leaving the comforts of an air conditioning home. But then I thought of my ancestors, who masked labored once passed through the very grass I had been stepping on. Those ancestors that slaved from birth to death and sun up to sun down, so that many of the signers of the Constitution could be considered "great." I realized then that I had an obligation to be here.

Last year at the 3rd annual Avenging The Ancestor Coalition (ATAC) Rally outside The Liberty Bell, I pledge then not to ever celebrate a holiday in which its symbolisms of freedom from tyranny did not originally include my own ancestors. That faithful day would come well over 100 years later (see post entitled Juneteenth Day: To Early to celebrate). No there would be no fireworks after the Welcome America Concert for me or staging of Bar-B-Ques neither. This rally to finally emancipate the nine enslaved people by George Washington would be my only celebration for the day and I was going to tough this heat out no matter what.

Before the students at the School of the Future could stir emotion with their rousing performance of Oh Freedom, Coard laid out the importance of the annual event, which initial began to protest the planned construction of the new Liberty Bell Pavilion on the same hollow grounds of the living quarters for the Washington Nine. This accidental discovered happened in 2002, when archeologist, working on behalf of the National Park Services and the Independent National Historic Parks, unearth some ornaments of the "stable slaves" during a search of the site of America's First White House. Initially, the findings were going to be swept under the proverbial rug by the National Park Services, who wanted to go ahead with plans for both the Pavilion and the President House (which would be a replica of the first country's first White House - without the slave quarters of course) as originally proposed. But after years of protest, writing letters, forcing meetings and negative attention in the press from around the country, the members of ATAC were able to persuade the Park Service that it was in its best interest to create a memorial next to the planned President House. The discovery as well as attempts to disguise a portion of America's tortured history, once again reminded us of the hypocrisy that exist in the so-called bastion of freedom.

"In order to pass through the halls of freedom, you had to pass over the hells of slavery,” said Coard to a rousing applause and head nods. I nodded my head too.

Standing amongst the rainbow colored black faces, I was reminded that not nearly enough of us (black folks) were present to pay fitting tribute. Too many of us were eating bar-b-que, waving American flags in parades or sleeping the day away in anticipation of the nighttime festivities along the Parkway. Perhaps it’s just too much of a burden for us to remember the hardship that our ancestors had endured. I was also reminded of several conversations from folks earlier that week through Facebook about the necessity to not only remember but to use what we learn from history to uplift our people in today's society. Those conversations have always been met with resistance and a force denial from those that would rather try and "get over it," than face the reality that we as a people are still in it. Rarely do these folks draw a correlation between the crimes of in the past and what is the state of the black community today. Yes, many of our folks, particularly those of the lower income bracket, continue to wade through slave-like oppression. From the prison industrial complex to targeted predatory lending, to toxic environmental hazards dumping in overwhelmingly black communities, to not being afforded a decent education opportunity to racial profiling and so forth and so on.

"It is not just slavery but the inability to come to terms with the excuses of slavery," said Immortal Technique, underground hip-hop artist and activist. "For us, there were always excuses that was given after slavery, which created racism. The excuses that somehow we were lesser than other people, that somehow we were the missing link between man and monkey, eugenics came in to say that we were racially inferior. People said that we were three-fifths of a man, how can we possibly be three-fifth when we were the original man” I nodded my head again, this time throwing in a few Amens.

Joe Mitchell

I stood there, in the blazing hot sun, listening to Joe Mitchell, Harvard graduate attorney and sure fire, look-alike for President Barack Obama, as he reads the names of those nine enslaved people, who would be symbolically freed on this day through proclamation. I glance across the street at the Tea Party rally (see post: Do you want some Tea with that Whine), who were holding their own salute to the signers of the Constitution. I wondered if the Tea Partiers would pause and hold a moment of silence for the millions of slaves, whose own freedom was stunted by the three-fifth compromise. Would they salute and wave the flag for Austin, Christopher Shields, Giles, Hercules, Joe, Maul, Onie Judge, Paris, Richmond and the 316 others enslaved by George Washington?

Fawaaz Fields

"The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. — The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought light and healing to you has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth July is yours, not mine," said Fawaaz Fields, reading the words of famous words of Frederick Douglas in The Meaning of July Fourth to the Negro.

As I headed back underground for the El train back towards the direction of Center City, I left with the sad realization that the emancipation had come hundreds of years too late for the Washington nine. And this symbolic gesture of freedom, while great in spirit, would be ignored by the ears of those, who were too caught up in parades, flag waving and barb-b-ques here the truth about the cost of America’s freedom. I paid my fare, sat down on the train seat by the window and began reading my book, Slave Girl by Buchi Emecheta.

Do You Want Some Tea to go with That Whine?

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 06:02:40 -0800

Do you want some Tea to go with that Whine?

Oh boy, imagine my elation when I walked from underground off the Market-Frankford El train, entered Independence Hall and accidentally found myself in the midst of the “Proud to Be An American” July 4th Tea Party Rally. I was actually on my way to another rally (more of that in another post), when I stumbled upon what had to be the whitest bunch of folks I have ever seen. It was so white that the only other black person present, who too looked as if she had made a wrong turn around the Liberty Bell, asked me if this was a Klan Rally. I don’t know, Sis, the juror is still out, I said.

What I found out very quickly was that there is never a shortage of Thomas Jefferson quotes at a Tea Party Rally, which is unfortunate if you’re trying to convince the world that you are not a pseudo-racist group posing as a party of free-thinking individuals (Sorry but you can’t believe that all men are created equal while owning enslaved people). The tall older white man, who was dressed in the traditional red, white and blue, had the bad luck of stepping in my path and attempting to hand me a pamphlet with The Best of Thomas Jefferson quotes. What he received back was a rude Angry Black Woman awakening when I spiritedly slapped the leaflet from his hand. Happy Birthday to the ground, Thomas Jefferson, Happy Birthday to the ground.

Also present were the anti-abortion groups, the state chapter of a national conservation party group and the 9-11 Truthers (actually I have no beef with the Truthers other than why are you at a Tea Party rally?). There was also frequent buzzing around me from other ralliers, who gazed at me suspiciously as much as I did at them, about their belief that Obama was to blame for…well, just about everything. Obama was the reason the U.S was in two wars, knee-deep in the economic recession and lost in the World Cup to Ghana (Because he never produced that birth certificate, you know). While no one would ever accuse me of being a blind follower of our commander-in-chief, you do have to wonder where all these were folks were during the Bush-Cheney years.

After the reading of the names of those locally (and white) serving in Iraq, followed by an uncomfortable speech from the sister of an soldier in Iraq, who bizarrely ended her homage to her brother with a picture of the family dog, and several cult-like salutes to the American flag, I was done. Unfortunately, I couldn’t muster the patience to hear their thoughts on Immigration, National Security and Defense (which was conveniently outlined in five-page program book. I also found out that Joey Vento of Geno’s Steaks was one of several businesses co-sponsoring the event). Way too much white, middle class angst for my taste. But despite published media reports about the antic at previous Tea Party gatherings, there were no violent outburst, overtly-racist gestures or issuances of death threats against Obama (at least not during the 20-25 minutes I had been present).

Although the guy with the oversized hiking backpack and Don’t Tread on Me flags, did make me a bit uncomfortable. There are no trails here dude, what’s with the backpack?

Stuff that Hipsters Like

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 21:10:58 -0800

Been spending most our lives, living in a Hipster’s Paradise.

Southwest Philly looks nothing like how I remember it being – the jurors still out on whether that’s a good thing or not. It was only a few years ago (maybe seven years at the most) when that section of Philly, particularly around Baltimore Avenue, was the premier spot to buy weed (mainly because there wasn’t a shortage of supply). Now the area has been gentrified into a young Hipsters’ paradise. Horn-rimmed glasses, flip-flops, baby t-shirts and tapered jeans on bikes are almost as prevalent as organic groceries, ethnic restaurants, hookah bars and funky little fringe art shops. At the center of this Hipster’s Mecca, is Clark Park, which is located between 43rd and 45th streets; Chester Avenue and Woodland Street, where on a typical summer night, you might find only the hippest of the hippiest engaged in barefoot, organic picnic in the park or shirtless romps of soccer (or football) with the nearby African immigrant community. You will also find tons of dogs because hipster LOVES dogs.

Hipsters also love progressive politics and social issues. But not the domestic issues that exist further up the Avenue or mainstream political crap you find on CNN or MSNBC. No, Hipsters are in tuned with more global issues, whether it be the Coup de tat in Honduras or the plight of the Mexican farm worker, Hipsters are all on it and all about it. That’s where the local chapter of the International Action Center comes in, which is a grassroots group of mostly old hippies, who still haven’t lost their drive for sticking it to The Man about U.S. wars abroad, racism and economic exploitation of workers here at home. Throughout the summer, the IAC will be offering movies in Clark Park with socially and political themes at a Hipster’s favorite price – free.

Last Friday, a good friend and I invaded this usual insular bunch to see the independent film Amreeka. Admittedly we stood out like sore thumbs with our penchants for wearing shoes and shaved armpits as well as my messy chain-restaurant taco salad from Qdoba. But the counter-culture congregation greeted us with open arms and didn’t even mind our brash gawking at the gender-bending older person with the pink bonnet and 2-inch heeled loafers. And admittedly I rather enjoyed sitting out in the cool night air, watching a great movie, which makes you think, on an unsophisticated theatre screen, made out of a bed sheet and plumber’s pipe.

Yes, there something bizarrely appealing about that Hipsters charm – whether I like to admit it or not.