[ From Mediaweek ] :
When Tom Joyner Speaks, People Listen
The syndicated Tom Joyner Morning Show, with its all-black morning crew, blends serious discussions of major social and political issues affecting the black community with humor, celebrity interviews and a sprinkling of music, from "Old School" R&B (think Marvin Gaye more than R. Kelly) through Motown to some Adult Urban Contemporary fare. It's his ability to incite his listeners to action that's unmatched by anyone in radio, black or of any color.
When Tom Joyner took all the DJ duties at KISS-FM here in New York City, I was not thrilled. First, he was replacing Isaac Hayes and long-time Newsman Bob Slade (yes, Slade is still the newsman, but his duties have been lessened and his rapport with Black Moses and the crew was hilarious and informative and kept my rapt attention). Secondly, I wasn't too happy with much of the "humor" on the show. It was (still is, often) crass, to say the least.
Yes, they've grown on me, but I just wish there was more time spent on relevant issues and playing some good damn music. And fergawdz sake, stop the homophobic banter from Melvin or whoever-the-hell that is! Ish ain't funny.
From the New York Time's On This Day: Birthdays: July 2, Thurgood Marshall
For much of his Supreme Court career, as the Court's majority increasingly drew back from affirmative action and other remedies for discrimination that he believed were still necessary to combat the nation's legacy of racism, Justice Marshall used dissenting opinions to express his disappointment and anger.
In 1978, for example, in the Bakke case, in which the Court found it unconstitutional for a state-run medical school to reserve 16 of 100 places in the entering class for black and other minority students, Justice Marshall filed a separate 16-page opinion tracing the black experience in America.
"In light of the sorry history of discrimination and its devastating impact on the lives of Negroes," he wrote, "bringing the Negro into the mainstream of American life should be a state interest of the highest order. To fail to do so is to insure that America will forever remain a divided society."
From CNN.com Black Farmers' Protest Shuts Down USDA Office
BROWNSVILLE, Tennessee (AP) -- More than 150 black farmers claiming discrimination in federal crop loans staged a peaceful sit-in Monday that shut down an Agriculture Department office.
The angry farmers first held a rally outside the small USDA office in this town 55 miles northeast of Memphis, and then they poured inside, sitting in the lobby, at desks and taking over a conference room. Most of the staff went home.
Protest organizer Thomas Burrell accused the government of conspiring "to force black farmers off the land."
"We all know they've committed evil against us," Burrell said. "The question is, how long are we going to let it happen?"
Keith Boykin reminds us of Frederick Douglass' speech regarding celebrating our nation's independence:
You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak today? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes, lowering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrecoverable ruin! I can today take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people!
GAY SHAME
I don't have much to say about Pride events as I am indifferent to them. Although I know how important it is for the newly out and those that truly celebrate liberation (read: older gay men and lesbians and the especially marginalized pioneers of Stonewall, the transgendered), A Question of Pride is an interesting Mother Jones article:
What began four years ago as a small protest gathering in Brooklyn has grown to become an undeniable -- if not exactly coordinated -- backlash against the growing presence, and importance, of corporate sponsors at Gay Pride events. Alternative 'Gay Shame' events are being held in dozens of cities. The common theme: Corporate sponorship is leading to the crass commercialization of the pride movement.
Leave it to a pint-sized (fictional) Brooklyn kid to tell the truth about Al Gore.
Happy Birthday Papi!
George on Life: Right now, at this very moment, I have more joy about this life than I know what to do with.
Profile in Black, Profile in Courage
Benjamin Davis dies; he led the Tuskegee Airmen
Benjamin O. Davis Jr., a pioneering military officer who led the fabled Tuskegee Airmen during World War II and became the first African-American general in the Air Force, died July 4. He was 89 and had Alzheimer's disease.
Davis' career began in the days of segregation in the military. His combat record and that of the unit he led have been credited with playing a major role in prompting the integration of the armed services after World War II.
In 1970, after retiring from the Air Force, he supervised the federal sky marshal program that was designed to quell a rash of airliner hijackings. In 1971, he was named an assistant secretary of transportation.
When he left the Air Force as a lieutenant general, he was the senior black officer in the armed forces. In 1998, President Bill Clinton awarded Davis his fourth star, advancing him to full general.
As the World War II commander of the 332nd Fighter Group, Davis and his pilots escorted bombers on 200 air combat missions over Europe, flying into the teeth of some of the Nazi Luftwaffe's most tenacious defenses. Davis himself flew 60 missions.
While Michael Moore asks, "What If...," I already had this thought. I travelled with a friend to the airport and noticed that matches and lighters were being allowed on flights. It wasn't until later, on the bus back home, that I questioned why airport security would allow a certified weapon (Hello! Richard Reid?!) to be blatantly taken on planes.
What if there is no "terrorist threat?" What if Bush and Co. need, desperately need, that "terrorist threat" more than anything in order to conduct the systematic destruction they have launched against the U.S. constitution and the good people of this country who believe in the freedoms and liberties it guarantees?Read the entire "bonus chapter" from Stupid White Men. I can't wait to see his reports on his FOI request from the FAA.
OK, who the hell is Hinton Battle? Really diggin' Aaron's wit, tenacity and how he has me dumbfounded with most every post.
From PW's Daily Email:
Hue-Man Resurrection: New Harlem Store to Open at End of July
Be patient, it's coming...
Clara Villarosa, former owner of the Hue-Man Experience Bookstore in Denver, Colo., will finally open her long-awaited Harlem bookstore, Hue-Man Bookstore, at the end of this month in the Harlem USA mall at 2319 Frederick Douglass Boulevard in New York City.
Villarosa told PW Daily that she expects the 4,000-sq.-ft. store, on which she holds a 10-year lease, to open on July 29. "I'm creating my dream store," she said. It will be Afrocentric and have "open retail space, product depth, customer service, elegant ambience, easy flow, pretty colors. And it will be in a population that has a literary history. Denver was hard--there weren't that many black people in Denver."
At the beginning, the store's inventory will approach 7,000 titles, which she hopes to stock through Ingram.
Hue-Man Bookstore, which has been three years in the making, is a partnership between Villarosa and two women who "always wanted to open a bookstore but needed someone with expertise." Her partners are Rita Ewing, attorney and ex-wife of New York Knick Patrick Ewing; and Celeste Johnson, wife of New York Knick Larry Johnson.
The trio funded the $1 million venture with private funding plus $475,000 in financing from the Upper Manhattan Empowerment Zone.--Diane Patrick
[ From Out Sports ] :
It's Not A Gay Thing, It's A Guy Thing
Why do you think cheerleaders were invented? Why do you think the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders were every boy's wet dreams for years? (Well, not every boy, but you get the picture.) Since an average play in the NFL might take five seconds, the League needs something to keep their fans interested during downtime. After all, the average man, straight or gay, thinks about sex every six seconds. Yes, the average gay man gets it every six days, and the average straight man gets it every six weeks, but it makes us no more sex-crazed -- just luckier.
I would love to read a lesbian/bisexual perspective on this subject. It's the twenty-first century. You'd think society would be beyond the stereotypes, generalizations and plain ol' ignorance. Sadly, we still have a long, long way to go to recognize diverse, divergent and realistic viewpoints and voices.
Donald speaks truth(s) to power:
A condom might provide a physical barrier to HIV, but feeling good about who you are and what you do results in making better choices for all aspects of your life. Even if you have HIV.One of these days I will contribute an essay (rant really) about DL theory and self-hate amongst Black gay men. I'm just not ready, nor feeling too pragmatic about the subject of late.
From KeithBoykin.com:
BLACK MALE PROSTITUTES IN DEMAND -- Black male prostitutes are in high demand in Bangkok, Thailand, where they have become the favorites of "high-society women," according to South Africa's News24. The "female elite" are said to prefer the men because they are "fiercer," more "thrilling" in bed and "well built," according to the report.I read a similar report on Yahoo's message boards and clubs last year. It generated a heated debate (thanks for ruining clubs Yahoo! Now I can't post some of the hilarious and often ig'nant stuff) between mostly Black and Asian men -- some AfAms openly enjoyed the status supposedly given them by "female elites." Others lashed out at Asian men, often without provocation or an iota of logic, intelligence and forethought.
Tomorrow
Time permitting, I will have a supa update Monday, Tuesday the latest. I hope to address/rant about:
1. MacWorld Expo New York. I missed the opening of Apple's SOHO, New York. (I expect to hear details Donald)
2. Maybe my trip outside of NYC. It was semi-personal and a bit disappointing, but since my baby was there, is was a'ight.
3. Hoping to be able to meet with George while he and A. are Eastside (!) and meeting folks.
4. Hating: Steve Jobs, all you can eat crab "feasts" although my behind barely likes crab, and, publishing right now.
Lame List #310767:
1. Never make promises about updating, trip recapping, and essay writing.
2. Stop hatin' on Steve Jobs, Apple and it's fanatics.
3. Make ish personal (afterall, it's your damn journal/domain).
4. No more lists this month!
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, "Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?" Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of the Universe. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do... We were born to make manifest the Universe that is within us. And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. -- Nelson Mandela, Freedom Fighter
[ via Aaron, via {questionable progressive website} ]
Thanks to George for informing me that the quote in the previous post is incorrect. I posted it blindly because I like it and thought it was Mandela's -- it's been posted so often as his (from his inauguration speech).Here's the correct info for the quote:
Our Deepest Fear by Marianne Williamson from A Return To Love: Reflections on
the Principles of A Course in Miracles.
President Nelson Mandela's 1994 Inauguration Speech.
A Little Warm Death; or, Rambling, Remembering & Retreating
On the 29th of July, in 1943, my father died. On the same day, a few hours later, his last child was born. Over a month before this, while all our energies were concentrated in waiting for these events, there had been in Detroit, one of the bloodiest race riots of the century. A few hours after my father's funeral, while he lay in state in the undertaker's chapel, a race riot broke out in Harlem. On the morning of the 3rd of August, we drove my father to the graveyard through a wilderness of smashed plate glass. -- From page 85, Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin
Nearly fifteen years ago I was in a near catatonic state, preparing to bury my mother just five short weeks after burying my father and dealing with the ramifications of these two deaths, after not dealing with mom’s short, intense sickness. As the co-oldest of seven and the only true adult present in the day-to-day lives of my three youngest siblings, I was basically given the task of deciding their immediate, and therefore, ultimate fate. Should they remain with the older of the siblings -- two still in high school, me about to enter college after taking a year off after high school to "find myself" and my twin in Asia, serving the remaining term of his four years in the US Marines -- should they go live with an aunt in a crowded apartment in a crime-infested housing project, or should they move in with a distant (in terms of personality) aunt who was semi-retired, had a large house in a relatively safe area of Flatbush? While it appeared the choice were easy, it would actually mean the end of our daily relationship. Once I entered college I would be consumed with work (to pay off bills accumulated in the weeks since Big H. died) and the scary proposition of college. I knew I would barely see them and I was in a state of mind that any further loss may have pushed me over the edge.
With financial difficulties, tons of paperwork to deal with and less than enthusiastic older family members assisting, mom’s funeral was delayed and she was buried on my twentieth birthday. Again, I was so catatonic that I didn’t realize it until the ride to the funeral parlor. For several years I imagined that I would never make it to see my eighteenth birthday, let alone the end of my teen years. Many pooh-poohed the milestone as either just another birthday or not really the end of my teens. They considered 21 to be the start of adulthood. Afterall, I would be able to drink legally, enter adult establishments and it was, to them, an ideal age to assert your readiness for the world.
For me, the 19th of June, 1987 was the day I became a true adult. I was anxious to establish myself as an independent, self-sufficient man. I entered the full-time working world almost a year earlier, starting as a gallery guard at the Guggenheim the day after my high school graduation. It took a five-minute interview and a firm handshake the week before and I thought I was on top of the world. Little did I know that Big H. would die in his sleep at home and I would come to hate working long, tedious hours to try to pay off bills, comfort my younger siblings and keep my own sanity.
The morning of the 19th came about just like any working day. I didn’t have to be in to work until 11am so I was enjoying an early morning. After a quick breakfast of orange juice with a blended egg, I decided to get my hair cut at Harold N’ Dave’s on Sumner. I was barely out of the apartment complex when my sister S. called from the 11th floor window for me to come back upstairs. I initially thought she was calling me to tie Li’l H.’s necktie as he was getting ready for his graduation from the sixth grade. I knew Big H. was tired from long hours with Uncle S.’s furniture moving business as a potential future partner (an opportunity that enlivened the entire family) and would probably still be asleep at this early hour. This opportunity made my final decision to obtain my own apartment, most likely a run-down studio, uplifting. I was thisclose to being responsible for myself.
The frantic tone of S.’s pleas let me know it was much more serious than tying a hand-me-down necktie. I raced upstairs, but I already knew Big H. was gone when I entered the spare bedroom. His eyes were barely closed, his chest didn’t move and the crying and wailing of mom and Li’l H. confirmed it before I checked his pulse and lead them out of the room. I didn’t know if I was selfish for immediately thinking my chance to finally enter college, get my own apartment and to be alone, away from everyone were all dashed, but I could think of nothing else. Not the consequences of Big H. leaving us with debt, no insurance (canceled just a couple weeks earlier in his final act of blind rage) and no immediate assistance from familial relations in sight -- due to both circumstances beyond their control and a hatred born of fights years past.
Mom’s death was less of an ordeal, but no less of a burden. I felt selfish and cold and bitter once she finally passed. I still don’t know if I was more relieved that her suffering was finally over, or if I knew I would be relieved by some older, wiser and richer family member from the obligation of raising the little ones. I didn’t cry then and I can’t cry now over the deaths. It’s as if something in me also died and I retreated into a stoic, cold reality that allows no one in, fearing hurt and pain and abandonment. Since I was about five I’ve always felt alone in the world. This despite being constantly surrounded by siblings, cousins, close relations (both grandmothers and my step-grandmother lived within blocks of us at one time or another) and stray kids that moms could never turn away from our home. Hell, I wasn’t even born by myself. Still, I know I am a loner, even now with a partner of nearly two years and a few good friends and generally good family relations.
Feeling the need for flight returns every year with the last dregs of July. Birthday wishes, the occasional present/card and calls just exasperates me and I simply wish everyone would forget the day. It just reminds me of that time fifteen years ago. That and what has happened since: a fracture family life, disillusionment about my so-called relationship with my biological father, and the constant, nagging suspicion that I didn’t do the right thing with respect to the youngest amongst us. Although I know I could not have taken care of at least three young kids -- I have neither the patience nor wherewithal to deal with small children, not to mention the financial strains I was already facing at the time -- I will always believe I abandoned them and that their lives would be so much better today. Despite the fact that they are all relatively safe, sane and happy. Just that nagging feeling.
* * * * * * * * *
From random jotting of notes:
13 July 2002: Strand Bookstore: next time I'll give the motherfuckers away; Thanx Baby Bu, you are my rock and my salvation; Thus begins my Year of Absolutes
I need about a month to gather my thoughts, chart my immediate future (finding a new studio or 1-bedroom, possibly suing my landlord, severing several ties and establishing a steady stream of revenue) and get over a forboding sense of betrayal and deceit. Don’t want to be a drama king or anything, just need to rest really. I’ll answer email on an irregular basis, so apologies in advance.
Peace to you and yours...