Monday, February 6, 2012

The Hood Sense God Gave You

To the kids who so happily go to school wearing the lyrics of the latest hooks,
only to recognize that they are reading from the oldest books
But they say, "Who cares? I'm future Young Money, future Crime Mob,"
but after graduation where the hell is that job?
Nobody gives them the option of being a rapper or a poet
or getting educated opinions across so the mis-educated would know it.

This ain't hood sense or book sense,
but it's that common sense that will assist in your future relevance.
Present suffering stemmed from a brutal past, oppression, and disenfranchisement
But your purpose is not confined to being someone's entertainment
Oh, am I stirring up trouble or being politically incorrect? Excuse me for being upset
when my people now hang from the brain instead of the neck.

To the white brothers, the black brothers, the young and old
Even to the mixed brothers who's mothers needed a taste of soul
Red brother, yellow brother, and I can't forget the brown brother
when Africa wasn't around, His-Panic became my mother. because we understood one another.
You see this ain't no racist skit, but just some shit
to force you to use your mind a bit

America learns from the black man, because he's been at the bottom
Me spittin' this knowledge from this oral glock; I shot em, I got em!
Lessons I learned in the hood makes me proud, makes me feel good
enough to finish school and pay to live in your neighborhoods
My mama was a sista, my mama didn't play
Didn't bother coming home when I got bad grades

Mama was a little bit crazy, but mama didn't raise no fool
and she didn't pay for school just so I could pretend to be cool
I put what I had learned together and made a mental meal
Just a plan B, in case there's no record deal
I can sing and I can dance til I can't do it no mo'
But I educated myself so I'd avoid the Minstrel Show

I've flipped the script, not a rapper but a poet
Another way to speak louder so the mis-educated can know it
They say our song of complaints are always on repeat
but now who are the ones protesting on Wall Street
Our people have been fighting for years, demanding America to change
You're band wagon fans, we're vets in this game

This is it! Everything I said, I meant.
The key is beating the odds against a system that keeps backs bent
Read brothers! Read brothers! Ye freed descendants of slaves
Don't make Douglass, Dubois, and Booker T turn in their graves
Sufferers of oppression, victims of disenfranchisement
Earth's first man needs no more embarrassment

Build communities and empires, the builders of pyramids back on the map
Getting young brothers to understand the original, true Gangsta Rap
I have this, I have that, and I have that as well
but what's the use of all of these things when you're spending time in jail
Don't go pointing the pointing the finger son, there is this thing called accountability
which you will need to have if you want credibility

This is that hood sense and that book sense,
combined with that common sense that makes me relevant
No excuses. No more excuses from the sons of the mother land
because you are the example. You are the Original Man!

Monday, January 9, 2012

To the Young Princes

I am a man! I am also a King! I was once a boy-prince, but one day I had decided that it was time for me to become a man, a king. It was not easy, but now I stand tall. Be not dismayed, I am a king, but I am still just a man. I am a man who seeks a Queen. I am a man ready to love and to allow my Queen to love me. I have always known what lust felt like. That is why I decided that it was time for me, a man, and a king, to love. Lust pokes fun at love. Lust was always accompanied with the feeling of being incomplete. To a young Duke, Dauphin (French), Amir (North African-Arabic), or Abiade (Nigerian) it may be fulfillment, but I am a man and a king. I know love, because I have known lust. Love is completion!

A king’s quest for love is like a game of chess. Love is a mightily divine clash of sexual, mental, and spiritual orgasms. For a king searching for a queen, it is all or nothing. Please pleasure me with your knowledge of life, history, the arts, philanthropy, and the sciences. Please pleasure me with your sweet juices and violence when you are testing and appreciating my manhood. Above all, please pleasure me with your confidence, trust, and unconditional love for the God-King that I serve and to whom I will only bow. A king has to have it all.

True Kings, whether they are animal or “ani-male” can distinguish a Queen from any other section of the feminine class. He will sacrifice the harlot, the vixen, the Barbie, and even risk his own life for his Queen, his consort. How do I know this? My bed has been occupied by them all. Each one pleasured me in one or two ways, but I never felt complete. Women can sense royalty. To some, men are like animals. The true meaning of natural selection is the woman’s decision to give herself to the strongest animal that will assist her in birthing an even stronger nation. Yes my young princes, women are powerful, but Queens are divine.

Some women may suggest that men are simple creatures, but I chuckle at the fact that they never seem to grasp that simplicity that confuses their complexity. A King has to be both simple, yet complex. My Queen will be my bride. A simple man, a King will not marry a woman that is not preparing or prepared to be a wife and a Queen. As a young prince, I walked this earth displaying the deep piercings and cannibalistic marks of women on my back that did not complete me. I wanted to be a man. I wanted to be a King! I disposed of my princely title and became a King. I became King Adebomi, which means “crown covered my nakedness.”- (Nigerian- Yoruba)

I am ready to receive my Queen. The seeds of my precious jewels can only enter into the sacred palace of my one true Queen. She will nurture and prepare the future Kings and Queens for their great coronation and formal introduction to the world. Together we shall introduce them to the peasants, the jesters, and the pretenders of the crown, so that they may see what a King and Queen is not. This too shall pass. For I am a man, a King, and a just leader, but the titles that I long to possess are great husband, great father, and great son. Only then, will I truly be the greatest sovereign on earth. Dear Princes far and near, titles mean nothing without the action included.

Thursday, November 17, 2011


This past Halloween, six young sorority girls night of holiday enjoyment turned into a nightmare. This may sound like the typical story line of a Wes Craven or Stephen King film, but I guess in this case Freddy Kruger’s terror has manifested itself into reality. Phi Mu Sorority hosted a Halloween party with an 80’s theme. Six young girls decided to dress up as the Huxtables from the famous Cosby Show. The show was about a happily married couple, a hard working and successful African American family; which defied the stereotypical perceptions of African Americans that were - and still are - common throughout the media and a society that thinks African Americans are all the same. It seems like a cool idea right? The only problem was that these six sorority girls were white. How did they pull this off you ask? They went to the party in Black-face.

Before anyone gets angry or yell OMG, let me ease your mind by saying that this “movie” takes place in Southern Mississippi; at the University of Southern Mississippi to be exact. Right now I’m sure most of you are not surprised now or maybe you’re saying to yourself, “typical of such a backward Mississippi society.” While it may seem unimportant to you, it is very much important to me. I not only attended this university, but I also hold a grudge because of the universities (and the state’s) continuous failure to diversify its curriculum by making Multicultural Studies a requirement instead of a punishment. It is no secret that the education system in Mississippi is beyond broken, but the “Old South” mentality of many people who live there plays a big role in the collapse of the education system.

I personally blame the institution rather than the six young women. If the institution was serious about diversity/multiculturalism, then it should have been a requirement for all USM students years ago. These women simply did not know (just as most people at USM dont have a clue). It's not their fault! I have no doubt that these women had no intentions to harm anyone, but it is definitely true that people (MS especially) are not educated on the evolution of the historical/psychological oppression of African Americans. I don't have a problem with anyone dressing like a successful African American family, but I absolutely have a problem with schools in MS that don't make Multicultural Studies a requirement when most students come into college with preconceived stereotypes of others. It is dangerous in a place like MS! If they were educated on the historical perspective of Black-face, then they would have some sort of understanding of why some people would be upset. The idea may have been acceptable to a younger individual, but definitely not to older persons regardless of color.

“Though it is clear that these women had no ill intent, it was also clear that they had little cultural awareness or competency, and did not understand the historical implication of costuming in blackface,” said Dean of Students Dr. Eddie Holloway. “We thought it important to begin an open dialogue immediately, and all those involved were not only cooperative but open, honest and candid.” Vice President for Student Affairs Dr. Joe Paul said, “Though clearly without overt intent, this photo was offensive, insensitive and regrettable, and is counter to the rich appreciation for diversity that marks our student body.” I have so much respect for Dean Holloway and Dr. Paul, but the simple idea of having a dialogue with these women, along with black student leaders is not at all effective on a campus that uses diversity as make-up. What about the rest of the students? The honest, yet brutal thing to do is to remove the make-up in order to see the real face of the university. It is not as diverse as it is portrayed to be. How does having a small discussion with a few students change race-relations and diversity on a southern campus? If Multicultural Studies was a requirement, then it prevents whites from saying, “Here we go with this race s***!” It prevents the international students from feeling like they have stepped into America’s Twilight Zone. It prevents women from feeling like they have to let a man take charge of everything. It prevents the disabled and homosexuals from feeling like something is wrong with them. It prevents other minorities from being overly aggressive, because of the feeling of being misunderstood, generalized, and forced to assimilate into a society where people of their background are rarely appreciated and acknowledged in those heavy books that they have to carry from one end of the campus to the other.

As a student at USM and a Mississippi native, I never understood why the talk of race, religion, and politics were forbidden. Are these the issues that are turning us into American rejects or degree holders who still can’t compete with the rest of the country? We are so afraid to talk about these issues. How are students in the south ever going to become nationally known scholars, lawyers, preachers, scientists, and politicians if we even fear discussing such issues in an educational setting? Is this not turning everyone in Mississippi (regardless of race) into slaves? Racism is so deeply woven into my dear home-state that we even enslave ourselves without even knowing it.

Even if these 6 white women did not know the history behind Black-face, could one ask if the black student leaders knew the history behind it as well? This story made national news, but no one, not even the Hattiesburg American or Student Printz took that golden opportunity to explain the history of Black-face to its audience and why it may have upset some African Americans. We missed it! The administration missed it again! Is it enough to sit through a boring lecture in the LAB, Stout Hall, or Joseph-Green and attempt to retain crap that you’re going to forget after the test anyway? I have no doubt that the information a student could receive in Multicultural Studies course would be not only unforgettable, butt will allow them to be able to have a more positive experience in this world. When you graduate and start that new job, everybody is not going to look, act, think, and believe the way you do. You have to be prepared to not only be skilled in your craft, but also skilled in being able to work with and understand people who are not like you.

It is important that this new generation of young students would challenge the norms of Mississippi. This is not us! This old system does not work! Tuition costs too much to sit in class for hours and get absolutely nothing out of it. We have to challenge our educators, politicians, and clergymen. We can’t afford to continue to be the laughing stock of the nation and only get news coverage when there is a race issue. Young leaders need to stand up and be heard! USM needs to make Multicultural Studies a requirement to prevent the social-retardation that has plagued our state for far too long. I have included a link that will explain Black-face, Minstrel shows, and the negative stereotypes of African Americans that came along with it since no one else would.




Monday, November 7, 2011

My Drug Addiction

Somehow, somebody drew a line between him and I. I enjoyed the loafers, he enjoyed the timbs, he looked like me, but someone told me that I had to hate him. I lived in the North, he lived in the south, he lived in a little shack and I lived in a big house. I drunk fine wines, he preferred 40’s, I liked the “bougie” broads, he liked the hood shorties.

Somehow, somebody drew a line between him and I. He looked like me, but somebody separated him and me, and told us that there was no we. Everybody for themselves! Looks of disgust when we crossed paths; feeling that hate and knowing that we were separated at birth. Separated by high class and low class, smart ass and dumb ass, uppity negro and no count negro. He chose the block and I chose the books. I looked down on him and he looked down on me, but we never asked ourselves, “Who the the f*** was looking up?”

Somehow, somebody drew a line between him and I. We never conversed or thought to rehearse the lines in order to prepare for the time when we would have to meet face to face. We never said a word. He looked like me, but we were in two different worlds surrounded by girls. Black, white, red, and yellow, who all wanted to secretly touch that big mystery that dangled between our legs. Is that all we are good for? He hated me, because of my opportunities and my ability to sit and mingle in the pool of diversity. I hated him, because I wasn’t accepted and felt rejected by the people in my own village who called me white boy trying to be color blind, the one that barely spends time with his own kind.

Somehow, somebody drew a line between him and I. But while we we’re different, one thing bound us together. He looked like me! We were the color of aggression, the color of oppression, the color of protection when a mother f***** tries, to bring stress and tears to our black mothers eyes. We are the color of fear when the pasty white chick clinches her purse assuming that we all want what she has. We are the color of crime when something goes wrong, even when we have not done wrong, we just go along. We end up alone into that black 5 star hotel called jail for 2 reasons: we are black and we are male. Somebody said, we can never be the golfer, just the caddy, never a husband, but somebody’s baby daddy.

Somehow, somebody drew a line between him and I, but one day we saw each other for the first time. We abused each other verbally, physically, and psychologically until we both had no more energy. Is this what they wanted? I had book sense and he had street sense and we both used them to better ourselves. For the first time we both looked up, then we looked at each other. We saw each other for the first time. We both wanted to knowledge! We both wanted power! He hustled his way and I hustled mine. Somebody told us that we had to hate each other; that we had to kill each other. We’ve never been to jail, but we were both going through hell trying to assimilate into a society that tries to categorize, demonize, and criminalize because of the color of me and my brother.

Somehow, somebody drew a line between him and I, but we saw each other for the first time. We shook our heads and laughed at how it had to come to all of this. We had different lives and different views, but we had so much in common. His appearance initially led me to believe that he was an illiterate fool, but his impressive hood logic led me to believe that I was the damn fool, with a college degree. We both wanted knowledge! We both wanted power! We realized that we both had a drug addiction; our addiction to knowledge and power.

I have respect for anybody who seeks greater knowledge, but didnt necessarily attend college! I'm the brotha in the tie, he’s the brotha rockin the chain, but we're both dangerous colored brothas because we're both nurturing our brains. We are black men, freakin drug heads, but not the kind you want us to be. We smoke that knowledge! We snort that knowledge! We shoot that knowledge! It's that junk, that fix we need when we’re itchin and twitchin. We’re working on increasing our drug addictions so that we can kill those negative depictions of me, of him, of us. We black brothas! We fight and blow smoke in each other’s face so hopefully we’ll get a taste of that contact high, that knowledge that leads to that power. Light that s***, smoke that s***, pass that s***!

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Amendment 26

(The Tale of a Southern Belle in Mississippi)

As I watched my love give birth to the seed of her rapist, I felt my heart churning and pumping its hatred to every section of my body. That hatred sizzled on my heart like melting butter to a hot skillet. My heart disease spoke to my love through the fire that shot out of my eyes. The duct tape covering her sweet lips bore the artificial red lips of a lustful woman in Mississippi. That butter, that hate oozed out of my pores as I tried to hold myself together, while listening to God and Lucifer negotiate. I watched my love cry as that butter, that hate, turned into confusion. Was she crying because of the pain, or the pain of being a woman with no voice? I knew that she would never do this to me, but how could I? She had no voice. Her sweet lips were sealed by that cheap duct tape that bore the artificial red lips of a lustful woman in Mississippi. Those lustful red artificial lips told me that she was a temptress, a controller of man’s burning desire to unlatch her chastity belt, and a ruler of herself.

I know my love! I know those sweet lips beyond that duct tape; beyond those lustful red lips. I am sure about one thing. She is the ruler of herself. Those sweet lips promised me that God and I were the only men that she would ever love. God and I were the only men worthy enough to touch her delicate skin. I am a great man with great power. I chose her, because of her greatness and power, but someone has silenced her. Someone has taken her womanhood and sealed her lips so that she may not tell a soul. Who do I blame for my confusion? Who do I blame for my battle between my love and hate for this woman? Who do I blame for the battle between grudge and forgiveness? Is it the man that took her womanhood or the man that took her voice? Are they one in the same? Is the rapist the same man who makes the laws?

This man or these men have managed to turn my most prized possession—my Southern Belle—into a lowly black slave of the former south. Her only duty is to please me! She has no control over her body. She cannot do anything without my say so. This is not the woman I fell in love with! The woman I know is strong, intelligent, and capable of making her own decisions. I am not worthy of making decisions about a body I did not create and a body that is not mine. I am only the lover of her soul. Right now I hate this thing that is exiting her wound; this thing that has no relation to me. This thing can only be a painful memory of a marriage torn apart by man’s lack of control of his sexual aggression, but his willingness to control his female counterpart by stamping laws on her reproductive organs.

As I stood up to see my love in pain—attempting to scream through that cheap duct tape that bore the artificial red lips of a lustful woman in Mississippi—that butter inside of me began to fry. Suddenly my mind began to take over my heart. “I am a Southern Gentleman! I am the epitome of a man, husband, and father. My duty is to protect everything that I love, especially my woman.” I walked over to the side of the hospital bed and ripped that cheap duct tape off of her lips and she screamed! I heard her voice! She cried out to me! She cried out to other women! At that moment, the butter inside of me had turned itself into nothing. It left a glow in my heart that seeped through my skin. I could not live with hate and not have my love! I promised her that I would protect her even if it meant losing my own life. I was determined to fight this man who had three heads. He was a rapist, law maker, and a Christian when it was convenient.

This child is not mine, but he is not to blame for the problems in a world that he has not yet seen. I will love him. He was born of a law that forced my love into slavery, but I will make sure he is the last. You see, there is a young girl next door who just found out that she was pregnant, but her mother doesn’t know that it is her father’s seed.