Since I’ve been thinking about my “mission statement”, and since I just had to course-correct Deery on the post and thread of the same name, I figured this would be a good time to let er rip.
Many years ago, when I was first starting out my tenure of teaching at Temple U, I got into the poetry reading scene-alright, I ain’t gonna front, it was a good way to meet chicks, LOL. But, as so often happens, I learned a lot about life, others, and most of all myself.
For those who may not be aware, there has been for some years a burgeoning poetry reading scene in certain pockets of Black America-poets of all manner of interest and ability will gather and read their stuff. Much of it is good, some of it whacked, all of it interesting, in that they give a kind of window onto the world of others, how they think, and why they feel the way they do.
One of the themes I saw very early on in m poetry going, was that of a steady stream of Sistas who would, in prose, discuss their love lives in general and Black Men in particular; this was something that invariably placed all the blame for whatever trouble they had in their lives squarely at the feet of the Brothas. And, because Men or all shades and colors, all walks of life, have been taught (read: browbeat) into being deferential to Women regardless as to how ridiculous some of them are and/or sound, very rarely did the Brothas react negatively or respond in kind; when time came for Brothas to get on the mic, they waxed slam-poetic about the police, racism, or some other amorphous entity wreaking havoc in their lives.
As always, Women got a pass.
Among other things, this raised my Archer’s hackles, and offended my Libran sensibilities-after all, I was always taught it takes two to tango, and why weren’t Brothas speaking up for the other side of the story? In fact, I said to myself then, now that I think about it, how come we have so few Black Male writers (blogs hadn’t arrived on the scene just yet) of any particular stripe? Sure, we all can rattle a few names here and there, but for the most part, Black Lit is done by the Sistahood.
I was livid.
I stormed into my Dept Head’s office one day, and vented my spleen. He listened intently for about 10 minutes, and then he said one word:
“Write!”
His move knocked me off my square. “Write?”, I asked. What do you mean?
What he told me would stick with me all my days.
“One of the biggest problems Black Men have is they don’t write. They don’t convey to others their views or feelings or impressions of the world around them, and its a shame because the world needs to listen to what you have to say, and you have A LOT to say. Don’t blame the Sistas because they got it going on-blame yourselves because for whatever reason, you don’t write. If you want to change things, you can start, by sitting down at your desk and writing.”
I bought a computer that day, and did just that.
In fact, I decided to “respond” to what I’d heard at so many poetry slams/readings around the city, even though I had no background in poetry whatsoever. I simply copied the style and cadence of the poets I heard-especially the female ones-and wrote about what we in the Game community calls the “LJBF” thing. I talked about the blatant hypocrisy so many Sistas engage in, how they lust after the bad boys then wanna cry victim when they get burnt. I talk about how they claim to want good guys but turn their nose up at them. I talked about all the pretty lies and blatant contradictions so many Sistas seem to revel in, daily, yet expect guys to adhere to some outmoded and anachronistic standard. I talked about the defile he very word “friend” when they utter it to a Man, because as Men, we take such a word very, very seriously, when so many Women do not.
I decided to do my thing acapella, if you will; just the sound of my voice.
The place roared. Brothas were on their feet. Of course, Sistas felt some kind of way.
But so be it. The truth can often be like that.
My Dept Head at Temple U had armed me with something more powerful than a Bomb-for that night, I truly learned, that the pen, is mightier, than the sword.
Much to the chagrin of many, Hip Hop-a creation of and by Black Men-is now a worldwide phenomenon. People the world over, want to hear what Black Men have to say. This is not lost on me, even now, and especially since the beginning of my own blogging effort.
This blog is one Black Man’s take on the world around him. It is from a perspective that not even some other fellow Black Americans may not be used to or even like. So be it. It is important that the record show, that there were quite a few Brothas who willing to stand up, be counted, and most importantly, to be heard.
What I find so very interesting, is in how when Women blog, or write books, or read poetry, they aren’t assailed with demands to give stats or other forms of “proof”; it is simply and merely understood that they’re giving their take on things, on life. Yet, whenever Black Men speak, be it via a blog or a mixtape, all manner of feathers are ruffled.
Don’t tell me Brothas don’t have power.
One other thing I’ve learned all these years: I don’t know about the notion that Women are such better listeners than are Men. My personal experience, including that of today, doesn’t bear this out much at all. In fact, I would argue that Women can be horrible listeners, because when they hear something they don’t like, they go bananas. This explains why so many Black Women lose it about certain forms of Hip Hop, never once asking why the rappers say it in the first place, and God forbid if they ever ask if what they’re saying has an iota of truth to it. Oh, no.
For those who want to better understand where Black Men are coming from, why they think, feel and act as we do, what we feel and think about the great issues of the day, and to just hear a different take on things, this is the place to be, and you’re most welcome. And for those who are a bit uncomfortable with what I have to say, I can only offer you the way out the door, for I will not change. Not. One. Bit.
The world needs to hear more from Brothas. The Obsidian will do his part.
That is, after all, why I write.
Now adjourn your asses…
