"Born and Livin' With The Blues"

I recently listened to The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. DuBois on Audible and one of the essays was on how Black people have created a historical record of their experience at the hands of White Supremacy through the legacy of their music. It was scholarly and detailed, but it was so interesting that it made me want to chase more information on the topic, which I did. And that made me spend some time on YouTube reveling in the kind of music DuBois was talking about.

The video above features Brownie McGhee playing guitar and singing, Sonny Terry on harp, and the legendary Willie Dixon on bass. And if you want to check out other music I've posted through the years, you may scroll down to "Labels" on the right and click on either "music" or "blues." Or both. (*wink*)

B.B. King & Friends: Night of Blistering Blues (1987)

The grades are in. The semester's over. I think I survived it. And B.B. King has gone to the ancestors. Time to chill just a minute before jumping in on this new to-do list with both feet. Wanna join me?

Dizzy Wright: "I Need Answers" featuring Kikkiya

Get On Up!

I woke up this morning already knowing I was going to see "Get on Up", the new James Brown movie that opened this weekend ("in a theater near you!"). When I read the backlash on Facebook against the movie for being made by White folks to the exclusion of Black film-making professionals other than the actors, I dismissed it, frankly. I get it. Believe me, I know there are Black professionals who can do anything a White person can. And I know Black folks are sick unto death of White folks making money from exploiting them in one way or another. It's gone from slavery to private prisons with sports and entertainment folded in for good measure. And I make it a  point to buy books and films written and produced by talented Black creators for just that reason. But I'm not going to disrespect the Godfather of Soul for anybody. And that's all I'm gonna say about that.

Anyway, while I was thinking about all this, I came across an essay by Kevin Alexander Gray entitled "The Soul Will Find a Way" (re-posted after the page break below). It was published several years ago on Counterpunch and it's about James Brown, but in order to do proper justice to the subject, Gray had to go deep and stay long. He wrote about growing up in a rural county in South Carolina (where Brown was also from). He wrote about being poor and Black. He wrote about love and violence. He wrote about funk and pain and glory. And by the time he cut me lose, I was limp and sweaty and remembering my youth.

See, the thing is I was born on top of a mountain in Southeast Kentucky to a pretty young woman with a knockout body and the newly returned soldier she married for his allotment check. Eventually, she told me she thought he would never come back, but life disappointed her that way many times as the years went by. And between the two of them, they made my life strange and sometimes hellish and what doesn't kill you makes you strong, they say.

I learned early what women are for in Appalachia and the buried knowledge made me tough, as buried knowledge will. But I was too intelligent to be able to accept my lot in life and so I shut myself off from other people except on the most superficial levels. And in one way or another, I have spent most of my days on Earth in that space.

Though he was writing about Black folks, Gray's essay took me back to my roots because I'm a woman from Appalachia who discovered the Black community like an explorer looking for a land she had only heard of once in a lullaby. I've never understood it all. Why I felt so drawn to include and be included by those I was forbidden to know. Why I bulldozed the boundaries between us and walked out onto the dance floor with my Black partner in 1961 when I was barely more than a child. Why I felt more comfortable with Black folks than with "my own people." Why I wound up bearing a bi-racial child out of wedlock in my thirties. How and why I learned to cross the great divide DuBois called the Color Line until my soul belonged where my skin never could.

The cost has been great because I became one of the "regulars," and not always because I was wanted. Like the feral cat that keeps trying to run into the house when you open the door, I refused to take no for an answer. And I can't explain it.

"You're not really White," I've been told for decades. Black students tell me they come to sit in on my classes sometimes to "get in touch with their Blackness." Black student groups ask me to speak or sit on panels because, they tell me, "you say things that need to be said, but nobody else will say them." And my loneliness after accepting the hugs from one after another before I leave the building is palpable.

But I remember the moment in time when the lightening struck. I was seventeen and had been ushering for plays at the theater in our city so I could watch them for free. As a reward, we were offered the perk of ushering for the Dick Clark Show that was passing through town. The show was jam-packed with popular stars of the moment and as I sat in the dark mezzanine watching Paul and Paula, Gene Chandler, and The Ronettes, I was enjoying it all, but I was my usual reserved self. Until The Tymes, I think it was, came out and performed one of their hits and swung me out into the Universe never to return.

It wasn't their voices that did it. It was the dance routine. Four Black men moving in perfect synchronicity and from somewhere deep inside me, I suddenly felt a scream rip its way up through my body and burst from my open mouth. I lost my cool completely in a way that never happened again. I never forgot that moment and I never recovered from it. But I didn't really understand its significance until I read Gray's essay and then it all came together. Four men descended from Africa, down through four hundred years of pain and anguish that produced a strength so beautiful that it was grace incarnate in African-inspired choreography. And the spirit that brought them through the fire, bringing the music with them, reached out and touched the spirit in my soul.

Twenty years later, a Black woman I had just met told me she knew the minute she saw me that I had been "shocked by the culture." Today, as I read Gray's essay and watched Get On Up and reconnected with my own personal journey of music and dance, the celebration of life I felt encompassed all the kaleidoscope of feelings that take a human into the fullness of their being. I am grateful for whoever it is I am and I am endlessly grateful for the knowledge that I am not, after all, alone.

James Brown and Kevin Alexander Gray and millions of others living and dead walk with me. And I with them.

Anthony Hamilton: "Comin' From Where I'm From"

I'm posting this not because Anthony Hamilton is mega-talented (which he is) and not because all Black men have had exactly this experience (which they haven't necessarily) and not because I want to paint all women as disloyal and dysfunctional, with issues (which depends on a bunch of stuff, not the least of which is the patriarchal socialization with which we're all infected). I'm posting it because the emotions Hamilton is demonstrating here are about more and deeper than we want to think about.

White folks -- and even plenty Black folks -- want to bury this knowledge and pretend that "success" for Black men in America is just a matter of pulling their pants up and talking "proper" (White) English. It's way, way more complicated than that. And we all know it. Props to the Black men who keep on keepin' on. Somehow.

Change is constant. And nothing. lasts. forever.

Playing for Change: War/No More Trouble

A couple of weeks ago, a specialist put me on insulin injections four times a day. While the process of trying to stabilize this new reality is careening through my life on a physical, psychological, and emotional roller coaster, I'm often in odd states of one kind or another. It's making ordinary daily affairs (like blogging) a bit trickier than usual. In the meantime, one thing I'm clear on: there's too much injustice, too much cruelty, and way, way too much war. I'm gonna work at stayin' alive, y'all. Let's work together to make sure there's a world we can stay alive in. Shall we?

Dee-1 on Jay, 50 and Weezy

Music, literature, food, clothing, and language (including slang) are all part of our shared and very popular culture. Pop culture bobs and weaves, shifts and changes, adds and subtracts, reaches back and jumps forward in all directions and constantly. And in doing so, it continually spins our human tale of woe and glory. Here's one man who believes it's time for us to take a hard look at where we are and where we maybe need to be instead.

Lauryn Hill: "The Mystery of Iniquity"

Trombone Shorty: "You and I (Outta This Place)"

I don't really like to post music that isn't accompanied by a kick-ass video. But I picked up this cd the other day and the second cut almost made me pull the car over so I could focus on the words.

Sometimes, when I'm trying to get through to people -- in a classroom, around a table in a restaurant, chilling with students at the library, standing around at a cocktail reception for a bunch of middle class writers and their upper class aficinados -- I look at the expressions on the faces around me and wonder how I wound up in this place. I don't mean Louisiana. I think I've figured that out. I mean this place where I seem to be speaking some language I brought with me from some former life or other planet. The troubled blankness in my listeners' eyes, the confused tilt of their heads as they try to decipher what the hell I could possibly be talking about, the wary caution of their demeanor if they happen to be Black around White people and I start doin' my thing -- I look from face to face to face and check the body language, all the time my mouth goin' a mile a minute while the oxygen leaves the room.

Then I read a post like Lindy West's or run across a film clip of a young Black woman owning her space or I hear a song like this one and I know for sure that I'm just one of millions of men and women of all body types and skin tones and nationalities and sexual orientations and religions (or lack of religion) that threaten the system by our very existence whether anybody gets us or not. Yeah.

Sharon Jones: "This Land Is Your Land"

I have no idea how I avoided hearing about Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings for so long. This woman is a musical force of nature and apparently has been for decades. Here, she uses her version of a famous Woody Guthrie song to remind us that just because White Supremacy is the ideology we've all been raised up under doesn't mean People of Color -- and many people who look like me -- don't know it's a lie, no matter how hard those with the power-to-define work to convince us otherwise.

Insofar as we're living on it, this land is your land and my land. In actual fact, the land (like the air and the oceans and the sky and all that is) belongs to all that lives. We just get to live on it, be sustained by it, and enjoy the privileged vocation of taking care of it together so it can receive, give birth to, and sustain future generations of life.

Hit it, Sharon.

Akua Taylor: Approve

There's a difference between affirmation and denial. People that go around announcing statements they wish were true but that aren't are in denial. On the other hand, people that announce (to themselves or others, verbally or in writing) statements that are true release a power to make those truths visible. It's seeing the big picture. But it's work to learn the difference. You have to develop the ability to be honest with yourself. And that took me a while.

Take me, for example. If I say over and over that I'm in perfect physical health, knowing I have diabetes, I'm in denial. Yet, when my son died two weeks before his 23rd birthday, I wrote: "Every ending is a beautiful new beginning." Which is a true statement. And a completely different perspective than is the average way of looking at things.

Similarly, many of us have been infected with psychological viruses that make us believe we are worthless, ugly, and incapable. These destructive viruses keep us in denial about our true worth and our ability to recognize it. Year after year, layers of negativity form throughout our bodies, minds, souls, and spirits, resulting in a self-fulfilling prophecy of helplessness, hopelessness, and shame that hides what lies at the center of our being. Akua Taylor has an app for that.

Step Up! Be the Change!

Sniffing around on YouTube, I found this by Amir Bilal and the Pakistan Youth Parliament. The desire for a better world. It's everywhere. It's everywhere.

The Shiz: "The New Jim Crow"

A few months ago, on my early morning jog down the country road I live on, I heard a voice telling me I was being held down. I knew what it meant. I was clinging to a relationship and I needed to let go so I could fly to whatever chapter comes next. Ever been there?

It wasn't that the relationship hadn't been a good one. And it wasn't by a long shot even close to as bad as many of my messed up versions of love affairs have been. In fact, we had both learned a lot and still cared about each other. We weren't anywhere near yelling at each other in the parking lot yet (though there was one incident on a different early morning jog one time that bordered on that). And it wasn't just me that was being held down; it was both of us. But it was time to move on and I didn't want to.

The Coup Is NOT Just Going On In Egypt

I like to think I have a clue. Sometimes I don't; sometimes I do. I just found out about The Coup (an Oakland-based political hip hop band that's been leading the charge for twenty-three years). Where the eff have I been?

"Not Yet Free" (Kill My Landlord, 1993)

"Fat Cats and Bigga Fish" (Genocide & Juice, 1994)

"The Guillotine" (Sorry to Bother You, 2012)

Emmanuel Jal: Cush

A couple of years ago, I learned of a man named Emmanuel Jal. He had just published a bestselling book about his experiences as a Sudanese child soldier who had wound up going to school and, ultimately, became an ambassador for peace through his rap music. I mentioned him in a post at the time because I had read his book (which I highly recommend), Sudan was in the news at the time, and I have a long-standing attachment to that country.

A few days ago, I received an email tipping me to Jal's newest album, entitled See Me Mama. One of the cuts from the album is featured above, reminding us that the human race in general and, most particularly, our darker brothers and sisters, share a rich history dating back to the kingdom of Cush.

Here's To Making The World A Better Place

Just got back from spending three days visiting Albert Woodfox, one of the Angola 3, who's been in solitary confinement for forty years. Ordered a fancy ham to share with my daughter who'll visit me from New York City for the holiday. And heard from a young relative who has four months sober after years of sneaking up on the decision to try it.

Maybe next year, Albert will be eating Christmas dinner out here, money from In-Your-Face Women will be rolling in to bankroll projects I dream about funding, and the Occupy movement will have occupied Wall Street for real. The world can be a better place, you know. But we gotta include everybody.

Getting Down To Business

I originally intended to embed a video produced by a group in Boston on how to beat back the bank attacks. Unfortunately (and I can't imagine why), they chose to disable embedding for some reason. Normally, I don't post music videos I can't embed, but I was so impressed with the production -- and the message -- of this one, I'm doing it anyway. So, much less dramatically (and I'm sorry about that), I give you  Twice Thou with "The Bank Attack".

After you watch it, visit The Billfold to learn about how to do something about our student loan debts. And after that, jump over to The Rolling Jubiliee to learn about how some folks are working to wipe out other folks' debts. (Apparently, that can be done.)

The election is over. Problems abound. Let's get down to business, shall we?

Same Love

As some of my Faithful Readers may have noticed, I also teach courses in gender and sexuality. So I now paint oppression with a broader brush than I used to. Considering how the Christian church was used during slavery as a lethal mechanism to quiet Black frustration and bribe slaves to obey, I have often been fascinated by how African-Americans in the U.S. have become the most church-focused group in the nation.

Unfortunately, many of those church-goers are now being as brutal against people who are gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgendered or queer as slave-holders used to be when they came home from church and whipped their darkies bloody, claiming it was necessary and even Godly to do so. Frederick Douglass had some pretty strong things to say about that back when he wrote his autobiography.

Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, who created the video above, have some things for us to think about today. They aren't alone. Prominent Black clergy have begun to take a stand in support of gay rights and gay marriage. And some have become quite publicly vocal without having their congregations bolt and run. As I recall, Jesus was quoted as saying, "Judge not, lest you be judged." One can only wonder  what some folks think that means.

Skin Deep

Born to Fight

 The daily demand of In-Your-Face Women is continuing to kick my ass. I'm not complaining, you understand. At least, not most of the time. I'll be half way through the project tomorrow and so far, it's a success. It's now read in nearly one hundred countries (though Why Am I Not Surprised? is read in nearly two hundred, to give you a sense of perspective). And the campus radio station wants to submit recorded segments from IYF Women to the Public Radio Exchange (which will take it global in a whole 'nother medium). Satisfying, indeed.

Nevertheless, if In-Your-Face Women is my mistress, Why Am I Not Surprised? is -- still -- my wife. And for the time being, I will go forward as things are, hoping my "wife" doesn't pack up her shit and drop my cell phone in the garbage disposal on her way out the door.

By way of apology, I'm posting Tracy Chapman this morning, singing in South Africa in 1990, and I'm dedicating it to Albert Woodfox, who I just visited last weekend in prison up in BumFreak, Louisiana. We talked about boxing, our respective relationships, and the campaign to free him and Herman Wallace after forty years in solitary confinement. And we argued about gender relations in the abstract. The usual.

But as I watched this video today, I thought of him, languishing away in a tiny cell year after year. Born to fight. And I hope he knows how many fight beside him.