One day I hope to see the tip of the three kings (yes, this is a Transformers reference, but hear me out). Three everlasting centuries old monuments to the work of man-- and woman-- to stand for something more. Perhaps, an idea, a belief, or even a fact. I want to discover the tree that led to Nirvana (not the band, the enlightenment) and see if it can help me with any of this teenage angst I got manifesting within. I will find the intersection of Lauryn Hill and Nas in the new era because to be honest I could use a little less dab-- just a little less-- and more simplicity in melody and inextinguishable flame. Like cmon "To Zion" mixed with "The World is Yours" may just be what this generation needs to expel its own demons into an abyss of bitter nothingness because there has to be more than this. Although, this right here is bread and butter, peanut butter and jelly, ice tea and lemonade, because this right here is the land that made me. One day I hope to find the balance between who I was, who I am, and the person I yearn to be.
"You will travel to many places."
One day I hope to see the tip of the three kings (yes, this is a Transformers reference, but hear me out). Three everlasting centuries old monuments to the work of man-- and woman-- to stand for something more. Perhaps, an idea, a belief, or even a fact. I want to discover the tree that led to Nirvana (not the band, the enlightenment) and see if it can help me with any of this teenage angst I got manifesting within. I will find the intersection of Lauryn Hill and Nas in the new era because to be honest I could use a little less dab-- just a little less-- and more simplicity in melody and inextinguishable flame. Like cmon "To Zion" mixed with "The World is Yours" may just be what this generation needs to expel its own demons into an abyss of bitter nothingness because there has to be more than this. Although, this right here is bread and butter, peanut butter and jelly, ice tea and lemonade, because this right here is the land that made me. One day I hope to find the balance between who I was, who I am, and the person I yearn to be.
0 Comments
They say when my city was cool Paris was just a village.
Guess it's been a while. It gets sadder every time I return. And I dream of horizons that don't end at all with biblical mountains, of evenings that don't get stuck in my hair as pub smoke. I know everyone in Calumet tonight, half of the crowd at Hemingway's. Forget-me-not badges: We never got over the whole genocide thingie. "My best friend's Turkish" or how to cheat on a city. And Abovyan street should really stop screening horrorshow flashbacks from the time she was mine. Not a long time at all. Almost nothing. Compared to how long this city's been around. "Your have an active mind and a keen imagination" By Diamond Pollard My what? No, seriously, what in my possession has an active mind and a keen imagination? Better question: did no one proofread this? Yeah, I know it's just a fortune cookie and I'm fortunate to know that my fate isn't decided by a one-and-a-half inch slip of paper wrapped in sugar. But still. Fortune Cookie, you could do better. Because you're (see one of us knows proper grammar) an American product that's just kind of Asian enough to make us feel like we're about to get Buddhist or Confucian wisdom. But you, Fortune Cookie, didn't even give me a word of Chinese to learn on the back, just lottery numbers. I don't know what's more tragic: that I've been robbed of an opportunity to learn about another culture or that the Powerball was last month, If you're going to pass off shitty, misspelled platitudes as fortunes, Cookie, the least you could do is not taste like plastic 🙂Try chocolate chip next time 🙂 Our class had the incredible opportunity to speak with poets Safia Elhillo, Quraysh Ali Lansana, and Tony Medina on Monday. All three of these writers contributed to the (insanely impressive) anthology The Breakbeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop. Here is the Amazon link, but definitely ask around at your local bookstore to see if they've got it stocked!
I want to start off by saying that Hip-hop and poetry are two of my favorite art forms; I read poetry and listen to hip-hop every day. Although I've thought about the intersection between the two a bit, I feel like I've never fully considered it. It seems like something I should have pondered (and still should), as it could really benefit my writing practice. My time with the anthology and with the BreakBeat Poets allowed me to think about the relationship between poetry and hip-hop formally and socio-politically. I'm so grateful to have been exposed to work that I probably wouldn't have come upon on my own (I specifically loved Safia Elhillo’s work and "Pluto Shits on the Universe" by Fatimah Asghar). Yet when I was reading the introduction to the anthology, I noticed that almost all, if not all, of the hip-hop artists mentioned were male artists or groups that were part of rap's classical period (circa '79-'93). Later, when someone brought up the commercialization of the hip-hop industry, Medina mentioned that he believed much of the rap of today isn't any good, quoting "Versace" by Migos. He said that nowadays good, true hip-hop artists like Kendrick Lamar are few and far between. This kind of struck a note with me. There's this notion of high-brow (KRS-One, De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest, etc.) versus low-brow rap (Gucci Mane, Fetty Wap, etc.). I've gone back and forth— thinking, and then doubting, that there is some sort of hierarchy in terms of what is good hip-hop. But who is to determine what is good hip-hop? What are the criteria? I have come to believe that most, if not all, of hip-hop is valuable, save for tracks containing hate speech and the like. I think labeling certain styles of hip-hop as "enlightened," while claiming others are less respectable, boxes artists in and forces people to believe that one style of an art is inherently more valuable than the other. I brought up this question of conscious/"backpack" rap versus other genres with the BeakBeat poets, and I believe we're on the same page. Still, I can't help but wonder if they truly view all rap as equal. For the record, I can't say I truly view all rap as equal, and I don't know if anyone does; it makes sense to view the stuff you started with and the work that really resonates with you as number one. But I wonder: What are the implications are of creating a hip-hop hierarchy, especially when it comes to taking cues from hip-hop and using them in other forms, such as poetry? Isn't there something to gain from the 808s of trap? Or the Last Poets' influence on gangsta rap? I know there's got to be, and I look forward to experimenting with it in my own work. Which brings me to the next point I want to discuss: the writing workshop led by Medina, Elhillo, and Lansana during class time. They asked us to take several minutes to pen a poem about where we are from, like we were repping our roots in a hip-hop track. When I was told to think about where I'm from, I immediately wrote down "Simsbury," thinking about my hometown in Connecticut. But as I was writing, I realized that my thoughts about Simsbury have been greatly shaped by its relationship with Hartford, which is very near by. At the 2000 census, Simsbury was 95.3% white. The median income for a family was $155,769 as of a 2011 estimate. At the 2010 census, Hartford was 29.8% white (whites not of Latino background, 15.8%). The median income for a family was $22,051. Unsurprisingly, there are racial tensions. And they were especially felt in Simsbury's public schools growing up. There is this (well-intentioned but ultimately fairly unsuccessful) program called the Hartford Region Open Choice Program, in which children/young adults from Hartford, chosen by lottery, attend public schools in neighboring suburbs. You think it would go without saying that these students should be guaranteed the same quality of education as students several miles away from them. Yet, the impetus is put on the family to apply, maybe get in to the program, and then have to travel to and from school, a place where they are viewed as "other." As if it is somehow their job to acquire a quality education, while children in towns like Simsbury (read: white children with wealthy families) are entitled to it. During my time at Simsbury Public Schools I observed so much ostracizing of students from the Choice Program and so many racially-charged microagressions. I didn't think about it much in high school. In fact, I pretty much just thought about myself in high school. But in the last few years as I have attempted to grow my consciousness, I've been grappling with these dynamics and my role within them. I got to thinking about all of this during our writing workshop, and I ended up writing a poem for my Intermediate Poetry: Forms II class this week that both draws from hip-hop and from my experiences with racial tensions in Simsbury. The prompt was to write a blank verse poem, somewhat inspired by the work in Philip Stephen's The Determined Days. It’s a multipart piece, and I'm going to leave off by sharing the first section: Let's play a game. What's whiter: paper, snow, or boys with names like Dylan? Whole milk, skim milk, soy milk, almond? Blank computer screens-- the ones on brand new iMacs—error four oh four—or gauze? Before the blood and all, I mean. Our denim-slathered asses sit around the cafeteria table-- Rebecca, Emma, Dylan, Me. We slurp the last of lunch's morsels with tired straws and tired minds. We sound like crackling fire-- beneath an ornate mantelpiece, or cleansing a modest home of life, or something. Kids from Hartford sit behind us. One of them, the tallest, ambles past, eclipsing us with shadows cast by seemingly giant limbs. Rebecca calls him King Kong. Laughing, feet up, Dylan drinks his chocolate Muscle Milk. Its brownness pools between his cheeks. He sucks and sucks and sucks, still sucking once it's gone. I lived in the woodland apartment with the green splattered paints and windows with holes in them, made from my mother as an address call.
I lived in park heights, no black or sweet delights unless it was the now and laters bought from the store or the girls playing jump rope or dancing on the floor. I come from fried chicken, fat beef patties that lay between thick white bread that turned red when ketchup didn't do what it was suppose to when bitten into to. I was raised in Pimlico, had to catch the yellow bus home because bullies chased you home if you weren't tough enough. I grew up around vacant houses, empty like crackheads without crack, just their empty heads left to think about their children and their disappointments. I lived around east, where chaos reigned with childhood leased out to me, running away but never for a long stay. Remember baby bottle pop or push ups or sweet lived and icy frozen cups that Loretta from around the corner used to sell. Remember the neighborhood kids and that lady with the Jamaican house that smelled like cats and incense when you walked in. Remember you had to be home before the street lights came on. Remember granddad sat on the porch with his forty and hollered at the young shawty whose name was dreama. Remember blue shirt, khaki pants, green pants, blue shirt, yellow shirt, khaki pants, now white or black shirts and khaki pants. Nothing has changed that much. Remember lighting bugs, catch them with your hands, dance and set them free. Grandma was set free. Mom didn't go drug free, mom forgot to hug me, love me. Kids continued to tug and bug me. Woodland apartments knocked down from floor three. Lived on Presbury st, lived on Presstman st, lived on Normount st, lived on Greenmount st, lived in Fredrick county, Lived on Longwood st, lived everywhere temporarily. Everyone knew Tammi. Everyone knew Debbie. Everyone knew about Mondawmin Everyone knew Liberty Heights Everyone knew Santa Marias Everyone knew the Lords Church Everyone knew Kellie and her kids But nobody even really knew her. Nobody knew about how Otis died. Nobody knew about how much I cried. Nobody knew what happened to my cat, Sam? Where am I bound to be, damn? Untitled Midstate
Tupac once said that there’s a difference between “a bitch and a woman”. A bitch will allow herself to be disrespected and dominated over. She will tell lies and gossip to other girls, and not care what contributions she makes in this society. She will also use her knowledge for unnecessary purposes and allow it to be wasted by the slang and terminology of rap music used against her. A bitch will be uncleansed and unorganized. A bitch can have no sense of pride or self-respect in herself and and or features/characteristics. And lastly a bitch will be controlled by the social environment in which she surrounds herself, thus becoming a loud barking female in which the word “bitch” is defined. But a woman, a woman is much different. A woman takes pride in her appearance. She wants to be noticed and seen as an intellect by her environment. A woman will take responsibility in herself and the way she lives her lifestyle. She will make sure she provokes the impact she makes in this world. A woman will gladly set a man his pace, showing superiority to oneself on a professional level only. A woman will demand power, respect and equality. Lastly, a woman will be confided with the responsibility of representing what a strong intellectual female should be. As Tupac once said that “there is a difference between a bitch and a women. I love women, but I hate bitches.” I hope you know and see it also. This semester, eighteen Baltimore City high school students have joined eighteen Johns Hopkins undergraduates to take Poetry and Social Justice, a course in The Writing Seminars Department at Johns Hopkins University. The undergraduates are taking the course for credit, and the Baltimore City students are taking the course because they love poetry. (You can read more about this collaboration between Writers in Baltimore Schools and Johns Hopkins here and here). I’m not a poet, but I'm part of this class to coordinate student transportation. On Monday afternoons -- when two vans set out to pick up the 18 Baltimore City students who are taking this course -- I wish I had multiple cell phones. Both the east and west-side vans make three pick-ups at schools, and after class each van makes nine drop-offs. Two weeks into class, we’re still working with the transit company to smooth out the routes, and consequently, I remain in constant contact with the students. I accompany students on one of the routes home, and last week, the bus was silent. Some students stared into math books and others dozed against the windows. After a full day in high school and then a class at Johns Hopkins, the kids were exhausted. The kids have been saintly in their patience--waiting in the rain, trekking across campuses to locate the bus, and not giving up and going home during the difficult first day of the routes. Getting the Baltimore City high school students to and from Johns Hopkins feels like a miracle. Perhaps this is why I speak in the language of saints and their patience. When I founded Writers in Baltimore Schools eight years ago, I wrote in my application to the Open Society Institute Baltimore Community Fellows program that I anticipated student transportation being a challenge. This was a hunch I had, having spent four years living in Baltimore as a Johns Hopkins undergrad. But it was only in practice that I truly came to understand what this meant. In 2009, when WBS held its first open mic, only one student showed up. This 4th grader attended because a teacher drove her, as her mother worked during the after school hours. Baltimore students typically get to and from school with an S-Pass, a bus pass that lets them onto the bus up until 8 p.m. on weekdays. S-Passes do not work on the weekends. On weekends, students are on their own to pay for bus fare. For the Poetry & Social Justice course, we’re fortunate to have Johns Hopkins footing the bill for our two vans. We worried about relying on students’ S-Passes, as some of our events would end past 8 p.m. (like last night's BreakBeat Poets’ performance after class, which most of our students stayed for). However, apart from our bus trip to camp, WBS typically does not have the luxury of chartering vehicles. I dream that we someday will be able to, but until then, we transport students to and from extracurricular literary events through kind volunteers and Uber rides. And Baltimore is a city full of extracurricular literary events. Recently, I got looped into a Twitter conversation with Mayor Stephanie Rawlings-Blake about this issue of student S-Passes not working on weekends. Backstory: I’d gone on a Twitter spree (below), which was spotted by a local activist, who then reached out to the Mayor. @MayorSRB has responded several times to report that she’s looking into the issue, and I’m grateful to have her sustained attention. To ensure that this dialogue continues, I have embarked on a project of tweeting at her anytime I see an event that my students might enjoy attending. Know of a literary event that Baltimore students might enjoy attending? Send it my way (@patricey), and I’ll both pass it along to students and ensure that Mayor Rawlings-Blake continues to understand what kind of opportunities Baltimore students regularly miss out on due to transportation challenges. Patrice Hutton Every February thousands (if not millions) of students and educators across America, and the world, take a journey into black history as the historic feats of Martin, Rosa, and Malcolm are displayed.
What about the grandeur of the everyday dreams which grace the streets of cities? Do we recognize the beauty in the dreams of teenage mothers who face the constant crossroads of statistics, reality, and internal struggles? Do we acknowledge the work of the student athlete who give 110% at practice knowing they have three papers due by Friday? They deserve their dreams. I say this month we gaze upon the beauty, creativity, and innovation in everyday. I challenge you to go out each day and recognize the daring work of a young person striving against the odds to make it. Take the unique 29 days to marvel in the dreamers you witness accomplishing their incredible things. Onward from the brilliance and botany of George Washington Carver to the next scientific superhero. Compliment the work of the next Benjamin Mays, Empress Candace, or Toni Morrison. Support the dreamer. Propel the world. Look. Listen. Learn. The children have something-- everything-- to say, but will you be brave enough to hear them? Comment below if you know a young person who deserves their dreams. Share the fiyah. "Ay sweetheart!"
The speed of light and sound ain't got nothing on the rhythm of my beating heart right now. Trust me. My anxiety could outrun Jesse Owens and Usain Bolt, then teach The Flash a thing or two about running a mile in these shoes because this sugar honey ice tea right here is not easy. You try dodging bullets on the daily ride home and see how you like it. Bullets like unwanted tongue lashing from a unknown figure in a black jacket who looks like he could be my neighbor's dad. Am I overreacting? Nah. I mean sure, maybe he's just trying to get to know me--in ways only my doctor and the woman who changed my diapers knew how. But from where I'm standing his words burn like alcohol on a paper cut and I left all my band aids at home. What's my problem? I mean, maybe it's the constant cultural exploitation of my body as a market for music, clothing, and cosmetic sales while I sit back and wonder when MY beauty will be good enough to go from black market to center stage. I mean it gotta be somethin' like that right? Nevamind the fact that he's most likely, with 86% confidence, undressing me as I stand outside for 15 minutes waiting on a 22 west bound bus that is most likely, with 95% confidence, about 5 blocks away, but I'll just keep my eyes down. He can't bother what he can't see right? Oh wait, avoiding eye contact doesn't make me invisible? Shoot. Did I mention the minimum 3 homeboys with him (just in case his verbal bullet wounds to my ego, identity, and self-esteem aren't enough)? Man, I'm just trying to avoid being that 5'5, 140 lbs somebody's daughter on Fox 45 after prime time because I know that in a house somewhere between Northern Parkway and Charles Village I'll be charged with "asking for it". Oh yeah, Ruby Woo by MAC definitely should come with the warning label: "In case of any public appearance, like anywhere, ever, this lipstick becomes synonymous with yes to all sexual, romantic, or just plain arrogant advances." Note to self: I was born with this skin, this hair, this life, so somewhere I'll always be asking for it. BRYONNA REED When the facilitators and high school writers participating in the Spring 2016 WBS/JHU "Poetry & Social Justice" class met at the Village Learning Place on Saturday, January 30, we brainstormed about what we wanted to get out of the class, and what we hoped the experience would be like. Here are our thoughts. We want this course to be... Inclusive Thought Provoking In Tune with Writing Memorable New! Expansive We want the course to involve... Poetry+Learning Growth Discussion Writing+Justice ALL Voices All Good Things! We want the opportunity to... Network at Hopkins Synthesize Learn New Poetic Techniques |
Young Writers in Baltimore . . .exploring the intersection of poetry and social justice. Archives
December 2016
Categories
All
|