2012

Mama

God looked around his garden and found an empty space, then looked down on Earth and saw your beautiful face.  The angels came to take you to the heavenly place.  A limb has fallen from our family tree that can not be replace in this world.  I keep hearing a voice that says, do not grieve for me but remember the great times, laughter, the songs and the good life we had as a family.  Mama, I will continue the heritage of family gatherings and I know you are counting on us to keep the family strong and to continue the traditions, no matter how small.  Mom, i was truly, blessed to have you as my Mom.  Your strong convictions with God will truly have a special place for you.  It broke my heart to lose you, but you didn't go alone--for part of me went with you the day God called you home.  Mom, you  have always been my Angel, always in life.

Luv,

Your Daughter,

Lowana

How do I go on without my mother, my

best friend?

She is in everything, she is everywhere.

How can i bear the loss of my best

friend?

Remember, remember the love, the life,

the laughter!!!!!!!

She will always be with me, in me.

Love,

Gina

How are you, I hope good?  Thanks for your support of Krip-Hop Nation!  It's been 4 years since Krip-Hop Nation started for disabled Hip-Hop and other disabled musicians. We have done some great work like the first Krip-Hop & Homo-Hop event in Berkeley in 2009 to rocking Liverpool UK at DADA Fest in 2010.  We started an international wing of Krip-Hop called Mcees With Disabilities, MWD, with artists from Africa, Spain, UK, Italy, Germany and of course the US.  We have put out two CDs and have been on radio shows all over the world.

"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-weight:bold">Now Krip-Hop Nation's founder, Leroy Moore has pulled in one of his areas of his early street activism and that is fighting against police brutality against people with disabilities into the cultural work of Krip-Hop Nation.  I've always dreamed about applying cultural work to this issue with other disabled artists/activists.  Well the time is finally here! Krip-Hop Nation and DJ Quad of Fifth Battalion in LA are producing a CD on this issue and a friend who is a retire disabled NYPD officer, Emmitt Thrower, turned artist/film maker/poet in NY has teamed up with Krip-Hop Nation to do a film documentary around this issue focusing on the cultural process of making the Hip-Hop CD by artists with disabilities.

We are having a CD release event/panel on Feb 19th at the main library in SF.  Look at the attachment.  We are fund rising for travel, accommodation and more.  Below is our online campaign.  I'm very excited about this and really hope we can make our goal of $2,500.00 with your help.

Wish us luck and read our front page of the site below plus there is a link too below to donate.

"A National Documentary and CD Mixtape Project on Police Brutality Against People With Disabilities. We've entered Phase two of the project, which involves traveling from NY to Berkley California to do interviews with Activists, Victims and Musicians with disabilities working on the CD mixtape by disabled artists Nationally. We will film also a Forum around the issue lead by Krip Hop Nation Founder with a physical disability Leroy Moore. We have already filmed a forum at Syracuse University as well as interviews there and in Boston and Virginia with victims of profiling and Police brutality in those states. Police Brutality in general has been on the rise Nationally and less documented has been the increase in the incidents involving people with disabilities nationwide."

The link to our site is below.  Please help make this documentary a reality!

http://www.rockethub.com/projects/5240-where-is-hope

Leroy F. Moore Jr
Founder of Krip-Hop Nation

(Clockwise, sisters Charlene, Florence and Ramona)

My Dear Sister Ramona,
You were my big sister; but, we never got to trade clothes, have sister chats and do all of the other things that most sisters do with each other because we were separated by circumstances that were beyond our control. I only knew about you, but never really got to know the real you as I grew up. As an adult, one year led to another and then another without us interacting. I moved out of state, and more years went by. We followed our own paths that rarely intersected save for important family events that would bring us together. I thought about you often; but I was always so far away. Our children grew up and left the nest to begin their lives and make their own mark. Your life took a different path than mine. Yours was a glorious journey filled with a patchwork of relationships, good times and bad times, loving, nurturing, loss, commitment, and justification.
You were always a bit of a larger-than-life mystery to me. That might seem odd to some who’ve regularly interacted with you and most likely know you differently. But, eleven years is a big age difference between siblings, especially when you’re a kid, even under the best of circumstances. Ours is a story of years of separation followed by a time of reconnection that led ultimately to a beautiful restoration.
Early on, everything I knew about you came from the one-sided conversations I overheard from listening to the regular phone chats between Grandma Wright, RoRo, and Grandma Edna. In the family, you were known as the smart one; a quick study who never needed to labor over lessons in school because you got it the first time around. You were a high spirited young girl who loved to dance and have fun. Again, this I learned from Grandma’s side of the phone conversations.
Back then, our paths rarely ever physically crossed except every couple of years when we both happened to wind up visiting grandma at the same time. I grew into adulthood and you started your family. Without grandma’s house as the focal point of connection, our already fragile relationship grew even more distant. I moved far away. Whenever I would return to San Francisco, you, Charlene and I would meet for dinner at a restaurant somewhere. You stayed planted in your neighborhood. Your family grew and you grew as a person, as well. You went back to school to become the educator we all knew you were capable of becoming. Teaching the little ones—this was your calling
In 2002, I returned to the Bay Area to live. Sis, did you ever wonder why after so many years of living elsewhere, I decided to come back home? Well, even though I had a wonderful husband, son and by this time a grandson, still, there were empty spaces that needed to be filled. It was a longing for those overdue sister-chats and affirmations that only a sibling can satisfy. Right off, you started inviting me to family functions and I went. We got to know each other better. Our children got to know each other. Then, seven years later, when my journey again led me away from San Francisco and to North Carolina, and once again I needed to say goodbye, I was, of course, sad to leave, but it was different this time. My heart was now full. The empty spaces were now occupied with new memories made during my time spent with you and the family. On my last day in the city, you, me and Charlene, went to lunch at the Beach Restaurant. I promised to stay connected no matter the distance. I didn’t forget that promise. Once in North Carolina, I called you regularly. You called me too. We learned new things about each other during our conversations. I shared my photos with you and you told me things about our family that I never knew. You knew so much about our family’s history. I was amazed.
When I think about you sis, two words immediately come to mind—family, and community. Your world was your family. You were always involved with whatever they were doing. You were a natural nurturer and your children were the direct beneficiaries. Next you opened your arms to the grandchildren and finally the great-grand’s. What a family you created and oh my, how they do love you. Your commitment to your community was reflected in the fact that you stayed anchored rather than moving from place to place. I’d hear you say that you had to go and volunteer your time at the neighborhood food bank and at your church. You seemed to enjoy contributing without the need for fanfare or the spotlight. You simply saw a need and sought to find way to meet it.
So as your family and friends reflect back on and celebrate your life, I’m reminded of your 70th birthday party and how your face glowed when picture taking time came around. You asked for the children to circle around you. What a lovely sight it was to see you with babies in both arms and in your lap while the children all gathered around you—the next generation—encircling you as planets to the sun, in their own orbit, yet drawn and energized by you at the center.
We also celebrate the beginning of your new journey. Now beside your Lord, looking down upon your loved ones, you continue to be with us as he says to you:
“Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things. I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy lord.”
(King James Bible, Matthew: 25:21).
I love you, sis and will cherish your memory always. You have left a proud and wonderful legacy that will live on, and continue to grow stronger and bless others. Yes, you’ve gone through many challenges yet were resilient enough to sustain and eventually emerge the victor—stronger and more committed than when you began. As I think back on your life, and how many you’ve touched, one thought keeps coming to mind. With all that you have contributed and accomplished, wouldn’t daddy have been proud?
With love always,
Your sister,
Florence

(Picture: A young Muhammad Ali with his heroes Sugar Ray Robinson (Middle) and Joe Louis (R)) 

Muhammad Ali celebrated his 70th birthday on Tuesday. I tripped on it for a moment. 70 years old. Man, where’d the time go? When I think of Ali, I think of him as a young man because it was as a young man that he brought a sense of excitement and esteem to my family, to me. I read once that a reporter was present during a training session of a young heavyweight named Cassius Clay (who later changed his name to Muhammad Ali). The reporter recognized Clay’s talent but spent much time talking to a former heavyweight champion who happened to be present at the training camp, Joe Louis. When asked why he flocked with a few other reporters to Louis, the reporter replied, “Because in his prime he was so good”.

I suppose a similar thing would have occurred had Ali happened upon Mike Tyson’s or Lennox Lewis’ training camp. 

Back in 1995 I stood in line about 4 blocks long awaiting the arrival of Muhammad Ali at Marcus Books in Oakland for a signing. I was among hundreds of folks waiting to get a glimpse of Ali. We waited several hours. I looked at the people in line. A guy in a cowboy hat and western wear stood near a brother in a bright yellow daishiki. Chinese, Chicanos, Samoans, black folk, candys stripe and Technicolor folk all waited in line to see Ali, to show love for him, to gather around him because he was so good, because he made us feel good. 

I was too young to remember Ali at his very best--that is, between the years 1964-1967. He was so fast, my father said, that he’d fight and sometimes not even get hit. In the book, “Sting Like a Bee”, Ali’s biography, author Jose Torres—a former light heavyweight champion of the world—asserted that unlike a lot of fighters, Ali became better after winning the title. I watched films of Ali (Then Cassius Clay) winning the title against Sonny Liston in the year I was born—1964. Liston was considered unbeatable. Ali predicted a win and shocked the world, upsetting Liston in 7 rounds to win the title. Ali later said that he was “scared to death” of Liston—and rightfully so—for Liston was a dominating champion who was the mold for future fighters like George Foreman and Mike Tyson, fighters who often won before the gloves were even laced. Clay was declared the winner and new champion when Liston couldn’t come out for the 7th round. Clay leaned over the ropes and yelled to the press at ringside, “I shook up the world! I shook up the world!” The press had given Clay little chance of defeating Liston. A few feet away from an elated Cassius Clay stood Joe Louis.

Prior to the rematch with Liston, Ali proclaimed he was a member of the Nation of Islam and announced he had changed his name to Muhammad Ali. He was seen in the company of Malcolm X, infuriating white America. He went on to defeat Liston in the rematch. He was something to see. The confidence he displayed in the ring was poetry. It was as if brother Malcolm was with him—and he was. He moved as if convinced no one could beat him that night or on any other night. Afterwards Malcolm split with the Nation amidst the alleged impropriety of Nation of Islam founder Elijah Muhammad. Ali and Malcolm had a brief encounter in Ghana in 1964. Malcolm called out, “Brother Muhammad”. The split between Malcolm and the Nation caused a split between Malcolm and Ali. Ali told Malcolm he was wrong for splitting with Elijah Muhammad. The two parted ways. Ali later said that splitting with Malcolm was one of his biggest regrets.

I was on youtube watching clips of Ali’s fights. I watched the fight against Cleveland Williams in 1967. That night, I believe Ali could have defeated any heavyweight who ever lived—with the possible exception of Joe Louis on the day he defeated Max Schmeling. Many called the Williams fight his best fight. Williams couldn’t hit Ali. Ali landed at will. It was to be his last fight. What followed was a 3 ½ year battle with the US government over his refusal to be inducted into the US army to fight in Vietnam. He was stripped of his title, vilified by the press and much of middle America. “No Viet Cong ever called me nigger” said Ali, defending his position on moral grounds that the war was against his religion. Those in opposition said that Ali would have boxed exhibitions and seen no combat service. To Ali, boxing exhibitions for the military would have been the same as condoning an unjust war. He stood firm in his battle with the government which would see him lose his title, boxing license and 3 years of his fighting prime. But to people around the world, his conviction to his principles gained him the esteem of millions. He finally won his battle against the government in the US Supreme Court.

When he returned to the ring in 1970, there was a new champion, Joe Frazier, who had gained the vacated crown. When the two signed to fight, Ali said some hurtful things about Joe’s character—that he was an uncle tom, a white man’s champion, inarticulate and unfit to be champion. What few people knew was that Joe Frazier had lobbied the various commissions to reinstate Ali’s boxing license. He even loaned Ali money at a time when Ali was broke—having paid lawyers fees during his lengthy trial. When Ali and Frazier finally fought in 1971, it was billed the fight of the century. Madison Square Garden was the Center of the universe the night of the fight. Celebrities were out in force. Frank Sinatra was dispatched by Life Magazine to take “official” photos of the fight. The fight was seen on closed circuit TV and grossed the highest gate for a fight to date. As Ken Norton pointed out, prior to Ali, athlete’s salaries weren’t that high. After Ali, they exploded.

Standing in line waiting to meet Ali in Oakland, I remember that and other fights like it was yesterday. I could go on about the man. I could talk about the 3 fights with Frazier that would have broken anybody in half. I could talk about the fight vs. Foreman in Zaire where Ali finally regained the title. I could mention his first fight against Ken Norton when his jaw was broken in the 2nd or 3rd round, how he fought on with that broken jaw for 9 rounds. Can you imagine fighting with a broken jaw? The man was not only fast, graceful, articulate and funny—he was tough. And who could forget the third fight against Frazier in the Philippines. Rounds 1-5 saw Ali take an early lead but Joe, in typical fashion, surged on in round 6. In the middle of the round, while in pursuit of the champion Ali, Frazier landed a left hook that would have toppled a building. Ali withstood it and won via 14th round TKO when Frazier, eyes puffy, was prevented from coming for the final round. Ali sunk to the floor in exahaustion. It was one of the most brutal fights in heavyweight history. It was that fight, perhaps more than any other, that made the old school boxing crowd--those of the Dempsey/Louis generation--give Ali respect as a tough as nails fighter--as tough as anybody who ever laced up a pair of boxing gloves.

Ali's talent, coupled with his personality allowed him to get away with things that other fighters couldn't get away with, such as holding an opponent in the back of the head, or laying on the ropes as he did against George Foreman and other opponents. He could also say things that others couldn't. Larry Holmes was villified by the press for saying of Rocky Marciano: "Rocky couldn't have carried my jockstrap". Larry was harshly criticized by the remark, made towards the end of his career. He went on to lose a controversial decision to Michael Spinks, a fight--had he won--would have broken Marciano's undefeated record. One could imagine the reaction had Ali made that remark about Marciano. The press would have laughed. That was Ali.

And there was also the immortal words when he spoke of Howard Cosell's toupee:

"Cosell...that thing you got on your head is a phony and it comes from the tail of a pony"

I finally got to the head of the line and was called over to sit next to Ali. I went over, sat down and someone took a picture. The only thing I could say to him was, “Hello Mr. Ali”. He looked at me and smiled. I walked away trying to remember what I had wanted to say to him, what I had rehearsed in the time I had waited in line. I watched him a while longer. He smiled, took pictures and whispered. I noticed his hands, they shook. I remembered his words: I shook up the world…I shook up the world! 

Slam dunk as hard as you can

like pushing over my man.  Slam dunk like

the wind is right behind you

guiding you where you need

to go.  Slam dunk in the hall, slam dunk

in the mall but don't forget

to slam dunk at all.

I met David Groulx last year at the International Festival of the Authors in Toronto.  We chatted about poetry and writing programs and politics.  Two days later I heard Groulx read and I was floored. 

Groulx walked to the stage in cowboy boots, jeans, a grey suit jacket, and a big black hat. His slow walk didn’t prepare the mostly white crowd for his words that felt like body shots and uppercuts.  It was an all-Native lineup: Lee Maracle, Drew Hayden Taylor, Joseph Boyden, and David Groulx.

Was the IFOA ready for an Ojibwe man who didn’t hold back? 

Silence can mean many things: attentiveness, engagement, disgust.  Groulx’s poems were beautiful, well crafted, they captured everyone’s attention, and they were also hard to listen to.  Poems about the assault on Mother Earth, white on red racism, cops killing Native men and getting away with it, Groulx laid it all out. 

Still, Groulx stole the show.

It is no surprise that his new collection is called A Difficult Beauty.  At the same time that I enjoyed every poem, some poems had me stop to think of all the wrong that is happening to Native peoples in the land now known as Canada, a place thought of as a safe haven to the rest of the world.  As I read the entire collection in one sitting, sometimes smiling and other times putting the book down because of the hard topics.  I felt that I had connected again with Groulx; connected in the same way that I had connected with him in person and when he was on stage. 

A Roofers Boots (Archaeology) is the mocking of a discipline that was founded by 4 racist white men and has not changed much since (I have a degree in anthropology, trust me, I know!).  A roofer by trade, poet by purpose and passion, Groulx starts with “When they find my boots what will they say?”.

Then comes the fun:

…he must have been a mountain climber

the steel toes worn from kneeling

that he was a priest

praying to the sun God

…he must have been a medicine man warning of the rain

his incantations worn on his heels

He must have been!  She must have been!  They must have been!

How many times have I read that in anthropology texts?  The diaries of anthropologists then and now filled with similar notes; the guesses, hypothesis, ‘facts’, books of half-truths sold as the real story. 

Groulx doesn’t have to stand outside of a museum to protest, he challenges with his words and uses himself, his experience, his people, as the flame for his burning fire of bringing truth.  And boy does he bring it.

Defiant Bruial is an honour song to the warriors who have fought for their rights, some winning, some dying, all in alliance with Native peoples across Turtle Island.  Groulx writes:

I want my head buried in Gustafusen Lake

and my legs buried in OKA

and my feet buried in Burnt Church

my torso buried in Ipperwash

What a start!

Groulx’s homage could be, should be, taught in Canadian Studies classes as Native poetry, rebel poetry, challenging poetry, and educational and honest poetry, giving students and teachers much to work with.  Each place named in the above stanza has a history of defiance that not many Canadians know of, or at least knowledge of the non-white narrative—truth.

Groulx’s Instruments From Oz Or A Paranoid Indian is one of the poems that rocked the crowd at the IFOA.  Each stanza is set up with a powerful first line equal to a crisp jab to be follwed by a right hand:

1)    John Wayne is trying to kill me

2)    Jesus is coming to civilize me

3)    the Sorte du Quebec are hiding in my closet

4)    The Hudson Bay Company has been raiding my fridge

Groulx touches on the racism in Holllywood, the real history of what is now known as The Americas, companies that make billions without having their past questioned, and he ends with one of Canada’s dirty little secrets: Starlight Tours.

If you don’t know what Starlight Tours are then you would think Groulx is a paranoid Indian.  Have you heard of the murders of Neil Stonechild and Lawrence Wegner?  Did you know that cops in the prairies can kill Native men and be ‘punished’ via suspension with pay?  Aboriginal peoples in Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba know this all too well.  And so does Groulx:

The police take shots at me when no one

is looking

they point their pistols and wink

they are conspiring to kill me

drag me out to the outskirts of town

and leave me there to freeze to death 

A Difficult Beauty is exactly that.  No other title would suit Groulx’s collection.  They are poems that tackle difficult subjects and keep you reading because they are so well written: kids taken away from families (My Neighbour); towns destroyed by development (Uranium Mine Town Boom); violence against Native women (One Swollen Afternoon); colonial violence (They Wasted Nothing Either); poisoned rivers (Serpent); mixed race identity (Rising Antagonism).

If you are looking for beautiful poems that aren’t about flowers and the fun things in life, but, rather, tell you the truth about the land now known as Canada, pick up A Difficult Beauty by David Groulx.

Jorge Antonio Vallejos is a mixed race, Toronto based, poet, essayist and journalist. He is the creator of blackcoffeepoet.com. His writing has appeared in COLORLINES, XTRA!, THIS Magazine, Anishinabek News, Toronto Star, The Kenyon Review, and Descant. Jorge can be reached at blackcoffeepoet@gmail.com.

a covered life is a covered dream

a covered life is a covered death

a covered life is many things

but it ain't me

--