Nat Turner poem by T. Thomas Fortune

"Nat Turner" by T. Thomas Fortune.

Nat Turner is a hero. This poem by legendary Black journalist, editor and New York Age publisher T. Thomas Fortune appeared in Harry Smith's Cincinnati Enquirer in 1884.

Every year, we should remember Nat Turner. Here's my own Nat Turner poem from 2010.

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Don't lose hope

Hope cannot be lost, only misplaced.
Misplaced as anger
Misplaced as frustration
Misplaced as inevitable failure

But inside the depths
of all things
and all people

there is hope.

Hope exists.

Dedicated to the Esperanzas.

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Jazz the Poet on The Black Hour

After forever I finally got poet, artist and youth educator Jazz Monique Hudson on The Black Hour Internet Radio Show.

Both of us are former foster care youth, and we were co-counselors this past summer at Leadership Excellence's Camp Akili this past summer, representing the nation of Kemet (KMT). I've seen her grow as a poet, artist, woman and mother over the past few years -- since I used to host Holla Back at Eastside Arts Alliance -- and it was an honor to interview her.



Check out the interview on 9th Floor Radio.

Earlier this year, Youth Outlook did a feature on how Jazz Hudson inspires the multitudes.... See video, below.



Photo: Melissa Dale/9th Floor Radio

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poem for Oscar Grant

Poem by Bay Area writer and poet Ann Jacobs

By Ann Jacobs

face down on the ground, hands behind his back
an officer of the law feared he was about to attack
exactly what you can do when two cops are on top of you
sadly this is an old story, it's really nothing new

...Black men killed for nothing more than a whim
even pinned down, they put an end to him
but many eyes were watching the incredible sight
and vowed not to let his death be just a slight

those "sworn to serve and protect" tried to lie
but they were on caught on camera with no alibi
Let this man's death not be in vain
we must stop this from happening again

witnesses were not scared into silence
the world cries out for an end to senseless violence

Oscar Grant R.I.P.

Photo by Reginald James. See photo essay on OaklandLocal.com.

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Conversation with Claude McKay - Short Story and Bio

Note: This piece was written in 2005 for a Creative Writing Class at the College of Alameda with Wendy Williams. In honor of his birthday, September 15, here is "Conversation with Claude."

---

Last Thursday, I had the extreme pleasure of meeting Claude McKay. McKay was a poet, novelist, and journalist during the Harlem Renaissance, and many saw him as the inspirational force behind the movement.

While attending the weekly open mic series, “Holla Back,” at the Eastside Arts Alliance in Oakland on 25th and International, I bumped into McKay. I didn’t recognize him at first, and then when he identified himself, I thought he was supposed to be dead.

Apparently, he was not and had performed a few poems earlier that evening.

The first poem McKay performed was, “Africa.” The poem was a sonnet uplifting the image of Africa. The delivery was real smooth and it just brought you into his poetry. The crowd seemed to be pleased, but I don’t think they knew who he was.

The second poem performed by McKay that evening was, “The Lynching.” This poem describes a lynching and the communal and celebratory treatment these activities became. The poem describes the sinful practice of lynching, and the joy or “fiendish glee” many attending felt.

The final poem McKay performed is my favorite poem. The poem is entitled, “If we Must Die.” The poem is a call for people to defend themselves, their honor and their respect. The delivery was very powerful, but I’m sure it was the words being spoken, and the not the manner in which they were spoken, which made the poem so.

After McKay finished, the next artist went up to perform and I went outside to talk with McKay while he smoked a cigarette. McKay had never been to California before, although he had extensively traveled outside the US during his lifetime.

McKay told me he was born on September 15th, 1890 in Sunny Ville, Clarendon Parish in Jamaica. His parents, Thomas Francis McKay and Hannah Ann Elizabeth Edwards were farmers. As the youngest of eleven children, McKay was sent to live with his oldest brother, who was a school teacher, which enabled him to get the best education possible.

McKay recalled writing his first poem at about ten years old, although he remembers being poetically inclined well before that time. At about 16 years of age, McKay went to trade school to apprentice as a carriage and cabinet maker. Soon after, McKay briefly tried to be a police officer with the constabulary. These occupations didn’t work out for McKay as he was not following his passion; writing.

The next year, McKay encountered a man who would soon become his mentor, a English man by the name of Walter Jekyll, who encouraged McKay to write his poems in Jamaican dialect verse. Over the course of those next five years, McKay had published two volumes of dialect verse, Songs of Jamaica (1912) and Constab Ballads (1912).

Upon immigrating to the United States, McKay enrolled at Tuskegee Institute in Alabama. Based on what he had learned of Booker T. Washington, McKay headed there to study agronomy and first encountered American racism. After a brief period at Kansas State College in Kansas, McKay moved to New York. In 1914, the contribution from Jekyll which brought him to New York enabled McKay to open a restaurant and marry Eulalie Imelda Lewars. After a year, both ventures dissolved as Lewars went back to Jamaica to give birth to their child.

McKay had to take some odd jobs for a while before finally publishing, “Invocation”, and “The Harlem Dancer,” in 1917. Through these poems, McKay received recognition as a poet and was consequently published in Pearson’s magazine, and The Liberator, a socialist journal. Through this recognition of his lyrical skill, McKay’s early career got a great jump start. After becoming a socialist, McKay became the editor of, The Liberator, and wrote articles for various other publications, especially left-wing.

During the summer of 1919, also known as the Red Summer, there was a period of increased violence against Blacks. It was during this time McKay created, “If we Must Die,” “Baptism,” “The White House,” and “The Lynching.” McKay felt it was necessary to speak out about the attacks and many feel these poems were his best protest material.

During World War II, Winston Churchill even quoted, “If we Must Die,” while encouraging their troops to fight steadfast in the face of danger. McKay felt it was necessary to speak directly about racial and social issues and focused his material on the working class.

Later that year, McKay told me he moved to England for two years. While there, he worked at the British socialist journal, Worker’s Drednought and published, “Spring in New Hampshire.” Upon returning to the United States, McKay published, Harlem Shadows, before returning abroad.

Over the next twelve years, McKay spent time in various foreign countries in Europe, the Soviet Union, and Africa. McKay felt this period was one of the most difficult in his life, as he witness, and experienced, extreme poverty and illness.

While in France, McKay published, “Banjo: A Story without a Plot,” in 1929, which told the

BANJO by Claude McKay. Published in 1929

story about an African-American musician, in France, and his experiences. While the story did not sell very well, it did influence the emergence of the Negritude literary movement of French West Africa and the French West Indies. While in Morocco, McKay published Banana Bottom, a novel many feel was McKay’s greatest. McKay tells me the novel was about Jamaican Bita Plant, who was educated in England, and returns to Jamaica only to struggle with identity issues.

McKay was financially forced to return to the US in 1934. McKay later completed his autobiography, “A Long way From Home,” which was published in 1937. Still a socialist, McKay continued publishing essays and articles in various publications. In 1940, McKay wrote, “Harlem: Negro Metropolis,” an unpopular, but important historical nonfiction piece. McKay felt his inability to regain the acclaim of the 1920s was due to his race and not obtaining academic credentials.

McKay felt some of his unhappiness was due to him not returning to his homeland, which he left in 1912, but he soon became a US citizen in 1940. After moving to Chicago in 1944, McKay became a Catholic, after claiming agnosticism his whole life. While he shocked many close friends, it helped him with a spiritual fulfillment he had been seeking. McKay told me that a few years before he passed that he was physically declining due to heart disease and high blood pressure. While in Chicago, McKay worded for the Catholic Youth Organization until his death from congestive heart failure in 1948.

This was shocking news due to the fact that McKay was physically standing before me. McKay told me that it was not him whom I bear witness to, but a manifestation of his poetry, as he was in his 1920s physical form. McKay told me he was present as there has been a reemergence of interest in his poetry. As McKay stated in his autobiography, “I have nothing to give but my singing. All my life I have been a troubadour wanderer, nourishing myself mainly on the poetry of existence. And all I offer here is the distilled poetry of my experience.”

McKay then told me not to forget him or his message, and ran across the street to get on AC Transit bus #82. I went back inside to listen to the other poets.

As I watched Ghetto Prophet onstage performing, “Wake Up,” I thought about my conversation with McKay, until I felt a strange shaking on my shoulder.

Michael Walker said, “Reggie Wake Up, man, ‘Holla Back’ is over.

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I'm Denmark Vessey, Nat Turner

I have dreams of meeting folks like Nat Turnerand Cinque. Then I wake up in the American Nightmare.

And when I look around for leadership, the strongest symbols of Black Manhood in the media are dumb ass rappers. I might have to go Ice Cube on folks and start jacking for beats. Again.

I came out of rap retirement on Twitter last night. Here's my remix to Rick Ross' B.M.F.:

1) I think I'm Vessey, Nat Turner/no more whips or work, Hallelujah/One vision, straight from God/resurrecting insurrection bout to start//
2)Favorite color triple Black, my Grandma geechee bro/Other grandma Sioux but no teepee though/
3)Cinque, that's my nickname/Liberation constantly on my big brain/
4)Black Panther Cub, your affiliation?/Starting co-ops to stop gentrification//
5) Forging freedom papers looking authenticated/Wiped with your Constitution after I defecated/

Enough rapping. Gotta get ready for Camp Akili.

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"Media Magic" Rap about Bay Area Media Influence

I recently found an old USB drive while cleaning. It had just 512MB, but whoa! It had some content.

I found a bunch of old photos from the College of Alameda Black Student Union (Alameda BSU). As a side note: I posted those to my Facebook, and it's good to see many of those relationships still active. I found some old homework, essays, instrumentals and some lyrics.

What follows is my first first from a song called, "Media Magic." It featured me and a young man named, "Mari Bo." The song is about media, its portrayal of Black people and its influence. Ironically, both me and Jamari Caldwell have both gone into journalism. Last I heard, he was at Chico State writing for the Orion.
(Lyrics Below>
"Media Magic"
By Reggie General

No me gusta escuchar la radio
Porque dispersa decepcion en mi barrio
Estas hablando espanol? [What you say?]
Mi mal! My bad! We multi-lingual in the Bay
Bruh, Look at the way the portray us on 106 and 94-9
Misleading and deceiving yours and mine
Distracting minds, with that audio swine
Got us thinking Black Enterprise is to hustle and grind
You ever find it weird the news never be near here
When we do good, but if we “Go Bad”, then they appear
Smear, distort, manipulating the facts
Political lies, criminalizing Latinos and Blacks
Cats need to see the television telling lies to your vision
Trying to get rich or die quick? They trying to put you in prison
The Terminator is the Governor and you think I’m tripping
Then go home and listen to that FOX, Dennis Richmond
Then tell me, Who Pimping?

* *

I'm trying to find the recording of the song. I know that at one point, journalist and online community organizer Kara Andrade had an audio recording. She wrote a great piece about the story for the Alameda Journal's "Friends & Neighbors" section.

I still have a few songs on Myspace from that era.

Photo Credit: Weapons of Mass Expression (WOME)

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Poem: Untitled Cyber Serenading

Found this freestyle poem dedicated to a former love interest. God willing, it can inspire someone else or make sure someone remembers what good love they have.

Untitled

I'm not going to waste time wondering could we, should we
or imagining how things would be
all my intentions are good, we just need to be cautious
you know how the hood be

Conditioning minds to be blind rejecting the good that we find
in each other, sister and brother, we strict how we define
our being, too long our people been dependent on European validation
evaluation and unconsciously accepting degradation

so forget waiting for Moses, i'm riding out like Mansa Musa
with a caravan full of spiritual riches avoiding the Medusa
self-critical, self-perpetuating, nihilistic folks waiting for our downfall
but i must digress, because i'd rather speak about progress

but the process requires analyzing my faults like subliminal seismology and platechtonic psychology
hoping that my antics won't let you get tired of me
but as far as i'm concerned, never a moment is dull
got your womb manning my ship, controlling the hull

sailing off together in a sunset scene bright
enough to light the pre-night while your chocolate silhouette full of mystery got me making bets with myself
on how good you might be for my health

for our wealth, a mutual fund filled with faith fun and fiction
as long as that section is in your jurisdiction,
otherwise a brother might as well slide down the aisle to your section of the library
or better yet, down to our bookstore in North Richmond,

"Malcolm Books" converting crooks and setting them straight in a state
where the crime rate cases our fate to be behind concrete walls and metal gates

that are rarely golden and most of our people know somebody in holding and it makes my heart cold and nearly desensitized
but some how i'm hypno-mesmerized by triple threat of your locks, thighs and eyes
not a superficial attachment but my written interpretation of my attraction to your mind

body and soul
getting to home base is not the goal
but getting home to the Creator is,
but we must avoid the trolls

and the toll is sacrifice and tolling day and night
in a righteous fight beyond Black-n-white

i might just have to pause this before we continue this quest,
but i love to invest

do you have your phone charged yet?

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POEM: Man and Water

Photo: Lake Merritt South Fountain(2008)

Man and Water

Man walks Water waves

Man speaks Water splashes

Man writes Water ripples

Man cool Water calm

Man drinks water
Water drowns man

Man reflects
Water reflects

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'National Ride on the Front of the Bus Day" honoring Rosa Parks' Birthday

Happy Revolutionary Birthday Rosa Parks! Rest in Power


Photo: NYTimes.com

Today is our ancestor Rosa Parks' birthday.

The civil rights icon stood up by sitting down -- just like the Greensboro Four.

The South was segregated in all aspects; lunch counters, churches, education, water fountains and public transportation. Black people had to sit on the back of the bus and give up their sits

In 1955, Parks refused to give up her seat for a white passenger and move to the back of the bus.

"All I was trying to do was get home from work," Parks said.

She wasn't the first to challenge these segregation laws; however. Probably the most known, but unknown was Claude Colvin, who refused to give up her seat nine months prior.

What made Rosa Parks different -- as Cedric the Entertainer joked in the movie Barbershop, was that Parks was the Secretary of the Montgomery Chapter of the NAACP. While Cedric jokes that all she did was "sit her black a$$ down" it was much more this time.

Her organizational skills and history made her the perfect person to challenge segregation laws.

As a proud bus rider, I appreciate Rosa Parks for standing up. I was wrote a parody of Mistah F.A.B.'s rhyme on "Sick Wit' It" that:

"I'm not a dummy, retarded or ride the Yellow Bus/
I ride with Rosa Parks 'cuz she rode for us/"

Unfortunately, Parks wasn't always honored for her contributions. Parks was robbed and beaten in her Detroit home in the 1990s and folks may remember that Rosa Parks sued Hip Hop legends, "Outkast" in 1999 for their song, "Rosa Parks."

"Rosa Parks"

Original Outkast "Rosa Parks video

Ironically, 55 years later and young Black folks choose to sit on the back of the bus.

Here's a poem I wrote 50 years after the Montgomery Bus Boycott in October 2005:

Rosa Parks poem (circa October 2005)

Riding home on the bus, smelling like must
My mind on the Creator, in God I trust
But all the seats shaking like they ready to bust
I'm wondering why ain't no brothers sitting up front?
Did you hear that Rosa Parks passed last week?
Brother looked away like I didn't speak
He's been working all day and ready to sleep
Mine preoccupied and can't dig too deep
Peep, other brother in the back rolling weed
Like it's the only thing we need
And we feed the stereotypes created by white
Supremacy, but it ain't gonna blemish me
Tarnish my thoughts or alter my perceptions
I get up, go in the opposite direction
I look back, dude thought I was telling the driver
Dry snitch that he had that fire, but I AM fire
Rarely restrained cannot be contained
Igniting frightening brains, am I insane for saying
Before you finish rolling that or spark:
Sit on the front of the bus like you rolled for Rosa Parks/

In honor of Rosa Parks Birthday, I, Reginald James, blogger of the Daily Regiment, declare February 4, 2010 as "National Ride on the Front of the Bus Day." Special shout out to Felix Solomon of the Laney Tower for the idea.

If you are riding the bus today, ride in the front. But it's okay to give up your seat for an old lady.

Today is also the birthday of my beautiful sister Shantel James.

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POEM: Lil' Black Rose

Image: Sunshine Joy

Lil' Black Rose

A seed was planted
from which a flower grew
a Lil' Black Rose, more
beautiful than you ever knew

Fed the freshest water
bathed in the brightest sun rays
grown from the richest soil
where the happiest children play

Its pedals were soft and moist
precious and pure its inner bud
stemmed, rooted in positive energy
it grew up filled with love

The Lil Black Rose grows
unique, rare and one of a kind
none could match its beauty
recognized by even the blind

-Reginald James

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