Where I Wanna Be

The motto of Free Black Society also serves as it's guiding principles and mission: #GetFree #StayFree #SetFree

As the saying goes, "Nobody's free until we're all free"—aptly implied in this small phrase is our responsibility to one another. It would be selfish for one to become free, and then go mindlessly frolicking through endless fields of daisies and bottomless cups of citrus ginger tea while those they love tragically suffer. 

If you knew me in high school, you know there were three things I couldn't live without:

1. Music
2. Jesus
3. Demanding attention

Fortunately for me, I played in a gospel band—The C.O.L.O.R.E.D B.O.Y.S—led by Carlous "C Minor" Drake, a talented musician and devout Christian. This platform served as an outlet for me because school hours were for getting an education, apparently. But if you know like I know, we know learning in the system means training geniuses through miseducation to behave as subservient automatons. Dr. Na'im Akbar, in his instructive tome "Know Thyself,"  describes education as "... a sacred right and responsibility." "A process of harnessing the inner potential that was yet unexpressed and bringing it "out" or "up" into consciousness." Being a product of the world renown American Public Education system, I feel at liberty to say that a colossal misstep occurred when building this institution. If standardized tests aren't diminishing children's inner G, they can be sure to come in contact with the School-to-Prison pipeline at some point in their academic career. 

Black students are suspended or expelled three times more frequently than white students. This disparity begins in preschool with 48 percent of preschool children suspended more than once being black, according to the U.S. Department of Education for Civil Rights. It's not surprising, at least to me, why so many of my classmates resisted the institution of learning. Unbeknownst to me, we were already fighting two battles: 1. convincing middle-class white teachers that we were as best as could be, regular teenagers and 2. convincing ourselves that we weren't the scores we received on tests. 

[End tangent]

One day after band rehearsal we stopped by the home of Carlous' grandparents. Dr. and Mrs. Virgil Caldwell were both educators who dedicated many years of their lives to teaching and serving. Dr. Caldwell was once a social studies teacher who went on to serve as the pastor of New Monumental Missionary Baptist for 40 years, and Mrs. Caldwell served as a kindergarten teacher for 41 years. As always, I was excited to see what snacks they had because you can always count on being fed when you visit your or anyone's grandparents. That day was a gift, not only did I get snacks, but Mrs. Caldwell also planted a seed that has taken years to blossom. In her kind, yet stern tone she reminded us that:

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"The best to place to be is in the service of the Lord." — Ruby Whitmore Caldwell

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At that time, I figured she only meant serving in a church setting and wrote it off as just another Baptist saying. As I've gotten older, I've gained a rich appreciation for the words of the elders and ancestors. Because, after serving 'Murica for four years, I now know precisely where and how I want to render assistance.

For years I've struggled with the idea of what I wanted to become. Deafened by the incessant voices of those who tried to offer help by telling me what I could or should become, I was left confused. To be fair, I am something of a Renaissance Man—or as a friend calls me, a Harlem Renaissance Man.

Law. Religion. Music. Politics. Psychology. Sociology. Metaphysics. Race Relations. And now, after 26 years of showing no interest, sports. If you were to ask me a general question regarding any of these topics, I'll probably provide a fact-based answer and follow it up with, but I don't know. That's because, at some point in time, I was actively seeking knowledge in these disciplines. I've always been inclined to fine arts and exploring what it means to be 'human.' Sometimes, I entertain myself by pondering what it means to be; to exist. 

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Fifteen seconds in my mind usually goes like this:

Where are we? How did we get here? How can something come from nothing? I'm black because of the creation of race; indeed I am nothing. Can a balance be found between Universal law, Natural law, and Positive law? Can we honestly be self-governed? God? If freedom is a condition of the mind, then captivity is a mental affliction. Paul did say, "Be ye transformed by the renewing of the mind." I get it—let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus. But, to have that mind placed in you is to have your consciousness elevated. Boom! CHRIST CONSCIOUSNESS.

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I couldn't choose one and eventually learned that I didn't have to. Using an analogy provided by Dr. Maria Colavito, my favorite professor thus far, "...if philosophy is the tree and its roots, the disciplines are its branches." Studying philosophy gives me the freedom to explore all of these intellectual traditions while developing one that is personalized and evolved. 

The role of the philosopher is to ask questions about things most people take for granted and overlook. The purpose of the black philosopher is to recognize these questions. To identify why we forget these preoccupations. Seek to answer them, and then help their community understand them. In essence, it is to get free, stay free, and set free. By doing so, we provide an invaluable service to the People. 

The most exceptional service, to me, is teaching. By engaging our youth, through right education, we guide children through their development and build brighter, stronger, fully conscious citizens of the Free Black Society—which is why I've decided to become a teacher. 

In this way, I can fulfill my responsibility to those I love. I have the freedom to create music, teach and talk about The Way, and demand attention to all the fields in which my passions burn vigorously. Above all, I can guarantee our children remain free and usher in the coming global evolution while firmly staying placed in the service of God.  

20170312

To the untrained eye, the title of this post is just a sequence of numbers. While that's true, it's also the date I honorably discharged from the military—or as I say, "the day I got my freedom papers."

If you're naturally inclined to be mathematical and calculating as most of us are, then you've already added up that this is my "one year out" post. I know it sounds like I'm celebrating one year out of prison, right? Well, that's because in many ways they're a lot alike and I'm going to share a few of those ways with you.

Now, don't go being presumptuous and think that I'm saying the military is some vacuous, soul-siphoning vermin that breaks spirits and replaces them with weak knees because you'd be wrong.

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The military is a vacuous, soul-siphoning vermin that breaks spirits, steals hairlines, and replaces them with weak knees, a pedo-stache, and an over-inflated ego. It is a white-male-dominated institution that amplifies the experiences of living in a racist society.

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After serving four years and taking a year to reflect, I now offer my experience to the People for their improvement. Disclosure: My experience is by no means the universal experience of black males in the military. But, as someone that is relatively aware of the myriad socially engineered illusions, I believe many of my comrades of color will agree that these are big facts. I also want to acknowledge the fact that I know people who have served longer terms and people who still serve—and while some have found sure anchoring in such a complex institution, many have fallen into the sunken place and struggle with getting out.

Let's ask and answer the big question: How is being in the military and being in prison alike?

Consider this, when you first join, you go through an intense indoctrination phase. Those of us who know, know indoctrination is only a euphemism for brainwashing. Begone what sense of individuality you thought you had! Now, whether it's by your DOD ID, SSN or rank, you become a number. You are given uniforms and told how to wear them. When to eat and when to sleep. Where to be and when you'll be able to leave. They teach you how to walk, talk, think, write, behave, exist, and dare I say even die. Healthcare and school are both covered. Suddenly, you become obsessed with performing and give the idea of being no consideration.

But, enlisting in the military is a voluntary act. Yeah? Well, so is committing a crime.

People who commit crimes act on and of their own volition. Looking through the socio-economic and deontological lens for a better view, we can investigate the reasons why a person would be compelled to commit a crime or join the military. Being a conflict theorist, I believe lack is incredible at motivating law-abiding citizens, with high ethical and moral values, to engage in criminal activity. In fact, some would say they commit crimes because of those values—e.g., a parent who steals to feed their family, a person who kills to save a child, a person who lies to protect the country—and the possibility of losing their freedom is worth the risk.

Now, consider the black citizen who grew up in a low-income working family that has struggled for three generations to recover from the deindustrialization of America. Not only that, after losing his job when the factory closed down, their father started selling dope to provide for his family and got sent up the river after the Feds raided their house in the dead of winter. Now they're being raised by a single-parent who works three jobs just to maintain. They're a brilliant student with infinite potential, but no money to pay for college. Their best friend was murdered a week before graduation because a rogue cop mistook a book for a weapon. They aren't offered a single form of counseling because this is the status quo and well, niggas don't have feelings. They vow not to be like their parents and have convinced themselves that college is for losers.

One day, they see a commercial. Keep in mind the organization behind the ad pays top dollar to the production company to have them shrewdly convey the idea that the American dream is attainable through answering the call of duty—and boy, do they deliver. This organization touts a commitment to the "...fair treatment of all." Steady pay. Healthcare and school are both covered. They house you, clothe you, and send you around the world for free.

They never stop and ask themselves if forfeiting freedom is worth it because the illusive allure of stability and comfort cloud their judgment. Then, young people enlist on and of our own volition.

Truth. This particular black citizen is a creation of my sociological imagination. But, it's not that far from reality. According to a study done by the Pew Research Center, blacks make up 17% of the DOD active-duty military—somewhat higher than our share of the U.S. population which is 13%. Granted it's not as high as the rates of mass incarceration, the effects of the military industrial complex are still staggering.

When I joined the Navy in 2013, I immediately found a community of brothers and sisters that I identified with within the institution. I learned to appreciate the struggle as a unifying force and respect the nuances of black cultural diversity. I'm pretty much an African Nigerian-Jamaican American. What? It's about as real as a Wakandan... All praises be to Killmonger! Anways, it was at this time, that I also learned what Zora Neale Hurston meant when she said, "all my skin-folk ain't kinfolk." You would not believe the level of "coonery" I was exposed to while enlisted. Except in the military, it's not called cooning. We use a more, politically correct term—it's called playing the game. Playing the game means learning how best to navigate and function in a white-male-dominated institution without ruffling any feathers and meeting opposition.

For a while, I was a bit bothered by how frequently my older brothers and sisters ages 35 and up, many of whom had served eight or more years, would tell me just play the game. Eventually, I learned that they were teaching me how to survive, not telling me how to live. They were in many ways passing down the tradition of Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox: mastering the arts of learning how to speak to white people, not talking back, withholding information about other black folks, and dissembling before being looked at with suspicious eyes. They were relic keepers-passing down generations of masterfully crafted deception. Which reminds me of Charsee Charlotte Lawrence-McIntyre; a free woman who affirms the need for a little razzle-dazzle and performing in rhyme:

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"Got one mind for the boss to see; got another for what I know is me."

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A few days after the acquittal of Mike Brown's murderer, a service-member who happens to be a white feller, greeted me with a devilish grin and an insulting caucasious tone, "What's up, thug?" You know what happened next: WHOP WHOP! Talk shit, get hit. But, before I had the chance to enjoy my sweet reparation, a friend jolted me out my violent reverie, and I subdued my anger, once again. I forced myself not to react, because my desired response would've been grounds for them to send me up for violating Article 91 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice: "insubordinate conduct toward a petty officer." 

That was during the first two years—the radical years. Marked by the murders of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown, 2013-2015 also saw progress with the movement for Black Lives, the ending of the Obama-era, a surge in the presence of Neo-Confederates and White Nationalists. The transition of Uncle Phil and Maya Angelou, 2014-Forest Hills Drive, and a few, very significant personal life-changing events that were nothing short of divine. So, you can see why my passion burned with furious rage, and I had no time for playing the game.

The last two years of my stint, 2016 and 2017, were the Gandalfic years—I was a weary wanderer, but not lost. I had my birth chart read. I practiced yoga for the first time. I read four books that changed my life. I sat in on bell hooks' conversations during her residency at the New School via YouTube. Beyoncé served us a cold, cleansing glass of Lemonade and Frank Ocean took us to nirvana, circumventing death by delivering another solid album with an André 3000 feature. To a significant degree, however, it was marked by the initiation of inner alchemy. With the New Year of 2017, came new experiences and my freedom. The first of which the French call, la petite mort or the little death. Fortunately, I had the pleasure of experiencing it twice. 

The first experience was on my flight from Okinawa to Tokyo. The pilot had to abort the landing due to severe winds. When I looked out the window and saw the wing of the aircraft nearly rub the runway, my heart fell into my stomach. Looking around for comfort, I watched the lady who was sitting across from me turn pale when she finally came face-to-face with the possibility of death. I then realized I had no real control in the situation. I accepted my fate, sat into the experience, and trusted the process. Weird, but I have to admit, there's no greater feeling than the calm that washes over you when you stop resisting and acknowledge death for what it is. An illusion casting a shadow so thick it cripples us by the very threat of its presence. If death did come for us, trust me, we would know.

It worked out though. That experience equipped me with the tools needed to confront my second petite mort: Heartbreak. If you've ever experienced a broken heart, you know a turbulent flight seems like a better way to spend your time. At least then you only have two options, both of which you have no control over—land or crash. Heartbreaks are a little more challenging to navigate because the person ultimately responsible for your healing and recovery is yourself. For a while, I was only able to answer the question of who taught me to hate myself. Because when I searched for the answer of who taught me to love myself, it was like I had been hit in the head and lost all knowledge of self. There was a lot of life drama, internal trauma, and social conditioning manifesting itself as pain and fear that I needed to heal and transmute into love, light, and power. So, I sat with that experience. Breathed through it. Accepted that I had control over nothing but myself and got my freedom.

As it turns out, whether serving in prison or serving in the military, all caged birds sing the same song, Damn, I can't wait to get out. But, when I received my freedom papers I was given a brand new song to sing:

Free yo mind, free yo soul.

You gotta journey, you should go.

Free yo mind, free yo soul.

Onward and upward, til' you can't no mo.'

Free yo mind, free yo soul.

Truth is a pretty big pill to swallow.

Free yo mind, free yo soul.

Free yo mind, and yo matter will follow.

Feel free to check the four books I referenced out; I'm sure they'll be of some value to you.

The Appeal

May we walk upright

before Thee.

Though stumbling,

never fall.

Grant us vision to see

You clearly.

Ourselves in others,

we see The All.

Guide us from

the mind’s delusion.

Out of Darkness,

into Light.

Free and Black

is the perspective.

May the Consciousness

be Christ's.

Last Two Dollars

Today, I met a brother from Mississippi. We were both out for a nightly stroll around Downtown Jacksonville when our paths converged. I had my earphones in and not really focused on anything but my own walk. 

I saw in his eyes that he wanted to ask me a question, so I dropped my eyes to avoid the welcome. He kept walking towards me so I took out my earphones, made eye contact, and spoke to him. Immediately he thanked me for not looking down on him and actually speaking to him — he told me he was my brother and was down on his luck. Honestly, I felt bad because that wasn’t my initial response. 

He told me served in the Air Force over 40 years ago and as a boy, he would work in a cotton field to earn money. 

His eyes were dark and still. I could tell he had seen many days — some good, some bad, and some really long. But still, there remained a small glimpse of hope. He told me he was thirsty and wanted a big, cold bottle of water from the 7-Eleven up the road. He asked for change, but I didn’t have any. So, I said aloud, “I don’t know if I have any money on me.” Sometimes, my thoughts escape me before I have the chance to identify them and choose another. 

While I was reaching for my wallet he made a reference to the size of my chest and decided to take a step back. I laughed and told him he was cool because I didn’t feel threatened. I pulled out my wallet and found two $1 dollar bills. I didn’t even know they were there, so you can imagine how surprised and grateful we both were. I gave him those two dollars. 

He thanked me and thanked me again for talking to him and treating him like a brother. He said, “I much rather ask for assistance from you than to have to ask a white person. They don’t acknowledge me. And when they do they make me feel lesser.”

I understood and told him to not to consider this a hand-out, but a hand-up. I made a joke about that being my last two dollars (it was lol) and made a shameless reference to Johnnie Taylor. He chuckled and gave me the third degree, “Watchu know bout dat youngin’?” Then he started playing and threw a light jab at my chest like an older brother playfully challenges his bigger younger brothers resolve and strength out of love — it didn’t land though. We smiled and joked about my size again. Then I noticed throughout our exchange, the small glimpse of hope in his eyes had grown. In those brief moments, we had given each other more than what we asked for or even expected. 

Today, I met a brother from Mississippi and he turned two dollars into gold. 

Beautiful Storms

The thing I find terribly beautiful about storms is that they come, do their work, and never concern themselves with the aftermath. They don’t care that they crush houses, lives, and illusions of comfort and security alike. Still, with so much destruction, the eventual sunshine is always much brighter. Just imagine how beautiful it's gonna be when this storm passes. The bigger the storm, the brighter the sun.

Sending peace, love, and light to those harshly affected and finding it difficult to recover from the storms in their life.

Some people are like storms. Don’t be like them.

I Am

You know how difficult it is trying to remember you’re God, when you have other things like work, bills, taxes, that next episode of GoT (Bran might be the Night King, wow!), Kyrie going to the Celtics, and the increasing threat of death by nuclear war to think about? Nearly, impossible.

This is why I meditate.

Don’t you know that a brief moment of harmony and unity with the First Source and Center could drastically change your life? When we sit quietly, our minds relaxed, focused on nothing and everything at the same time, we are performing a ritual of singularity. Science explains a singularity as, “a one-dimensional point which contains a huge mass in an infinitely small space, where density and gravity become infinite and space-time curves infinitely, and where the laws of physics as we know them cease to operate.” This is why when performed correctly, many feel an entrancing, floating sensation. You can’t commune with The Divine and just feel normal afterward. 

In this realm, you are able to will things into existence. Speak those things that aren’t, as though they were. Instead of accepting this responsibility, we sometimes surrender our power to things or beings outside of ourselves, waiting for that great gett’n up mornin’, where it’s always Sunday, and we walk around heaven all day.

What would happen if we looked for God within ourselves?

Suddenly we’d realize that the capabilities and possibilities that are in us are far greater than those who resist us. When we look inward for God, in search of our potential, purpose, and power, we have access to the same creative energies that produced jazz, guided Basquiat’s strokes, gave Toni Morrison a story, and told Beyoncé to get information — I mean IN formation. All you have to do is remember that you are, if only for a second, fearfully and wonderfully made in the very of image of God. It’s like having the faith of a mustard seed — infinitesimal and highly impactful.

You are every great thing you’ve struggled believing about yourself, and nothing like what they may have led you to believe. Repeat this to yourself:

You are enough.

You are capable.

You are healed.

You are loved.

You are whole.

You are light.

You are.

And when you’re ready, change “you are” to “I AM”

I am enough.

I am capable.

I am healed.

I am loved.

I am whole.

I am light.

I AM.

Eventually, it’ll become clear. You are, because I AM.

No really! You are, because "I AM."

Love Yourz

Self-love does not come easy for everyone. Lawd is I'ma witness.

Learning to navigate a world that considers your mere existence a threat and recovering from relationships with people whose actions may have suggested that you weren't worth it, are exhausting and emotionally demanding tasks. The practice of loving, honoring, and being gentle with yourself takes deliberate effort and prioritization.

I’m learning that self-love is a daily practice, a choice to be made in every moment. For that reason, my practice begins as soon as I wake up.

I sit up at the edge of my bed,

plant my feet,

take three deep breaths,

gather my surroundings,

greet myself and perform my recitation:

“Welcome to today! Don’t be good my nigga, be great.”

Then, I make my way to the bathroom, and when I get to the mirror my natural inclination is to critique myself. You know how it goes? You magnify all of your flaws and shortcomings while failing to recognize the many things that make you worthy of praise. Confronting the man in the mirror often serves as a catharsis for me. I behold myself, free of judgment, free of critique, free of expectations and I give myself the love that I often felt cheated of. One day, I looked in the mirror and resolved to love myself like I knew no one else would. I understood that, finally and absolutely, I was responsible for my happiness. Too often was I willing to give up that power, and more often than not, the results were the same:

I was broken,

my innermost parts

left spoiling in the sun.

each time I pieced

myself together again

much stronger than before.

Now, this doesn’t mean that I don’t have my off days or experience times where I exist outside of the moment. It just means that I’m more conscious about the things I say to myself and aware of the thoughts I give my energy to. These days, when I look in the mirror, I build myself up and speak words of life into my being. It usually goes like this:

-       Relax, flow, and be cool. The Universe got you!

-       I release my need to impress others, I have nothing to prove.

-       You are enough.

-       I am beautiful and handsome.

-       I am free to explore the law of potentiality.

-       I will practice detachment while remaining connected in love.

-       Because I love myself, I have an obligation to be the best version of myself that I can be.

Be willing to work at loving yourself, just as hard as you’ve worked at not liking yourself. Let go of self-hate and behaviors that are not consistent with the reality you are creating. Know that you are loveable and capable of giving and receiving love.

What are some of the things you’ll tell yourself in the mirror?

Now Stop Asking!

As I was driving home from work one night I received a phone call. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary until I was asked the “three-word question.“ Instead of providing an answer I just laughed it off. This wasn’t the first time I had been asked that particular question, but it was the first time I’d been asked by my mom. I’d like to think that my mom and I are close. She’s been my light on some very dark days, yet there I was — reliving some of the most annoying moments of my childhood.

Saturday, I was on my way to a lil’ event and I received a text from one of my childhood friends. Wouldn’t you know this nigga asked me the same “three-word question.” Luckily, I had rehearsed and finally perfected my response, so I laughed and asked why.

Their responses were similar. They got irritated as if I were the one being annoying and pressed a little harder with their innocent inquiry.

Are you? Are you gay?

Which is usually followed by, “I mean I don’t care. I’d still love you.”

That statement always leaves me a bit perplexed, honestly — because,

If you don’t care, why do you need to know?

I didn’t know the love of these relationships were based on the condition of my sexual orientation.

But, as I’ve gotten older I’ve become well acquainted with a not so easily accepted truth: People change every day, B.

But seriously, I’m able to laugh it off now that I’ve been asked this question since the 6th grade. My peers were the first to project their limited understandings of masculinity and sexuality onto me. Where I was raised, those were fighting words, and I did. Mostly to prove to them that I wasn’t gay and to change that perception of me through violence. Go figure.

I also recall a teacher in high school telling me that I would be gay in ten years, to which I responded, “Well, you wouldn’t know because you’ll be dead in ten years.” Ironically, she’s still alive and I’m still not gay. But, as you can see, I learned to defend myself with words — which were sometimes just as violent.

Though I’m not obligated to tell anyone because it’s not anyone’s business. I’ll go ahead and answer once and for all: No, I’m not gay. Should I decide to enter into a romantic or intimate relationship, it’ll be with a sista.

But, for those inquiring minds that want to know. Here’s a little more information:

I’m every bit of 6’3″ and 252 lbs. No, I don’t play football or basketball. If I’m being honest I don’t like sports, never have. I can’t have a conversation about the playoffs, championship games, or who got traded to what team.

I love art.

I’m a musician.

I write poetry.

I enjoy talking about politics, social issues, philosophy, metaphysics, love, and feelings.

I like wearing floral patterns.

I’d wear a romper.

I have a rose gold phone case.

I drink tea.

I practice yoga.

I get pedicures.

I cry.

I hug my friends, regardless of gender.

I actually say ‘I love you’.

I like Beyonce’ and Frank Ocean.

I believe in black men showing affection and being vulnerable.

I heart posts on Facebook.

I shop at Lush.

I want to dismantle white supremacist capitalist patriarchy (if you haven’t read bell hooks we can’t be friends jk lol).

I’m nuanced. I mean we all are, though. Right?

Gender and sexuality are both fluid concepts. While some stay fixed on the spectrum, there are those that choose like God and water — to flow, freely. This reality is one of the many things that make life colorful because it most certainly isn’t just black and white.

beana

if you ever feel like you’re drowning,

and your arms become tired

from fighting the waves of emotion

that sometimes overwhelm you,

let my love be your raft.

absorbing the weight

of the burden to smile

when tears feel more appropriate.

let my love be the life vest

when you can’t find the green in your blues.

fold your arms around it

and float until you do.

eventually, you’ll see the shoreline;

flow with the tide—let it carry you in.

but you know this because you were my lifeguard,

it was you who taught me to swim.