Dear Daddy

By KAREN MARIE MASON

Dear Daddy,

Mama told me your were dead.

Except that was way before you actually died.

But when I started acting up around age 16 or so—you know, the age when girls start “feeling their oats,” as Mama used to say—you suddenly came alive again, and next thing I knew, I was talking to you on the phone and not much later, I was on a plane to see you. I’m not mad at Mama any more for doing that. Mamas have all kinds of reasons for lying about the men in their lives. I don’t know, maybe she did it to protect me. I mean you walked out on her. Maybe she felt you would do the same to me. (At least that’s her side.) But I’m old enough to know there are two sides to every story. And then there’s the truth. Too often, people lie—first to themselves and then to their children and then to everybody else. I just know that I would never do that.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure what to expect the first time I met you. No one gave me the blueprint. Mama didn’t know what to do with me. I think I was messing up her relationship with her men. Don’t get me wrong: Mama didn’t have a lot of men. But I had a problem with the ones that she did have. So there I was at your doorstep. Unsure. Frightened. Awkward. I could tell that you felt the same way too.

You seemed confused—unsure whether to treat me like a little child or a young adult. You let me do what I wanted, even smoke. At 16, I thought that was so cool. I don’t think that’s so cool any more. I guess that was your way of making up for being absent my whole life. We both tried hard to forge a relationship out of nothing. No history. Only DNA. It was tough.

I went back home not sure if I was all the better after making your acquaintance. But I was glad to at least be able to say I “know” my daddy. We wrote, talked some more. But it was difficult. I tried. We would skip a couple years and then connect again and then skip a couple. This was not the way I thought it was supposed to be. But it was the way that it was. The tears are pouring down my face as I write, daddy. I guess I watched too much TV. I expected more.

And so I tried harder. Called more often. Made promises to visit soon. Then you went and got cancer on me. The kind that left a hole and a different voice in your throat—a stranger’s voice talking to me. I was so mad at you—couldn’t understand why you had to go and do that.

I think you knew that you would eventually die. Soon. At least that is how you acted. You acted like you didn’t care anymore. Like you didn’t care about me. That’s how I felt. We grew apart instead of closer together. I thought death or the threat of death was supposed to bring people closer. I was wrong about that, too.
But there was something I wanted to tell you while you were here with us, Daddy, and it is this: Every girl needs her daddy. By her side. I know things were difficult between you and mama. But so what? You should have made it work. You should have been there for me. You should have been at my first recital, at my graduations, at my suspensions, and at the birth of my daughter. That’s what little girls want—to look up and see her daddy smiling. We don’t ask for much. You should have tried harder.

Maybe if you were around, I wouldn’t have been molested. Maybe I wouldn’t have stayed out late at night and partied a little too much. Maybe if you were here I would have made better decisions about relationships. Maybe if you were here, I would have been a straight-A student instead of holding a B average, because I would have wanted to make you proud. Maybe if you were here, you would have sat your grandbaby on your lap and schooled her about life’s lessons.

Your grandbaby and I still made it, Daddy. You’d be proud. Your daughter kept her legs closed and only opened them up when love was present. That love gave birth to your first grandbaby, Kenya Jordana James. I went on to graduate college, got a big job in the music industry and then left to be a mother and entrepreneur. I know you’re smiling right now. I know you would love that part,‘cause you always went against the grain. Hell, now that I think about it, that’s where I got it from.

I understand, now, that that life sometimes takes us on twists and turns that we didn’t plan for—that time flies and there are things that we’ve all wanted to do that never got done. I’m not mad anymore.

I am still here.

And I’m working on making myself better. Still working on releasing the thoughts that could cripple me, kill me or even give me cancer. Still here making a better place for your granddaughter, whose father was killed when she was 3 years old. Know that while Kenya no longer has her biological father physically with her, she has been fathered by many who have given her what you were not able to give me. I made sure of that.

As for me daddy, I have decided that I’m not gonna give myself cancer or let these damn fibroids get the best of me. And I’m gonna let go of the pain and the past. The bitterness, too. And I’m gonna let you run free in the ancestral world so that you can be a daddy to me again.

As my angel.

Love,

Your daughter, Karen

Peter Tosh and ME.......

Peter Tosh and Me.

By Karen Marie Mason

I always had a zeal for this business of music. After graduating University where I majored in communication and minored in the Music Business, I jumped right in as a promotion assistant at Epic Record~and a short time later moving up to a product manager at Columbia Records (Sony) and eventually landing as head of the Black Music Marketing department at East/West Elektra Records under the guidance and tutelage of the only Black woman at that time to head a major record label, Sylvia Rhone. I was living my dream~working and developing the careers of artists once unknown ~ to superstar status. But I also had another parallel passion. And that was to take the music of my heritage, reggae, and position it in the international/mainstream arena. So my journey took me far and wide in the musical spectrum. For instance, I worked with a little known group from L.A. named Cypress Hill; two little boys who liked to wear their clothes backwards and the entire Ruffhouse label that later produced the Fugees and so many others. But I also worked with a DJ(that’s what we call MC’s in Jamaica) named SuperCat who we positioned to a mainstream audience without ever losing his foundation. I later went on to work with Ziggy Marley (this came some years after the encounter described in this blog), Terror Fabulous, Snow (don’t laugh), Nadine Sutherland and many others.

To say I was “ready” when I got “the call” from the wife of Peter Tosh…is an understatement. I can’t remember what his wife (Sister Pauline) was working on at the time. It could have been a foundation~or possibly a release of some catalog material~possibly even developing her own career. I don’t remember. All I remember was that I scheduled a meeting with the wife of legendary Wailer, Peter Tosh. I remember preparing a small portfolio of my work. I remember being in AWE of the possibility of meeting the “Stepping Razor” himself. Almost everything else is a dreamland fog. Prior to this, the closest I came to a Wailer was Madison Square Garden when Bob Marley opened for the Commodores. My brother and I sat on either side of my Mother and watched with binoculars a spectacular show while trying to enhale as much as we could. So the idea of actually coming close to Peter Tosh (via his wife) was all I needed to send me into a state of utter excitement. Now I must remind myself (as I get excited just writing and thinking about it), my appointment was NOT with Peter Tosh. I didn’t even know if he was in town or even in the country for that matter. My appointment was with the wife of a legend but my mind was firmly on him. My imagination was colorful and sent me deep into the abyss of …”what ifs”. And there I went ~”What if Peter was there”, “What if he wanted to talk about the music business and me managing him” I always dream big. What if, What if, What If.

So armed with a bag of “what if’s” I proceeded to his apartment on West 90 something street. It was one of those apartment buildings where you have to be announced by the doorman or clerk. The doorman called up stairs. I wanted to KNOW before I went upstairs if Peter answered. I wanted to know if he was home. But I didn’t want to be mistaken for some stalker of overzealous fan as I am sure this doorman has dealt with many a time. So I said nothing.

So the doorman said “its okay to go up”. I can’t remember the floor. But I remember how I felt. Great anticipation. By this time in my life I had met or worked with or interacted with or personally learned from some of the major cultural/historical icons of our times. But this is the closest that I had come to the Bob Marley and the Wailers legacy.

So there I was. I rang the doorbell and his wife Sister Pauline answered. We walked into the living room and sat. I looked around coyly for some sign of Peter. I listened for other footsteps and heard nothing. So we talked. I can’t even remember what about. Cause you KNOW where my mind was. Lord please forgive me for not being focused. I did my best. Then as if out of nowhere. Came this giant of a man. He had to be close to 7 feet. Seemed like he had to duck just to walk from room to room. Sister Pauline introduced me as a record company exec and radio personality and with little expression but with a feeling of deep love he nodded and walked into the other room. He may have said something. I can’t remember. I was wide awake in a dream. The epitome of quiet fire. I would hear the fire side in a few minutes. So Sister Pauline and I continued our meeting and the doorbell rings. Peter answers the door. I hear a deliveryman uttering something about his TV. Within a matter of a few seconds I heard Peter talking about “bumbo clat TV, and how dem better have it fixed properly, etc, etc.” From where I was, I could neither see Peter or the deliveryman. I could only hear the conversation. If you would call it that. A few minutes later I heard what sounded like the running feet of the deliveryman racing to the elevator. It was obvious that Peter was not the one that you wanted to argue with.

Few minutes later peace returned and the smell of the good colli weed filled the air.

Everybody Should Have An Aunt Daisy

Everyone should have an Aunt Daisy. You know. The Auntie that was mother, sister, friend all in one. The silent observer who looked beyond your faults; never changing her way; never judging. The one who knew just what you liked to eat and always seem to have it on standby whenever you showed up. The one whose house you could always show up. Any time. Any day. And be welcomed. Door always open. That’s my Aunt Daisy. 83-years young. Quick on her feet. Always with a look of concern on her face. Full of love.

My Cycle Has Come Again!

Long before I became a location scout, big city record company marketer, artist manager, promoter, radio disc jockey, writer and the most important role of all MAMA, I was a little brown eye girl raised in Jamaica and East Flatbush eager to break into the music business. I had no conception of the word “no”. There was nothing that I didn’t feel like I couldn't accomplish. Nothing. I moved around hardcore reggae circles with an enthusiasm and determination that made many a man adopt me as their little sister …reluctant…but still willing to show me the ropes. After all, I was a woman and this was their world. Or so they thought. I became both a student and practitioner all at once. Learning and doing while holding steadfast to my dream of becoming a powerbroker in the music business. I figured out how to get my own radio show and I got it. I researched who all the top radio dj’s were in the city and I got to know them ALL. I linked with all the key record distributers and kept my collection up to date with all the latest and whenever I could …I sat at the feet (or more so at the record counter) of the top record stores and listened and learned in what was to become my new classroom.

And then I released my first record. I arranged studio time. Worked out the track. Linked with the artist, Empress Akelia, and we went and recorded the first record that I produced. A track titled “Raggamuffin Girl” on Superpower/World Enterprise imprint, Live and Love. If you look closely you will see my name as producer and arranger. I love that! That was 1988.

Wow. I share this because life is a cycle. That was 20 years ago. And now 20 years later I am once again the student and practitioner all over again. Greater things are yet to come. Stay tuned.

This Is MY Song. Sing A Long.

I've revealed alot about myself writing these blogs. Probably more than I've ever talked about. I know many of my friends and family are like. What? I didn't know? But so what. These blogs are for me first. They are my release. And they are my practise. I am writing a book on motherhood and the I've always been told that not only are the best writers great readers but the best place to start writing a book is to just write. But I want to be able to write with honesty. I want to be able to share with you from the gut...my journey in motherhood. My successes and my challenges. I want you to be able to learn from my journey as much as I am learning from my own journey and those of others. So that honesty has to start with myself.

I don't know what the big fuss is about anyway. When was the last time you listened to the radio, XM or your favorite artist. Do you HEAR some of thing that they talk about in their songs. You know how we can SO relate to their pain, their joy, their challenges and their praise as expressed through the words and melodies. Damn. "They been hurt", we say to ourselves. Or wow, " I want to wake up to that song", or "that's the song I want on when my King comes home". Their songs MOVE us. Make us laugh. Make us cry. And sometimes some of them are just plain corny. But we sing along anyway.

I don't sing. So these words...this blog... is my song. Sing along with me.

No. I'm Not Afraid

I sat there filling out page after page of medical forms. I usually get a little annoyed at the quantity and redundancy of some of these forms in the Doctor's office. I mean really. Didn’t they just ask me on page 2 what they are asking again on page 6? But today, I don’t feel so annoyed. After all, I had been through this quite a bit lately. Let's see...there were the forms for my physical, pap smear and blood work. Routine check up. Of course the pap smear was a little uncomfortable for me. Things are kinda closed in down there. Not much activity. LoL. I requested the baby clamps and the nurse laughed. "That's the smallest we have", she said. Ok is said, crinching at the thought of anything going between my legs except....Well anyway everything checked out positive. And then there were the forms for that special procedure to examine and take photos of my fibroids. The offices where this procedure was done is right next door to my GYN. I wondered why they didn't just go next door and duplicate the same paperwork. Well that procedure was very uncomfortable. Ouch. That hurt. All that poking around to get the right camera angle in my womb.

Now today I had another appointment for my breast. I had a sizable lump mass removed from my left breast a couple years ago. That was scary. I wrote my last will and testament before I went in for the procedure. I can laugh now. But then...What can I tell you? I was scared. Recently they found some "suspicious" looking calcium deposits in the x-rays of my right breast. So I kinda new the routine. So I filled out page after page with little to no emotion. My name was called. Oh hum.

I walked robotically to the back behind Ms. Rita, a 50 something nurse with sprinkling gray and a nice enough disposition. I could tell she felt my distance and tried through her natural pleasantness to enter my world. But there was no entrance or welcome mat extended to her. I wasn't cold. Just far away in thought. Afterall, its not much they can really tell me. I knew deep inside that the doctor’s office would not be the answer to my healing. I am my own healer.

So I sat waiting for the doctor. Waiting for him to explain the abnormality in my right breast. Waiting for him to explain the biopsy process. And then waiting for him to schedule it. All without much emotion. I ask him if he thinks that all sickness begins mentally and emotionally and if not dealt with it eventually manifests itself physically. He says no. He explains iconology is different. It’s not like alcoholism or smoking or other diseases where the patient knowingly causes the problem. He goes on to say, "No one wants to give them self breast cancer". I wonder to myself what about drinking yourself with pain, smoking ill thoughts and disappointment. Is it any difference when the outcome is the same? But instead, wanting to change the subject, I say. "I hear even men get breast cancer".

So I continue to go through the routine with him. All the while my mind is on "heal thyself". But I still schedule the biopsy appointment. Plan B. I will go through the motions just incase I get weak, distracted, overcome by pent up emotions and can’t muster the strength to follow through with the discipline it takes to heal myself. Just in case.

There is always the chance that something else dramatic will happen in my life or I will relive the drama of yesterday thereby blocking the natural healing process that fresh thoughts, a sunny disposition and forgiveness ultimately brings. I'm not too sure. So I take my chances. There is also the chance that LOVE will grow stronger and healing will be a natural growth of that process. Who knows.

So Ill go through their process. But I will also work on my own. A process uniquely connected to the spirit world. A process led by divine intuition. A process nurtured and advanced by self love. Yea. I'm work on that. And no. I'm not afraid.

I Am Not Kenya's Hair

I AM NOT MY DAUGHTER'S HAIR

By KAREN MARIE MASON

I've watched my daughter go from precocious child to confident teenager. I've watched her take near perfect direction and instruction, and give the same to others. I've watched her listen keenly to my advice and adhere to it. And now, she gives me advice. Good advice. Our relationship has blossomed from mother-daughter, to best friends, back to mother-daughter, and along each step, we’ve always been each other’s protector. She’s listened carefully to my thoughts about the boys in her life, and I shake my head and laugh when she warns the men I date that I’m her mother and “you better bring her home at a reasonable time.” Last night’s date responded with an, "Oh, she’ll come to like me.” I laughed to myself. Wrong. None of them know my daughter Kenya. She has never liked any of my choices in men (friends or otherwise) and I've never agreed with hers either. For sure, at any time, our roles reverse. Completely.

And yet I often forget that she will turn 20 in July. My little baby has blossomed into a beautiful flower—come into her own. And now she makes her own choices regarding what to wear, what to eat, where to go and, most difficult for me, how to wear her hair.

Kenya has worn her hair natural from birth. Or should I say, I have kept her hair natural from birth. At first, I kept it covered with turbans and the like. At that time, I adhered to the more strict interpretation of Rastafari: modest dress, head covered, etc. Then later, I platted it, chiney bumped it, pony tailed it, and my favorite, let her wear it in two afro puffs. Though I have worn locks on and off for the last 20 years and would have loved for her to do the same, I didn’t force it on her. She decided on her own to grow her natty, and grow they did.Even when I no longer had locks, Kenya Jordana's hair flourished. I was proud. She took care of her locks and had it conditioned regularly. So imagine my dismay when she hesitantly asked me one holiday she spent home from school if she could trim them. “Lord have mercy,” I screamed on the inside. But out loud, what could I say? She was 19 years old. They were her locks. Not mine. So I choked out, “If that's what u want to do…”

I thought it would end there. But no. From there she went on to perm it, and now she’s got extensions. (since I wrote this piece...she is back to natural) Each time she changed it up, I acted as if she were changing up my hair. I showed great dismay and spoke with even more disappointment. I complained without end about the perm not agreeing with her. And I made disparaging remarks whenever I could squeeze them in under the false guise of advice.

So immature. Who’s the mother here anyway?

And yet, being the mother that she is to me, she would hide her disappointment and keep on plodding. She would try not to freeze-frame my negativity and hold strong to the decisions she’d made for herself. Just today she told me, "Mama, I've been natural all my life. Let me see what else is out there. I'm not you. Let me be me." She added: “You are more attached to my hair than I am.”

You know, she was right. She and I both know that a perm may not have been the best thing for her hair. But she accepts her decisions and stands firm. No hiding. Head erect. Damn. That’s my girl.

I love her independence. I love the way she meets her challenges head on. She doesn't run from adversity but embraces it and turns it into increased confidence and a greater sense of self. She has manifested everything I hoped for her to be.

So what the hell am I upset about? It’s not my hair. In fact, I’ve worn my hair just as nappy and unkept (though clean) as a sista could—the very antithesis of how Kenya likes her hair. And she’s never asked me to change it, cover it over, or even uttered, “I don’t like it”—all things I’ve said to her. She let me be me.

It is this I keep in mind as I learn to let up a little—you know, release from my spirit the things I can't control (like my daughter’s hair) and allow my baby’s spirit to grow, just as I’ve allowed mine to. After all, as India.Arie says, "I am not my hair."

Relax, Karen Mason. Breathe and give thanks for the flower that continues to bloom before your very eyes.

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Karen Marie Mason left her rapidly rising career as a music industry executive to become a stay-at-home/home-schooling mom when her daughter, Kenya, was a young child. Kenya is now a second-year honor student at Howard University; her mom now manages recording artists, hosts a radio show, promotes shows, is active in her community, and is finishing up her first book about motherhood. She blogs about motherhood and her life at Honor Music Group.

Me and My Baby Holding Tight.......

Picture Perfect

PICTURE PERFECT!
photos by me!
Tony Rebel and Luciano, Dolldaze, Monica, Brandy, Fertile Ground

I can share with you with absolute certainty that in 2009, I will become a better; more proficient; more revealing; more artistic; and yes, incredible photographer. I've been doing this too long to not be GREAT at it by now. I mean really. Who
wants to be doing something for years without tremendous improvement. Don't get me wrong. I'm good. But I am damn sure gonna get hella betta. This all started when I became a location scout for film, television and commericials. Part of what I do is to read the script, treatment and story boards and then "scout" Georgia to find locations that fit the description/character/actor as outlined in the script. So I HAD to take pictures. All kinds of pictures...All kinds of angles...garages, houses, rooftops, restaurants, corner stores, churches you name it...I took it. And of course I did people too. My locations have been featured in many a film, video, and commericial including 5 Tyler Perry movies, films for Warner Bros and CBS and videos by T.I. (one of my favorites), Ludacris, Ciara, Young Jeezy and 50 Cents. But something happened tonight when I went to hear Brandy, Monica and Slim (formerly of 112) at a private listening party. There were many photographers there and it suddenly dawned on me as we all positioned ourselves for the best shots of these female superstars that I didn't really know HOW to take pictures. Not like them. Its kinda like making love. You can do it...but you really have to learn HOW to do it correctly so that you can become a master at it. That's where I am going with my photography. I can't wait to get there...and I will be sharing my progress with you along the way.

RASTA BUSINESS: ROOTS NATTY DON'T GIVE UP!

RASTA BUSINESS: ROOTS NATTY DON'T GIVE UP!
Karen Mason for Honor.Respect A Division of the HMG
www.honormusicgroup.blogspot.com

I always knew I wanted to be in the music business. Growing up in Jamaica you are literally surrounded by music. It's as much a part of your daily fabric as the banana and coconut trees. If you’ve ever been to sweet jamdown then you know that while tourism and bauxite rank high as the nations top exports, Jamaica is still, to this day, the largest producer and exporter of music per capita in the world. So after leaving the comforts of my grandmama’s loving arms, I moved to Brooklyn where my Mama had already migrated some years before my arrival. It was there that my Aunt Babs who use to live on Sterling Avenue in Brooklyn and later on 35th and Church Avenue threw regular (almost) weekly parties. No occasion was necessary. The white rum was always flowing, rum punch in the big clear bowl at the center of the table right below the seemingly life size portrait of the last supper , the scent of curry goat in the air, rice and peas with just the right hint of thyme and coconut milk on the stove, Black cake and of course Prince Buster, Byron Lee and the Dragonaires, Bob Marley or John Holt 7” on the record player. This was my first interaction with heaven. I use to love these parties where we were allowed to roam, with no bedtime limits, amongst the grownups.

As I grew older I started to appreciate other exports from Jamaica and naturally gravitated to the Rastaman who naturally ran Brooklyn where these exports were concerned. Communing regularly with the Rastaman on Linden Avenue and on Utica between Linden and Synder opened up a whole new world for me. Utica Avenue was a hotbed of Black Entrepreneurship in the 80’s. On Linden there was the leather shop and tailor, where the Rastaman dem created the most beautiful crowns of leather. All hand sewn. The next set of bredren made tailor made pants and suits. It was here where the incense flowed, the vibes were copasetic and the food ital, that I (at 13 years old) met the Rastaman (Trevor James) who would later become my business partner, Kingman and father of my daughter Kenya Jordana James.

After graduating from Syracuse University I could have gone to work for any major corporation, which I eventually did, but felt compelled to first return to my old stomping grounds on Utica and Church Avenue to help Trevor build his musical and cultural empire. He was one of the first to take Rastafari livity and translate them on clothing. His dream went worldwide selling millions 0f t- shirts. One of my favorites "Lion Of Judah Shall Break Every Chain" is featured above. Trevor along with his partner, Victor Bloise who was the artistic designer on ...break every chain and so many revolutionary designs, was the first to bring the only surviving Wailer, Bunny Wailer to America. The show and experience of working on the historical performance of Bunny at Madison Square Garden was invaluable.

My dream of being in the music business began right there on Utica Avenue amongst the Rastaman and Jamaican entrepreneurs who would become my first teachers in business. Once you walked round the corner on Utica, there was Witty’s Music World, who released a slew of boom shot selections in the 80’s including Shelly Thunders “Kuff”, Tenor Saw’s “I Just Love My Woman”, and Sluggy, “Ninety Five Percent Black”. On any given day I could go into Witty and buck up Supercat, Leroy Smart, Pupa Toyan, Johnny Ringo, Cocoa Tea or Little John. The list was endless. These were reggae superstars in my book. I played them regularly on my radio show and now I was reasoning with them on a regular. As marketing director for Trevor’s company, Esthetic Enterprises as well as a dj on the local radio station, every day was heaven on Utica Avenue. As one of the only females in the shop on any given day, Witty would play a father figure next to my inquisitive and excited disposition. He gave me promo records galore and never ceased to pass on a good word about the music business. Up the road on Utica, Percy Chin and Hyman Wright were establishing the Jah Life Record label. If Percy wasn’t behind the counter then Scion Sashay Success a hardcore singer youth would reason with me, encourage me and share their wisdom. I was a sponge. It wasn’t a big shop. Bout the size of my living room. But the life that came out of the Jah Life Enterprise would build me up, enough to last a lifetime. It was fuel to my burning desire to succeed in the business. This was about the time that Jah Life released Sister Carol’s “Black Cinderella”, not stop tunes from Scion, and Barrington Levy’s “Murderer”. Bwoy. Those were some beautiful days. Black Entrepreneurship at a peak and being led by the Rastaman dem. Round the corner on Church was Count Shelly, of the Superpower Empire. Tall, Dark, Handsome and Kingly in character, County Shelly was tough love personified. I would come in looking for records to play on my show. He would ignore me for while as if testing my resolve. I would join the other big dj’s at the counter like Karl Anthony, Ken Williams, and so many others and listen and learn. I learned to be humble. This was my early schoolroom and my early imprint of music business 101.

I would often venture over to Nostrand Avenue. Esthetics had a lot of clients on Nostrand. There was Opio of Ethiopian Taste, A Rasta business selling Rasta cultural items. And then we would go down to Vital Forward and get a veggie plate. It was here where I first became aware of Tofu, gluten and how to eat to live from Imandi and the Rasta bredren who cooked strictly ital.

On a very practical level. Rastafari was the embodiment of entrepreneurship. We made the hair products (Praises brand was making over $200,000 a year in the 80’s), we drank the spring water long before it popped up on menus, we popularize tofu, gluten, moss, shea butter, red, gold and green belts, shoe laces and tee shirts that reflected our Black African pride. We produced the beats that would resonate worldwide. Even the way we greeted each other, fist to fist or heart to heart was exported. “One Love” became an international statement.

Yes. We did it before. And it is time, particularly in these recessionary days that we do it again. This time for ourselves.

I eventually left Utica Avenue to work for one of the big record companies on 52nd Street. But I brought everything about Utica Avenue with me; the dress, the food and more importantly the mindset and I took it all the way to the top of their system. Selling millions of records as a result of my prowess developed from seeds planted on Utica Avenue. Brooklyn.

And now that my life has come full circle, I am eager to make that trod once again. Only this time as an entrepreneur. Only this time instead of making billions for others. I will succeed for myself, my ancestors, my people and all the bredren on Utica Avenue and all across Brooklyn, NY who gave me my foundation. Give thanks for Rastafari.

This piece was inspired by a radio interview I heard today on WRFG on the program “What Good Is A Song” hosted by Mama Njeri where she interviewed the founder of Praises Natural Products.

Notes and Loud Thoughts from the Troy Anthony Davis Case

There is something about the fabric of a courthouse, the vibration, the feel of that space that is both familiar and distant. Most courthouses were built at the turn over the century. Right after emancipation. Guess for who? Marble and oak floors, intricately carved 20 ft ceilings, hardwood floors and dark maple columns with designs that mean something. As I sit listening to Troy Anthony Davis’s lawyer petition the 11 circuit court of appeal panel of three judges, my mind wonders on who built this structure at 56 Forsyth Street where I sit. Which tribe of my ancestral lineage skilled in carpentry, master builders was I communing with as listen and wait…with only a remnant of hopefulness.

There are very few of us here. The main courtroom and overflow room is filled with others. Where are we I wonder. I am sure our ancestors are thinking the same thing. I remember courtrooms packed in New York under the legal prowess of Attorney Alton Maddox. The ancestral spirits were alive, on post to assist from the ancestral realm. I wonder almost out loud, how are they to assist now when we are not even there to support our own?

As I commune with the ancestors in the court I feel like I am floating. I’m barely relating, hearing or listening to the judges and lawyers. I hear the words but don’t always overstand. But I FEEL the vibration. “Clear and convincing evidence”, “due diligence”, “but for”, “free standing innocence claim”, trustworthy evidence”, “compelling case of innocence”, “possible merit”. What does this all mean I ask my family visible only through my 3rd eye. They seem to respond in chorus”, it means that we need interpreters in the Black Community. We need lawyers who embody the zealous creed exemplified by great lawyers like Charles Hamilton Houston. We need those who will interpret for us the often confusing, binding and coded language that constitute the everyday dealings of life in America…for the Blackman. “I silently cry for help.

The argument has been presented. The court is adjourned. Who really knows what awaits. I see Reverend Sharpton hastily exit the courtroom. Possibly to be one of the first to the news cameras. LOL. I greet brothers from the FTP, Uhuru Movement and my Rastafari sistren and silently wonder if our presence even makes a difference. So few in number.

I go to exit but something keeps me at the door for a moment. The ancestors await for me to pledge to them my recommitment to myself and to them to rise into the greatness that is our birthright and to support those who have already exemplified that amongst us.

Tonight (Wednesday) I will be along with hundreds of others at the Soul Vegetarian Return To Royalty Ballroom (doing just that) where Attorneys Alton Maddox, Mawuli Davis alongside Kene “the Wiz” Reaves, Songbyrd Jackson and others as we gather to in support of ourselves and who we are becoming. “Critical Thinking, International Bankers and the Obama Presidency” is the focus as we come in common unity to raise funds for the son of Wanique Shabazz who finds himself like we all will sooner or later tangled in the criminal justice system.

Nothing Can Come Between Us Except Facebook

“Mama, you can not write on my facebook page”. That was the message I received from my daughter no less than 30 seconds after I posted on her facebook wall, “Mama loves you”. I thought I was being cool. Afterall, Kenya always screams I love you to me on the phone no matter who is around. We hold hands on campus, in the mall, on the city street. She is still prone to bust out with a skip down the sidewalk at any time and as embrassing as she makes it seem she never fails to sing the little name song I made up for her when she was 1 on cue. So I text her I Phone from my Blackberry, “why can’t I write on your facebook page”? Her response, “because you’re my mother. You can call, text, email to talk to me. Facebook isn’t that domain”.

So Facebook has finally come between us. I mean we do everything together…we make fun of people together (lol), we go to the movies together, we got tattoos together and hear this…we even went to the club together (check out my blog title In The Club). But I guess I missed the whole facebook revolution. Too busy being an entrepreneur, keeping house and family together to even consider it as a part of my life. However, when I saw that it became a part of my daughter’s life…I said…I better join so I could see what’s going on . I’ve always been like that. If Kenya showed a great interest in a particular artist…then so did I. If she started reading a particular author…then so did i. If her interest in a subject of activity waned…then I went on the investigation to find out why.

But I guess I took things a little too far when I sent the message. I was suppose to observe. Not participate. LOL.

Which is one of the rules of motherhood. Stay in your children’s business until they become adults and then meddle only when asked or motherly instinct dictate as such. But while they are children. It’s all your business. Just know when and where to reveal your identity. Some things…our children never have to know…

PS. I found the photo above on her Facebook page. LOL. She has a whole heap of photos on Facebook. "Mama Loves You".

How Karen Got Her Groove Back...LOL

LOL. Wow. I am laughing at the title to this blog. Got a big smile on my face right now. Trying to figure out which direction I am getting ready to go…in life and with these few words. My intimate relationships can be divided into two categories. The first category is Trevor. My daughter’s father and my first love. The second and only other category would be called post Trevor, which also consists of one person.

My first love ended when Trevor was killed over 16 years ago. My second love ended when the love we had died. Not necessarily a permanent death, but one that had been looming over us possibly since the beginning. We were just too much in love to see.

So I walk into the bookstore to leave some flyers for an event I am doing next week. I ask the friendly and talkative bookstore owner and sistafriend to recommend a book for me to read. I just finished reading the new Walter Mosley book and I needed a good follow-up. I get so inspired when I read authors who have become masters at weaving the word on paper. I didn’t want to come down from the high I was on by choosing a book that would not raise it higher.

I asked her about Bernadette McFadden, one of my favorite literary writers. Her books are what joy and pain are made of. They let you know… and feel that you cannot have one without the other. Having read all of her books…I read somewhere that she had taken on a pseudonym and was writing more racy fiction instead of her literary masterpieces that I had come to know. Well. So I asked my sister friend at the bookstore if she was familiar with her pseudonym which I could only imagine she created to keep up with all these fly by night and day authors who popped up over the last 10 years becoming best sellers with books short of literary excellence and heavy on scandal and sex.

She took me right to her book. And proceeds to graphically describe the great merits of the book. And she’s kinda loud. “It’s racy she says”, “Lotta sex”. OMG I’m thinking to myself. Do I have my “I haven’t had sex for years t shirt on today”. There is sex she says, but its’ “good sex” the realistic kind that you would actually have looking me dead in the face as if to say…”you need to go out and have some”. “Lord have mercy” I think to myself and there is another brother in the store. I’m wondering if he can hear her. I’m wondering does he know me? LOL.

Ok I say quietly. Hoping she will stop there. “it’s not like Zane” and those other books getting louder. It’s better. But its’ “juicy”. I am so completely embarrassed at this point.

I’m not sure why. Maybe because I haven’t had much experience in that area. Yep, for the last 25 years of my life I’ve had only 2 intimate relationships and both of them were filled with bountiful, beautiful, life changing LOVE. I am still in love with Kenya’s father…maybe that’s why I waited about 15 years before I opened myself up again to that type of love.

And now I get to start all over again. I get to apply the lessons of my last two loves and build a greater love with myself and with him who awaits.

Yea. Getting my groove back….

JUST WRITE!

Just Write

That’s the advise that she gave me. If you want to write. Just write. Everyday. Don’t matter if you are inspired. Doesn't matter if you even have something to say. Just sit down and write something. If you do that every day. Then you can look back 6 months or even a year from now and see the progress. You are not going to see the progress every day. A watch pot never boils. You are not even gonna see it every other day. You may not even see it for months. You just got to stick with it even if you don’t even like it on some days.

That’s how I feel about exercise. I use to walk or run 3 to 4 miles ~ 4 days a week. I didn’t like it on most days. But I stuck with it. Then one day about 6 months down the line I got on the scale and found that I lost 40 pounds. I never saw it coming. And noticed very little progress from day to day.

So I guess I need to remember that as I search daily for the voice to write as I work on a book. Well actually, the book is working on me☺ Haven’t really started yet buts its seed is planted. Its growing inside and soon I will give birth.

This race is not for the swift. So I write.

P.S. The Ethiopian Coptic Cross above is my daughters 4th tattoo. I ended up getting one too. Tell you bout that later...:)

Truth

It was one of those awkward moments. You know when family gathers . Everyone having a good time. And someone says something crazy; out of place; or decides that this is the time to surprise everybody with some new revelation. At that point everything stops. One minute spirits are high; laughter and joy in the air; life being celebrated to its fullest; when all of a sudden everything stops. Silence. That’s the time When everyone looks at everyone else to confirm if it’s really as awkward as it seems.

Well. It was one of those moments. We were visiting Fahamu and Nitefa, their 4 year old daughter and their newborn son. Kenya had just returned from college on thanksgiving break and the Pecous were on her short list of 2 that she was interested in seeing. Having grown into a very straight forward and direct person…Kenya, now the threshold of twenty, has always been clear on what she wants and what she will and will not do. So I obliged...though I know there were a few others that would be interested in seeing her. She wasn’t interested. Said she was only here for 4 days, was working 3 of those leaving very little time for socializing.

So we are all sitting in the living room. Fussing over the baby. Kissing his big sister …catching up. The Pecou have known Jordana since she was 8 or 9 years old. Family. So then I brag a little. Its a story I've told often. I start to tell the Pecou's that I surprised Kenya at college. I didn't tell her I was coming. I just showed up one day (after finding out where all her classes were) at the door of her English Classics class. And how I was glad she went to class that day and how proud she was to show me off to her teachers and classmates. I could hardly catch my breath EVERY single time I recount the story. Proud Mama that I am. So I’m rolling along having told this story many a time. When Kenya says, "it wasn’t a surprise mommy. I knew you were coming." “Huh” I said. Looking dazed and confused and my wind deflated voice sinking by the octaves. "Huh" becoming a multi syllable word. “You knew”? , is all I am able to muster. “Yes Mama, Ine (that's her best friend who I called to get info on where her class was so I could surprise her) told me.” “Huh” ? There we go again. Sinking further. “Yes. I'm sorry mommy”, she says with full disclosure, confidence and not a hint of guilt. That’s how she always told the truth. Straight forward. Clear. It was at that point that the awkward stare that I opened this blog up with took full form. Fahamu looking at his wife. His wife looking at me. Me looking at Kenya. Kenya looking a Nitefa. “Mama. Don't be upset," she says reminding me of her at 12 years old. "Huh" I said? “Don't be. The only reason she told me is because I had a weave in my hair and she knew you wouldn't approve so she had to tell me so I could take it out.” That’s Kenya. Always good for the truth. "Huh". At this point. Fahamu and Nitefa are waiting in silence for the ball to drop , break and shatter. Everybody waiting for me to either erupt, go ballistics or show some sort of emotion. No one is really sure what’s coming next. Everyone is quiet. . Even the children are silent. “Did you like it,” I ask. “ The weave”?. "Yea it was ok", Kenya responds. Ok I say. Everyone exhales and resume our family fun time with the babies. I am grateful for the truth.

The Re-Education Of Britney Spears

As I watch the various music channels and surf around the internet I am bombarded with the seemingly endless promotion of Britney Spears birthday special, Britney Spears album, Britney Spears this and Britney Spears that. Got me wondering if this is the same Britney Spears who less than a year ago was disheveled, confused, an unfit mother and headed for self-destruction. I am not sure if any of this has REALLY changed but the reality is that the marketing machine has kicked in…in overdrive. As a marketing executive I know all too much about all that goes into the reshaping the image of a superstar. It takes full cooperation from the media, from the record company, from management and most of all from the fans and even non-fans. No change happens by chance. The irony of a well executed marketing plan is that when it is implemented successfully, it seem natural, void of the hidden hands that went into the making of it…

But even more importantly, mainstream America had a point they wanted to prove and make crystal clear. They will support their own particularly when it is someone who the children look up to. (Elvis is a good example) It doesn’t matter if Britney’s last album barely went platinum, it’s irrelevant if her first comeback attempt at the VMA’s 2007 was a disastrous flop and they care little if your reinvention is based on never inventing yourself in the first place. These are some points. But not THE point. The point is to protect, preserve and if need be cover up and clean up your own. By any means…

I can’t help but think about Lauryn Hill. It was 10 years August when Miseducation became the soundtrack to our lives, the songs that we celebrated both emotionally and spiritually. And yet, in some ways, many ways we abandoned Ms. Hill. We talked about her having all those babies. (Five beautiful ones to be exact); we discussed her being crazy; we got a good laugh at some recent photos that some say had her looking like a clown; we made mockery of her post miseducation album and music. We were SO unforgiving of someone who shared and spoke so much of what we could never speak for ourselves and our relationships. Some even thought she should be seriously examined after blasting the Pope during a show at the Vatican.



I know. It wasn’t you. Then I’m not talking to you. But I won’t leave myself completely out of this picture. We should be ashamed. Ms. Hill was/is our musical hero and should continuously be lifted up mind, body and soul.

We are so quick to forgive others but can hardly muster the pleasant emotion needed for forgive our own. And maybe forgive is not the right word. But you know what I mean. Britney’s reinvention did not happen in isolation. It happened due to a concerted effort that included fans willing enough to forget the crazy antics that she displayed. They erased all that in one swipe and replaced it with the Britney that they wanted the world to see. They cleaned her up, dusted her off and re-presented her back to the world. Let us always do the same for our own.

In Da Club...

So I'm on the way to the club with my daughter. Well kinda. She is suppose to meet her friends there but they’re not coming until later so she asks me to come and make sure she gets in okay and then (presumably) leave. (She is home from college for the holidays and her friends were raving about the "Broke and Boujee" parties at the Five Spot).I mean what daughter wants their mother in the club with them. Right? So there’s is a long line at the door. The doorman says “I'm checking IDs only, 18 to get in and 21 to drink”. “Okay” I say,awkwardly looking for my ID and glancing around to see if anyone notices my grown ass self bout to go into this teenage club with a bunch of 18 to 21 year olds. LOL. Of course I can’t find my ID for a second. I'm holding up the line and feeling a little paro. I’m thinking to myself…”I bet they all wondering who holding up the line”. I imagine one of the many teenagers who are in line saying to themselves, “somebody’s mama” and laughing to themselves like they the only ones that know what they saying.

So now we are literally one step from being in the club. And my daughter, after spotting a number of non effeminate, good looking eye candy says to me "oh u don't need to come inside". I laugh to myself and just imagine for as brief a moment as possible how horrified I would be if my Mama came up in the club with me. But at this point I am too damn curious. We right at the door and it looks like it's on and popping up in this club. I look at her with eyes that communicate, “too late baby...I ain’t going no where but inside this club.”

So we get inside. I am thinking its 10 dollars. And the girl at the door says 1 dolla. I say “what” titling closer to her ears making it oh so obvious that I don’t know the routine and she yells “one dollar”. Okay. So I must be really out of the loop. 1 dollar. OMG.

So I walk in. Feeling good that my daughter hasn’t abandoned me (at least not yet). You know how we would do back in the day...and act like...."Oh I'm not with them". You know… standing a comfortable distance from Mama. Well maybe that was just me. But not my daughter Kenya. She trooping by my side. Got me feeling good that my baby girl, on the threshold of twenty is still trooping with Mama.

So we walk through the club headed for the right spot to claim as our own. And me desperate to make some contact with a few heads my age. I see a few. “Whew” I lament to myself. I knew it was some OGs up in this place. LOL We grab a seat near the stage. With full view of everything. The placed is packed with wall to wall of our future. I'm still a little paranoid. I see heads nodding at me; waving periodically; smiling. Got me wondering if they thinking...”that's somebody mama, I better say hi.” I imagine it’s like seeing like your teacher at the club. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Wondering why. Afterall, I am somebody’s Mama. Proud of it too! LoL.

As a marketer. I'm thinking. Damn. Who is promoting this event tonight. The club is packed wall to wall with the prime trendsetters and tastemakers of this generation. The latest clothes, baseball caps galore, fly sneakers all on display. Basically crunk. I’m thinking about these two new female rockers that I signed to my management company. What a perfect audience for them.

When we first came in the music was basically that retro sounding stuff that is suddenly popular. Go figure. Common, MJB, Kanye all at more beats per minute than I am use to.

Anyway, talk about young Black and Fabulous. There were quite a few caucasians in the house too. Fly brothers and sisters galore. When I tell u the place is crunk. I feeling good. Flying beneath the radar. Then “Uh oh.” Here comes the roving photographer. I'm not sure if I'm more concerned about him taking a photo of me and someone seeing it and thinking that I hang out with teenagers at the club on weekends or if I was worried that he would pass me by embarrassed about taking a photo of someone who looked like his 11th grade language arts teacher. He stopped right in front of me. "Damn", i utter underneath my breath. I quickly ask my daughter Kenya to come in the photo with me. At least folks will say, “she was there with her daughter.”

Then the music changes from retro pop to atlanta crunk.Most of the songs playing, I’ve worked on the videos in my other incarnation as one of top location scouts in Atlanta. Everyone from Dem Franchize Boyz, To Luda to Young Jeezy, to Lil Wayne (I know he not from Atlanta) to T.I.

It all kinda sounds the same…verbal noize with a nice beat. Just when I am thinking the worst of the artistic offering of this generation in the south specifically I remember a lecture the great historian Dr. Asa Hilliard did where he referred to a dissitation by a young writer and PHD candidate in which she compared crunk to spirituals both musically (the syncopation, the call and response) and spiritually (the chants, the praises, the letting go) So I sit up and take better notice; watching the crowd, listening more attentively, feeling the spirit. Its damn near holy ghost temperature in here. Wall to wall. A spiritual movement. One that us adults will completely miss with our judgemental- non-listening- pre occupied with life selves.

I’m getting lost in the service. Wow. Its crunk in here. So my daughter is standing on the chair next to me. Observing. Bobbing her head, dancing. I'm feeling good that she feeling good and ain’t shy about completely expressing herself amongst her peers while I'm at the club WITH her. I'm spending my time typing these thoughts on the blackberry hoping to go unnoticed as someones mama trying to get crunk with the teenagers. So I decide to stand on the chair next to my daughter Kenya. I start bobbing and busting a little move and I am immediately stopped by her. “Mama” she says sounding and looking visibly annoyed, “U can't do that”. “ Huh” I say. I mean we done made it this far. I'm in the club. She dancing and cutting up doing the booty dance right next to me. We dun crossed all the barriers. “So what is it now” my eyes respond minus the words. “you can stand on the chair but you can't dance mama.”…”Please” she adds at the end of a momentary pause. LoL.

I'm okay with that. Again all I gotta do to put things in perspective is to imagine how horrified I would be if my mom were in the club with me MUCH LESS shaking her groove thing to the music that moved my generation. OMG. Just the thought. So I respect her wishes, conserve my bounce and just bob ever so slightly hoping that that will be okay. LoL.

Ok. So I'm on the chair. Typing away. The spirit is moving the crowd and that same spirit is moving my fingers to type this blog note to you’all. I type a few words and the next thing I know I look around and my daughter is gone. Poof. Like magic gone. So I'm like damn. “That must of been her plan all along”, “to get ghost”, “ Lose her mama in the club”. That’s my rich paranoia at play again. My head is practically doing a 360 looking for her. But all I can see is the heads of literally hundreds and teens. Damn. Rather than go looking like a mad woman. I stand there on the chair trying to adjust my eyes to survey headtops for any that might match my little Kenya’s. When I turn to look around again I sight her on stage getting the digits of one of the promoters Ian Ford. She probably thinking about throwing a party like this in DC at Howard University where she is a sophmore. And here I was thinking she ducking me. Our eyes meet and she looks at me with a knowing stare that says, “I’m taking care of some business mama…waving her I PHONE for further confirmation. Imagine me being worried that she was trying to dip. I feel a little silly. Afterall she ain’t me at that age. LoL. I forget that some times.

When she returns she says “Mama, I'm going outside for a minute its hot in here.” “I’ll come with you” I say without skipping one beat. “That's okay Mama, I’ll be right back” I hear her utter faintly as I look at the back of her head. I'm wonder to myself how I've managed since she been off at college…With my paro self.

She returns. What a relief. I know she tired of me asking her. “Who's that playing.” “what song is this”, “what song was that”. I just feel the need to know who these artists are that are making this wall to wall crowd of energy move uncontrollably in complete cooperation and obedience to the spirit. I know she getting tired of me asking. Before she went to college. I prided myself in at least being familiar with everything she listened to. I didn't let anything slip by. I needed to know what she was thinking, what she listened to, what moved her and why. I must admit since she went off the school. I kinda fell off little bit in terms of keeping up with all the music.

My “My President is Black” comes on. The whole room is one high school chorus. Couple fists in the air.

I continue to obey the rules. No dancing. I get away with slight head bobbing. I can’t help it. DJ in touch with the crowd and visa versa. They feeling each other. I’m feeling the whole experience…in da club. BROKE AND BOUJEE NOVEMBER 2008.

Black Solidarity Day

I first learned about Black Solidarity Day from Auntie Sonia. She lived up the block from me on East 54th Street between Winthrop and Clarkson Avenues in Brooklyn. I was about 7 or 8 years old. I had recently returned to the States from spending my formative years at the skirt tail and in the welcoming arms of my grandmama in a little town called Reading in Montego Bay Jamaica. Auntie Sonia's son Aubrey became my best friend.

I loved going to her house. Everything was African. She had African masques on the wall, Afro headed figurines on the shelf, African printed curtains, and those glow in the dark zodiac posters that we thought were "nasty" (lol) and Manu DiBango on the turntables. At her parties we did the bump and dances from New Guinea.One day she proudly proclaimed that her children were not going to school and she was not going to work the first Monday in November. Something she did every year. Instead they would spend that time amongst themselves learning more about their history and spending her money amongst her own. I was like wow. "Aubrey don't have to go to school". Yes, she said, "It's a Black Holiday".

I ran home and told my Mama that we didn't have to go to school on Monday because it was a Black Holiday. My Mama dismissed me in one look and told me to go to bed and make sure I as up in time for school the next morning. Now that I am older, I am realizing that for us, Black Solidarity initially was a different concept for us to grasp. Though ruled under a British system in Jamaica, we were taught by Black teachers, I picked fruits from my coconut, mango, lime, sour sop, ackee and banana tree in my yard. And what we didnt' grow we went to market and bought it from people who looked like us. So on the surface what Sonia was exclaiming, we lived in many ways already in Jamaica.

As I grew older I began to appreciate the meaning of Black Solidarity Day in America. I celebrated it in my own way and as I grew older and even in college obstained from all things European that first Monday before election.

It's only in the last few years that I am now realizing that I have not celebrated Black Solidarity Day in the way that I should . How does one grow in greater consciousness while manifesting behavior that is of a lessor consciousness.

By the time you read this Black Solidarity Day will be over. But you'all remember how it use to be. It use to be fire. A Good portion of us were absent hence the "day of absence". I may very well be speaking for my self with this brief lamentation...but i will say this. I'm going to do better to honor my ancestors, to honor Auntie Sonia, and to honor those who expect us to remember the path they layed and not be lulled into a sleepy consciousness that produces little in terms of tradition...for our children to see.

It Stops When We Say Stop

"Police in California, New York and Florida arrested eight former Black Panthers earlier this week on charges related to the 1971 killing of a San Francisco police officer"... "James Bevel, one of the undisputed giants of the civil rights movement, organizer of the Freedom Rides and the 1963 March on Washington, who led thousands of school chidlren in the Children's Crusade of 1963 and the various marches in Selma was convicted in a case that alledegly occured over 18 years ago"... and then there is Jamil Al Amin the former H. Rap Brown a fire brand and fearless warrior who was was convicted in STATE court but now is in FEDERAL Prison in Colorado under 23 hour lockdown. They hold a long list and possess a long memory of the architects of our freedom and it is their goal to bring them down and imprison them one by one. Two by two.

Of course we often fail to see the bigger picture. We still on "maybe he was guilty", "let's see what happens", "I cant support them I might lose my job", "i read in the paper that...". My only response to that is remember Tawana Brawley that's the 16 year old who was found unconscious in a garbage bag of feces and KKK carved into her stomace... Remember the Central Park Jogger case the case that gave rise to the word "wilding" and saw NYC teens being accused and coerced into admitting rape...only to find out after close to a collective 20 years in prison that her boyfriend confessed... Remember the case of Attorney Alton Maddox who represented Tawana Brawley's family, one of the members in the central park jogger case and so many high profile cases and yet sits now 20 years later without a license to practise law due to his zealous representation which brought a record of convictions...Remember Mumia, Remember Mutulu Shakir (a fundraiser will be held in his honor November 26th at the Five Spot), Remember the case of Chokwe Lumumba. Do the research. Remember...remember...remember...

Why is this happening. Certainly we can blame it on the reality that our enemies have long memories; they have the supposed power, they control the courts. Blah Blah Blah. Or we can look at the reality. The only reason they are able to do what they are doing; changing the rules at will; is because we let them. Our silence, our absence on jurys, our lack of support in the courtroom during these cases, our refusal to offer financial support, and most importantly our lack of organizations that will train, prepare and be ready to act when these cases rise. And they will arise. They will increase.

Troy Davis comes before the Court Of Appeals on December 9th at 1pm. The son of Wanique Shabazz is scheduled to stand before the grand jury in the next couple week with a possible charge of felony murder pending. There will be a fundraiser for this case on Wednesday, December 10th at Return To Royalty Banquet Hall featuring Attorney Alton Maddox, Jr.

We must begin to see all these cases not so much as individual or personal but as the cases that will determine and shape the perception of our community in this time and in decades to come. As the system methodically rounds up, arrests and jails our architects of liberation let us not stand idly by as armchair revolutionaries. Let us use what we have, each other, to make a difference when history recalls...

Karen Mason
HR ~ Honor.Respect

"I'm Not Voting"

Greetings!

"I'm not voting", "My vote doesnt count anyway" and so on and so forth. These are the type of statements that I am hearing from some of my super conscious brothers and sisters in the "community". Many of us have taken the stance that voting doesnt count. I've raised many an objection to this baseless and emotional position based on the history of our people... Based on the hell that our brothers and sisters had to go through for there to be a voting rights act...Based on the works of so many from the civil rights era and even based on one, Fannie Lou Hammer. You've heard all of that before...So let me raise another objection based on shere common sense.

We all know that tomorrow is an exercise in the popular vote where the Presidential Election is concerned. The Electoral College, which meets in December actually DECIDES who the next President is. Hell we may never interact with the President. So why stop and dwell on this. MOVE ON.

There are, however, people on the ballot that we WILL interact with. There are state senators who create laws, the state representatives, The Sheriff, The Clerk Of Superior Court, the Supreme Court Justice (who recently decided the fate of Troy Anthony Davis) and over 22 judgeshipsthat are up for grabs in this election. As sure as my name is Karen....we KNOW that we or many we know will come face to face with these judges. Some of us already have.

Don't get caught in the hype over presidential politics. All politics is local ANYWAY. If you feel strongly about not voting then skip the presidential ballot. You are not obligated. Move down lower in the ballot where the people that will have a hand in deciding the fate of our brothers and sisters (and US) are listed. Look beyond where we are. Exercise your natural vision and see what is surely ahead. Take the time to find out who they are and consider making a difference where it counts.

Karen Marie Mason