I Dream of Kings

I Dream of Kings

“We must learn to live together as brothers or we will perish together as fools.” -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Today, the greatest threat to the realization of MLK’s famous dream is an ignorant and underachieving black community. Dr. King’s dream will remain but a most noble dream for as long as there remains a single black boy in America’s streets who values a pair of sneakers above the life of his schoolmate, as long as there remains a group of black young men who pledge their allegiance to a particular color and willfully perpetuate murder, rape and other ills against their own people of color, as long as there remain more black men who excel in the streets than on Wall Street, as long as the state of black motherhood remains “single and supported”, as long as the most talented black writers remain songwriters and not published authors and historians, as long as the most esteemed black orators remain in studios and not in classrooms, as long as the most visible black men remain actors and not activists, as long as the most celebrated black women remain in music videos and not in instructional videos, as long as the black man perceives the epitome of his achievement in the land of opportunity as becoming a Dr. without the King. So you see, the greatest roadblock to the ideals so excellently articulated in Dr. King’s timeless “I Have a Dream” speech is no longer an unjust white system in America slowly but surely losing its majority status and clutching desperately to its fading wheels, but rather, it is arguably the most intriguing and perplexing creature in all the earth – the very black man for whom Dr. King and countless others gave everything, the so-called American negro! In this being we find a man armed with a dream and infinite potential, a man who while still inhibited by prejudice of those who presume him less than he is worth, remains mostly limited by his own ineptitude at the realization of the greatest dream ever told! R.I.P. Dr. King. Until Kingdom Come we will fight to see your dream realized. Godspeed America.

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Skin Wars: The Complexity of Complexion

Skin Wars

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” -Martin Luther King, Jr.

Light skin versus dark skin, the eternal debate between longstanding next of kin.
It’s a pity, such an eternal shame, brothers and sisters in plight divided by a desire to fit into a colored picture frame. How incredulously lame, identity crises brought to birth by an incessant love affair with fleeting fame. Black is no longer our common name. That’s just the nature of today’s game.

Honestly, I’m ashamed by this ridiculous emphasis on pigment,
that such a natural thing should even determine the quality of our treatment.
I know of a black woman named Jasmine, who fancies herself better than Lilly,
simply because the latter has a greater concentration of melanin, under her beautiful skin. Yes really, it’s gotten that silly!

And all the rappers concur, shamelessly obnoxious, ever hypothesizing in music videos that their hot yellow bones make the dark sisters jealous. Negro please! A darker shade is not a disease! If a black man cannot see that, then he is blinded by shades he is unaware he currently wears. He is emancipated on paper but enslaved in practice. And even Lincoln could never have freed him!

And all who instigate battles of the skin, will find that they can never win;
because regardless of complexion, through the myopic lenses of prejudiced eyes we are viewed as the same underestimated concoction. Therefore, as per MLK Jr. will we let the color of our skin define us, or will we decide the content of our character should be the distinguishing factor?

Remember, united we stand, divided we fall.
So that said, God help us all.

P.S. The black race in America must free itself from the superficial shackles of inadequacy born of despicable years of slavery. There is a popular saying that goes, “Black is beautiful.” Every black child should come to know this, believe this, and embody this, regardless of complexion.

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Man and the Same

All a Man Sees

“Women cannot complain about men anymore until they start getting better taste in them.” -Bill Maher

All men are the same? False!
Why? For starters, you shouldn’t try them all.
Although, truth be told you couldn’t possibly try them all.
However, if somehow you did manage to try them all,
Then hopefully you’d realize that it wasn’t all men who were the same but you.

How? Well, you were a constant to these variable men, the same thing to them all.
All these men you tried had the same thing in common – You.
You were the same for repeating the same ill advised practice over and over again,
And yet somehow expecting you would find someone different.

The fact is:
All men are born equal but not all men grow equally.
And just because some men may be similar,
It doesn’t mean that these men are the same.

P.S. “It’s not the men in your life that matters, it’s the life in your men.” -Mae West

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The Scenic Route

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Gentlemen, be careful you do not prematurely place any woman upon a pedestal because you covet a position of significance or affection in her life. Otherwise, find yourself pursuing her at a speed limit that is emotionally unhealthy; with your forward momentum too often yielding to speed bumps, stop signs, road work ahead signs, ice on the bridge warnings, construction zones, red lights, and your accelerating efforts resulting only in diminishing returns. This I did. So instead keep calm, pump the brakes, pace yourself, and do better. And if you do this, then whether or not you reach your destination, you will appreciate the scenic route you have journeyed. But more importantly, you will emerge the stronger man for it. Godspeed.

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N***as ain’t S**t

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“I don’t need no man,” her unsolicited mantra would sound the alarm in our ear drums, a constant reminder to whomever was unfortunate enough to be counted among her audience, whereas our sole wish was to hit the damn snooze button. “I don’t want a man,” would follow suit, as if to properly distinguish her needs versus wants and nevertheless inaccurately disparage both as unnecessary synonyms that were not applicable to her chosen life of hermitical solitude. “Niggas ain’t shit!” Well, the n-word must’ve been used here to identify and emphasize her disdain for the alleged culprit, although this rhetoric had worn its welcome and now bordered on gross annoyance. Undoubtedly, this woman was suffering from a paralysis of the heart. Yes, she was hearticapped! Apparently, the last “nigga” had put her heart in a chokehold and strangled it, crippling whatever little love she had left. This tragedy obviously resulted in the disintegration of what was once a peculiarly strong black woman, and had replaced it with an utterly destructive black hole, capable of sucking with overwhelming gravity, even the faintest of feelings that would naturally fall upon those around her who would dare to fall in love. “Ain’t nobody got time fo that!” She would instinctively retort whenever questioned about her bitter disposition toward her male counterparts; and for that matter, all matters of the heart. No harm, no foul, she swore. Besides, all is fair in love and war. She’d become indifferent to the difference between the two. But here’s the irony of it all: One fateful day, she received a call…from her 9 year old son’s school informing her he’d been sent home for acting a fool, and coming to school…in a dress. Apparently, he’d insisted all day that he wanted to be a woman instead. As she confronted the boy when he got home later that afternoon, she looked at him scornfully and scolded, “Boy, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” A sad scene followed indeed as the young boy sobbed uncontrollably. At once overwhelmed and emboldened by his misery, the poor boy looked up at his mother pitifully. His face flooded in tears, he managed only to reply all too familiar words, “Niggas ain’t shit!”

 

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Homecoming

 

“The man who chooses to not recognize his home is worse off than the man who has no home.” -kR

My life, your entertainment. No scratch that, I prefer the term infotainment. Mine is just the story of a little drummer boy marching to his own African beat; We Three Kings conspicuously on repeat, seeking to redeem the essence of my illustrious culture in the presence of naysayers who parade about me like a conniving vulture. Yo Kennyrich that shit you wrote was dope, but behind my back they sling my name around like I was dope! Or yay, but nay I say unto thee. Between me, myself and I, there’s already a crowd of three. So please depart from me before my political correctness falls apart. Otherwise (and that wouldn’t be wise), I’d be tempted to split you like the Red Sea and leave you as alive as the Dead Sea. You dare label me naturally violent when I choose to go on a rant, and yet somehow you expect me to be so tolerant of the rampant oppression of a God damned tyrant? Ah the audacity of the ones who’ve caused us such calamity never ceases to amaze me! What’s a month to our legacy? That’s heresy if you ask me; please don’t fall for that sort of fallacy! Oh Black People! My people – once noble moors, pharaohs of ages ago haplessly reduced into mere dominoes. Our history has been a diminishing domino effect, a hallucination of sorts, closely resembling the butterfly effect. It’s like we were the weed that was smoked but never inhaled, which might explain why in this day today there are brothers like me in jail still waiting to exhale. Now I’m no Moses but I ask you Sir – Mr. Joe Schmo – let my people go! We are salt of the earth and deserve to be exalted on higher ground, not shamefully and despicably buried underground. And our bite is louder than our bark, so for your sake please do release us while there’s still room on Noah’s Ark. My life, your entertainment. No scratch that, I prefer the term infotainment. Mine is just the story of an African King, who unlike Prince Hakeem, his Coming to America had nothing to do with finding his Cleopatra. But rather, who was forged in truth to crash the Board of Chess and clean up the foul mess; not to acquire fleeting fame but to remind the black pawns that they are indeed kings and queens, just caught up in the wrong damn game! I pray this message is entrenched deep within your dome; my brothers and sisters your Kingdom awaits, so please sing along with me, “I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the world that I’m coming home. Let the rain wash away all the pains of yesterday. I know my Kingdom awaits, and they’ve forgiven my mistakes. I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the world that I’m coming home.”