When Black Men Cry

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Brothers and Sisters, we’re not considered as humans. What court-mandated violence have not visited Black folks’ souls? What scorn and violence has not raised its hands to our people, our women, our children? What child’s scream drowns out her mother’ brutal rape? It is the Black face this government hates without reason or cause. It is the Black face our countrymen have never visited yet dreams violence upon us. What means by the sky that holds God’s pity yet forecloses on thy skin. My fellow brothers and sisters, we have not made such a place home, just beyond our heaven. For surely, our humanity toils for deliverance, from thy brutal masters, our oppressors, and still, we willfully look over our past. Scorn our present and dream nightmarish about the future. Provide thy sword, and go yonder, that my eyes vision, not this torture.
 
Brothers and sisters, they killed the mule and sold the 40 acres. No bell rings for our salvation, among heaven or hell. So we pretend thy good, lay with the oppressors, the young brother screams. The officials place their hands over their ears, the brother moans, the sounds of slaves’ narratives. The 21st-century approached and dignified our value of a wounded dog. The rabid K9 marks the dark flesh as a reward from Black men and women negative responses. Stand up in court and receive thy justice for speaking without permission. The pillars of justice forever enslaved us to thy present state. This group, the African American male who mourn freedom and equality. But, thy eyes speak to its oppressors whom that loves Black pain. It is the screams of this brother as he lay postured. He has proclaimed, the constitution of the United States hates his spirit, and dreams far away.
 
When Black Men Cry…they tell stories.
The Silent Dragon Jumps

10 Mistake People Make With My Introvert Personality

1.  Never ask me to attend a social event if I’m home.  I will not come because  you gave me to much time to think.

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2.  I try never to attend or watch football games with people under any conditions.   So, please don’t ask…unless you understand my personality.  I’ll leave two minutes in the first quarter.

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3.  “Ask Rob, he’s a great motivational speaker”.  I’m extremely self-conscious in public and I constantly timageshink about going home.  One exception, I’ll speak to little people and social justice issues.

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4.  I have never attended a large concert so don’t ask.  I visited Georges in Chicago once to see Phyllis Hyman in the 80’s.  Small set…it was workable.

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5.  Don’t surprise me with a gift, card, or any other trinket.  I hate it.

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6.  I don’t celebrate holidays…even my birthday.  So, don’t ask me to celebrate the 4th, Xmas, or your birthday.

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7.  Don’t ask me to do anything I’m unfamiliar with.  I may get horribly upset.

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8.  If I come to your home, don’t ask if you can get me something.  That places me under the spotlight….UGGGG!!!

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9.  If you come to my home you won’t be there long.

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10.  My wife insisted I attend my College Hall of Fame Induction.  I went…mad and upset.

Who Am I?

Writer, Artist, Jazz lover, atheist, I’m not shy, dreamer, fierce fighter, loyal, and straight forward.

The Ghetto Worst (2) Tilden H.S. Blue Devils

Tilden High School flickr Zol87

Chicago Tilden High School

I cannot forget entering Dunbar High School in 1976 from the ‘low end’ (i.e. Englewood). I was now attending a school with students who grew up in communities like my uncle and aunt, the nice hoods (i.e., Chatham, Morgan Park, and Kenwood). Yet, I was still dirt poor, one pair of shoes, struggling to keep my slacks up, and wondering what the fuck. I could see a difference in the students; I knew who was poor and who was well off. Growing up in poverty, you possess a keen sense for details, hell your life depended on it. Dunbar Vocational High School was a flagship institution, unlike my community high schools’ Tilden and Englewood for which I refused to enroll in either.

The ‘Bar’ was uppity’.  It was surrounded by condominiums, close to the lake, and minutes from ‘The Loop’. There was plenty of  intra-racial discrimination and prejudices going on at the ‘Bar’. If you were a student not from one of the nice neighborhoods, it was tough.  Presently, ‘Bar’ alums get together pretending these cultural and sociological differences did not exist. Bullshit. Students from the projects and communities like Englewood were treated different. Some of us were poor and from the other side of the tracks. We felt the class divide as other impoverished Blacks had throughout history in America.  Maybe I should have stayed home at Tilden or Englewood.

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The High School Riot

My wife Debra is a graduate of Tilden (79) and many ghetto mites from “The Dodge” attended school there. Tilden located 4747 South Union in Bridgeport was the local pub for dropouts, malcontents, and reprobates. It was surrounded by poor Irish trash and dirty cops all too willing to play the contest, “Catch a Nigger Alone Tonight”. From my knowledge, one did not want to hang around Tilden after dark.  Not surprisingly, It was the home of the Daly’s (Mayors of Corrupt Chicago), racists cops, and Irish lads doling out Mick justice on Black students and citizens.  Whites and Blacks did not get alone and violence was a norm.Chicago police photo

Consequently, the violence at Tilden often spilled into the streets.  It was not uncommon to hear on our intercom at John Hope that Tilden was participating in their annual fucking school riot. Even today, I can recall the intercom warning us that Tilden students were marching South on Union street, destination John Hope Middle School.  It was madness, large numbers of Tilden students, Blue and Whites swirling around 55th & Garfield Boulevard, D.T’s in unmarked cars, putting hands on cats not moving fast enough.

This was the 70’s and police brutality was the norm in Black communities, there was no Twitter or cell phones to capture the mayhem.  Somewhat scared and perturbed at the same time, I wondered, what the fuck are the Tilden students mad at our middle school for? What the hell was the problem? More importantly, did our neighbors want to kick our youthful asses? I hated Tilden before then, but now I disliked it even more.  Which is why I was all too willing to rib my friends who attended it.

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Till this day, I can recall looking out the window of House 4B at John Hope as police cars and bodies pushed the angry mob on its way. Why the fuck did they come up to John Hope? If a former rioter could contact me and explain the reasoning, I’d appreciate it. Conversely, I hated what I witnessed, mean faces, brutal cops, and frozen school officials. The whole fucking Garfield Boulevard was ablaze with tight-ass slacks, fucked up Afros, and worn out platform shoes. In essence, Black folks just stomping their feet, mad as Hell.  I just don’t know nor understand their reasons.

Presently, I’m still in the dark about this mass aggression, but this form of violence became the norm, sadly. This was one of my neighborhood schools, where nearly most of my rat pack attended, mostly for recreation. Consequently, I never wanted to attend Tilden. I was a Dodge City Ghetto mite, but I wanted to attend the ‘Bar’ because my older brother did. But, boy athletic wise, I wished often I played football at Tilden. I know, my Mighty Men/Women just booted me out the club, but it’s true. I regret not playing with my neighborhood cats on the gridiron. Plus, they won it all in 1979-80. I love my ‘Bar’; Mighty Man through and through.

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Tilden Tough

I speculate, John Hope Middle School turned out some of the best talent in athletics. The school encapsulated individuals from the surrounding neighborhoods that could flat-out play football, basketball, volleyball, gymnastics, swim, and track. Although, the big schools like the “Bar” CVS or Simeon had nice neighborhoods surrounding their landscapes. Tilden on the other hand, had Bridgeport Irish cats waiting to push an unsuspecting nigger’s cap back after dark. It was no secret, if you couldn’t get in the good schools (e.g., Dunbar, Lindblom, Whitney Young) your shit was stuck at Englewood or Tilden. I never wanted either; so, I went to the ‘Bar’, poor as hell and academically fragile.

The “Bar” was a mixture of uppity ass students and low-end Ghettomites from the South side. Even today, I know uppity ‘Bar’ graduates, well not that uppity, but some still believe someone should be grateful to pull their chair out for them. Tilden on the other hand was bare knuckle Negroes who I played sport with growing up, Tilden had tough individuals from tough surrounding neighborhoods.  Thus it should be no surprise that they field two of the best athletic programs in Illinois at that time.   Male wrestling and football at Tilden was unprecedented, no one could fuck with them on the field or the square.   The Blue Devils stood above all Chicago High Schools and the State of Illinois for that matter in the late 70-80’s.  Fear was there calling card, pain a ready prescription.  Their two teams were made up from the best Englewood and the surrounding Ghettos had to offer…

(Part 2 to be con’t)

On the field or the mat, the “Blue Devils” were fierce and unapologetic competitors. Hmm, let me put it another way, they kicked plenty ass, each team built by two of the best High School coaches CPS produced…In fact, these two teams remain in my opinion one of the best in their era, hands down…from Marcus Bell, Nate “Slick” Cole, and Jamie “Fatdaddy” Barton…to wrestlers Doyle Harris and Tommy Howard. The Blue Devils strangled the life out of all who dare enter the arena…

Tilden Wrestling vs Chicago Public School System (1974-79)

Tilden Football vs South Shore and Julian High School (1979-80)

Coming soon

Hello crack, goodbye innocence

My Mind is Not a Playground, It’s a Junkyard.

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I do not feel completely alone, but I’m just waiting.  I’m not sure for what.  This street lamp shines on me each night: It does not say much, or can it?  The sky also stares at me as if I possess a language.  Often for hours, we look at each other.  I don’t like it sometimes because it’s so patient, it boils me with solace.  I normally don’t use big words, but some people think it’s ok.  The water soothes my hot feet; I run but not long, my breath has numerous outside appointments.  I wonder when I think/write like this, has my mind broken or retired.   I think both at times; nevertheless, rarely do such thoughts make the pages.  Hold a second my mind is back.  I see its shadow.  Hmm, it’s dirty, “wash yourself, we’ll eat soon.”  My mind runs like an undiscovered stream outside Madison, that’s in Wisconsin.

Mrs. Jones tend to her garden; the stiff spring breeze shoves her physique about.   Once, a vibrant vixen, now she listens to Beethoven and her garden.  From my second floor, I scream!  Mrs. Jones!  She pretends not to hear me.  Mrs. Jones!  I only want her attention to corroborate my presence.  It is sad to live in your mind.  You’re not sure, if you’re alive or, I hate to say this…dead.   In your mind, you run constantly frightened and unaware of reality.  Mrs. Jones!  She can hear me, I know she can, she just ignores me.  My tomato soup is about ready.  I cook it each day at the same time.  The neighbors complain but this is a ruse, they want some.   No!  You had your chance; they scatter from my mind deep inside my consciousness.  They’ll be back for my soup, they always come back.

My dog stares at me as I dodge the cracks in my mind.  A motorbike’s rumble angrily snaps me back to life or fantasy.  I wonder about a woman who rides a motorbike without a partner.  Where is she going?  Does she have an appointment? I’m not sure.  What woman rides a motorbike alone?  Is this reality?  Hmm…the motorbike seems to be turning around, did she hear me thinking.  Hi, why do you ride a motorbike without a partner?  Her stare punches me in the abdomen; I stumble, but regain my balance to see her coming towards me. I run as fast as I can.  A woman who rides a motorbike without a partner seems nice but they scare me.  My dog barks out a melody that says she’ll catch me one day, I don’t normally understand dog talk.  Also, I don’t understand why a woman rides a motorbike alone.

I’ll take one mister, thanks for the ice cream.  It’s hot outside…I run to stay fit.

My mind is exhausted, Mrs. Jones continues to ignore me, my neighbors pretend not to like tomato soup, and a motorbike ejected a woman onto me.  The street light dims the alley lights up, and I look at it from the second floor.  I’m as lonely as it appears, but I make things up.  I create stories when I’m uncertain, afraid.   I write like this when I’m not sure about reality.  I see a man walking toward the tavern, why does he not have a tie about his shirt and suit.  If it’s one thing I think about is why do a man not have a tie about his shirt and suit.  He turns…and stares at me.  I run.

The Invisible Dragon

(unedited and unsupervised)