“Laugh.” Somebody told me that recently. General consensus of fam—blood and bred alike—had it that I was takin’ shit too hard as of late. Too wound up. Too serious. But I can’t front; sometimes shit gets to me. Seemingly insignificant shit, like seeing the front steps of my building littered with blunt-guts, empty beer bottles and Lo Mein cartons.
Like having yet another taxi driver still jet by me when I try and flag him down, Danny Glover’s efforts notwithstanding.
Like reading about yet another taxi driver who got his face blown off by a “male, Black or Hispanic, 5’6” to 5’10”.”
Like seeing how outsiders and infiltrators bleed the shit out of hip-hop, and then try and regurgitate it to those who don’t know better.
Like hearing rap cats on the radio straight runnin’ off at the mouth, but having to take the moral high ground “b’cuz I should know better.”
Like watching the 2000 presidential election vote-count dip and dive by a margin of as little as 200 votes—and personally knowing at least two hundred mu’fuckas who didn’t exercise their right to choose.
Like knowing about half that number who couldn’t exercise their right b’cuz of their status as ex-cons.
Like not having the right b’cuz of my own status as a “resident alien,” who happens to know more about this country’s political structure than a lot of so-called citizens.
Like never getting a call back when I left my full (very Spanish) name on somebody’s voice-mail while on my year-long apartment-hunt.
Like always getting a call back when I don’t.
Like witnessing the increasingly growing glorification of doin’ a stretch.
Like hearing a whole lotta shout-outs to “all the soldiers on lockdown,” and knowing that everybody on lockdown ain’t a fuckin’ soldier.
Like reading indirect disses from annoying punks in wannabe magazines and havin’ to hold back from dusting their fuckin’ jackets because they’ll more than likely run straight to the precinct.
Like seriously disliking those mu’fuckas at the precinct, but knowing that were they to close up shop, the neighborhood savages would run buck-fuckin’-crazier than they do already.
Like bein’ subject to a “stop and search” whenever one of them boys from the precinct feels like I fit a certain profile, while feeling like the cats who mercked Big, Pac and even a few friends of mine got away with it.
Like hearing the same anti-rap rhetoric—over and over and over—about our music contributing to “the destruction of the youth.”
Like hearing the same pro-rap rhetoric—again and again and again—about our music being melancholy and violent b’cuz “that’s all we know.”
Like tossin’ a coupla quarters at the squeegee cat on the corner of Fordham and the Deegan, and wondering how psychologically fucked up he must be to have put himself in that situation.
Like handin’ a dollar to the same squeegee cat on the same corner, and wondering what the fuck is wrong with society that we would let somebody get themselves in that situation.
Like hearing intelligent hoods say they have no choice.
Like knowing that “Brad” or “Heather” will always have a choice.
Like people with dough telling me “money ain’t everything.”
Like people without it telling me the same stupid shit.
Like seeing maaad baby-daddies get shitted on in Family Court.
Like seeing maaad baby-muthas get shitted on by baby-daddies.
Like seeing maaad babies get shitted on by all of the above.
Like—aaah, fuck it; fill in the blank…
So, no, I don’t always wanna laugh. Or smile. Or even get the fuck outta bed. But I do. I got to. I’m sayin’, somebody’s got to.
See, if I can make it a point to get on up out the bed and do something—anything—even something as seemingly insignificant as sweeping my front steps every morning, and then the cat next door swept his, and homegirl two doors down swept hers, before long, we’d all live on the cleanest block in town.
Now that’d be some shit to smile about.
**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
7 comments:
"**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...** "
CEE I FEEL U on that 1, B.
Like my homie Meshack said to me earlier today "niggas know when to get off the Titanic".
LOVE IS LOVE
MJ
http://pyramids2projects.blogspot.com
i like that, but then all the other entries so far have been really good.
well this gave me a reason to smile..... Thanks :)
kape comes walking down to my door,says he has something to show me,what i asked?this shit is gonna kill you.I walk into his crib,meda cb you wanna eat,thats all his mother could say in english,or communicate with me.I loved her cooking,i would knock on the door almost every day around dinner.From behind the dining room cabinet,a 2ft,by 2ft.poster board with a cee 67 unfinished outline,it was like he had a babe ruth baseball card.we stared at it,copied it,i litterally took the ce and added a be to it ,and made my first real piece ,took it to school,i was instantly the king of barton elementary school!
He changed the way every single writer in north philly wrote,that summer everone had jean jackets by him,they had n.y. scripts just like him,they created charactors like him,what an influence one person had on a bunch of no good graffiti writers,i think i saw him on a mtv special about hip hop,im sure hes doing something creative,changed me forever.long live the king cee 67!
im looking for kape,heres my email chris.burke@brandywinerealty.com or check out www.respectmanagement.com hit the music page i am in marker (a rock band).or www.marker.cc if this is cee 67 ,waz up?
dig the entry maN. KEEP your head up...
we here
Post a Comment