tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941988676154620492024-03-13T09:23:33.869-07:00ODIE HAWKINS UNLIMITED!The Official Blog of Odie Hawkins!achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-609316549752517342016-01-23T13:30:00.003-08:002016-01-23T13:30:39.580-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXdRHgtxw3GE7SOVYKjd3qMR3Fy7quCZzDofXAbzPfIDUtxTvl3YEFQtNs1z0S4Ku3-PApPKIHNrxdqrjwH7IUfGvfwE2FLpL5jPAa5EL5V1AydRvXy0_-VlEhUR37VjvqWVQq-MgPv8/s1600/Matador+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXdRHgtxw3GE7SOVYKjd3qMR3Fy7quCZzDofXAbzPfIDUtxTvl3YEFQtNs1z0S4Ku3-PApPKIHNrxdqrjwH7IUfGvfwE2FLpL5jPAa5EL5V1AydRvXy0_-VlEhUR37VjvqWVQq-MgPv8/s320/Matador+2.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>
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<br />
Hey Odiemaniacs,<br />
<br />
Odie has released the sequel to Matador Negro "Azucar" loosely translated "Sugar, The Black Matador". This is Odie's 41st Novel and he is still writing new original stories. <br />
<br />
Jayceeachoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-56738576584627783602015-07-12T16:45:00.000-07:002015-07-12T16:45:02.045-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdr1RZlDAcVBSUADdCX-SmgI0LsUR6YZ1vnXkStkuOXgfjNwUhKJ8LfDmvZ_eiTdskelqr0-0u9LfytTfexkECv8HZd6J3T9qv5FmVsGB355uv1OsGr3dOrUMNdwWSsMqxDTJi3Xn_8DE/s1600/10612783_947987711883754_5788097415698553523_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdr1RZlDAcVBSUADdCX-SmgI0LsUR6YZ1vnXkStkuOXgfjNwUhKJ8LfDmvZ_eiTdskelqr0-0u9LfytTfexkECv8HZd6J3T9qv5FmVsGB355uv1OsGr3dOrUMNdwWSsMqxDTJi3Xn_8DE/s320/10612783_947987711883754_5788097415698553523_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Hey Odiemaniacs!<br />
<br />
Limited Edition Re-issues of Odie's Classic Novel "Sweet Peter Deeder" are still available but going fast. <br />
<br />
Large Print, Pen and Pixel graphics cover, signed and numbered and limited to 100 copies.<br />
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<br />
$50.00 Investment<br />
<br />
Paypal<br />
<br />
BE Sure to like the Odie Hawkins Facebook page.<br />
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Jaycee Admin.achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-1580970922804793762014-02-27T16:15:00.003-08:002014-02-27T16:15:58.595-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_FgG1Cc9wn06poH9goeBf3ghmEISxaPtDTZsSlZqtw7pW2MWfjFkss-dcp9OKOyON9KdLtN21r-jj4aNM0LIqpSNyQlfphLEMzPqKid1SkdK0oauIDMoFGPvy1beUHDxh_b64UdLdNM/s1600/get-attachment.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_FgG1Cc9wn06poH9goeBf3ghmEISxaPtDTZsSlZqtw7pW2MWfjFkss-dcp9OKOyON9KdLtN21r-jj4aNM0LIqpSNyQlfphLEMzPqKid1SkdK0oauIDMoFGPvy1beUHDxh_b64UdLdNM/s1600/get-attachment.aspx.jpeg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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Hey Odiemaniacs!<br />
<br />
You can now get your Limited Edition copy of the Holloway House Classic Re-issue here through Pay Pal. <br />
<br />
Sweet Peter Deeder Re-issued and limited to 100 signed and numbered copies by the Modern Day Jean Genet.<br />
<br />
$50.00 plus shipping and handling. <br />
<br />
Jaycee<br />
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Don't forget to go to the Odie Hawkins Fan Page on Facebook and the LIKE the page. Once you have purchased your book send an email to Soulsticepoetry@yahoo.com with your name and mailing address.<br />
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Please note that Shipping, handling and Taxes are calculated for the Continental United States. International Rates subject to change.<br />
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Jayceeachoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-30721285175890870292013-12-11T21:25:00.001-08:002013-12-11T21:25:37.501-08:00BISHOP DON JUAN SHOW - CO- HOSTED BY KRAZY 04-20-13<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/MVSccLbv__o" width="459"></iframe>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-73675040333802443912013-12-11T21:24:00.001-08:002013-12-11T21:24:33.803-08:00Odie speaks 3 Sweets<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/6_2Phj-TUYE" width="459"></iframe>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-45362297523880427032013-12-11T21:22:00.003-08:002013-12-11T21:22:55.276-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhDxH3da99EWFIYgKUDtErEmHiPECTf4OZqoCdqTx5hUtv0Jk3Q_smCKpwUSZ9dc3rp6vgMNkp7b9P6CzOG-H3iSTYc7UessTZ_NRz7vhaZypm4fwx6xuvz891R9My8V0JSYcL5ipKPM/s1600/get-attachment.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhDxH3da99EWFIYgKUDtErEmHiPECTf4OZqoCdqTx5hUtv0Jk3Q_smCKpwUSZ9dc3rp6vgMNkp7b9P6CzOG-H3iSTYc7UessTZ_NRz7vhaZypm4fwx6xuvz891R9My8V0JSYcL5ipKPM/s320/get-attachment.aspx.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Hey Odiemaniacs!<br />
<br />
100 signed and numbered copies of the Holloway House "Pimpin" Classic "Sweet Peter Deeder" has been re-issued by Kosmic Muffin Publishing for the low price of $50.00. New Glossy Pen and Pixel front and back cover. <br />
<br />
The perfect Anytime gift for any lover of classic pulp fiction or just a lover of great work.<br />
<br />
Contact Jassonn Williams via facebook and like the Odie Hawkins Facebook fan page.<br />
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Jayachoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-63840633117147754362011-09-08T09:16:00.000-07:002011-09-08T09:16:26.495-07:00Odie Checks In!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcxHv67VhYNq2dHSilTm0nJUz87TwrWmCJLzH22QTd4JWjE_Z7wwnAhJKpZl5-r-RfW2hPxPO_RM649aj7tC5ZrKO3mQek7u7ibDXZfbiLUiITscG4iU_TTefVm4_qbLkOb0DArSLyIQo/s1600/Odie+doing+poetry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcxHv67VhYNq2dHSilTm0nJUz87TwrWmCJLzH22QTd4JWjE_Z7wwnAhJKpZl5-r-RfW2hPxPO_RM649aj7tC5ZrKO3mQek7u7ibDXZfbiLUiITscG4iU_TTefVm4_qbLkOb0DArSLyIQo/s320/Odie+doing+poetry.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><strong>April is National Poetry and Jazz celebration month.</strong> When I think of the local libraries alot of things come to mind. Overdue library books, the Dewey Decimal system, free Internet but not Afro Cuban Rhythms, Poetry readings and Hot Women! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG71Lr-4Z98Z-WtCjUWzFknhvH_k4F4ntvHFDZWAIiZTCfEUwdZGduPCOhCNDVEUGwjCYeNBbsD9CLwGvqYYldwId50RLiFvXYKz6VwrJZRCYjTxP0CI5okm9nn2snK4o7p0RYRVtjazg/s1600/lol+022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG71Lr-4Z98Z-WtCjUWzFknhvH_k4F4ntvHFDZWAIiZTCfEUwdZGduPCOhCNDVEUGwjCYeNBbsD9CLwGvqYYldwId50RLiFvXYKz6VwrJZRCYjTxP0CI5okm9nn2snK4o7p0RYRVtjazg/s320/lol+022.jpg" width="180" /></a></div> <em>Hot Women???</em> Yeah, but back to the Odie and the poetry. <strong>Novelist Odie Hawkins</strong> stopped by the <strong>Long Beach Main Library</strong> this month as it honored Afrikan American Novelists. <strong>Mayor Bob Foster</strong> stopped by, <strong>100 Black Men Long Beach Branch President Ahmed Saafir</strong> was there and a host of other Authors. It was very enjoyable.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK-pVHGwqAfdUuA6vKZqZndpcBCsmZhkOwz7ed7v-mhfNr9EPpGrJiTZw3lyByGLL4KbGHyW-oapf4L53LVFJLkfvHnaQLfYHdrnB5IVlnD_C3T33Sef2x7oCm81RDOt1V1FBNrIlBvno/s1600/lol+289.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK-pVHGwqAfdUuA6vKZqZndpcBCsmZhkOwz7ed7v-mhfNr9EPpGrJiTZw3lyByGLL4KbGHyW-oapf4L53LVFJLkfvHnaQLfYHdrnB5IVlnD_C3T33Sef2x7oCm81RDOt1V1FBNrIlBvno/s320/lol+289.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong> A Photo in True Revolution Watts Writers Workshop Vets Frank Williams and Odie Hawkins</strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The<strong> Long Beach Main Library</strong> does a nice job of keeping a well stocked section of Afrikan American fiction that goes beyond <strong>Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou and Richard Wright. </strong>The Library stocks Romance from <strong>Estelle Banks, Robyn Morrison, Horror from LA Banks, Shelia Jackson, Street Fiction from Omar Tyree, Donald Goines and Iceberg Slim </strong>and alll manner of titles but most of all they have an extensive collection of the over twenty <em><strong>Odie Hawkins novels</strong></em> from ranging from the <strong>Classic Holloway House</strong> catalog to the most current titles such as <strong>"The Curse, Lady Bliss and Bonobo Bliss. </strong><br />
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<strong>BE Prayerful! BE Mindful! BE Careful! </strong><br />
<strong>Jaycee</strong>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-31097028335344883312011-07-08T12:37:00.000-07:002011-07-08T12:37:37.655-07:00Bright Shadows Coming Soon!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQV1xOsNQjqhljghZwTxK8A-OyAwmc88RG_faDBce79ndqNwxN8sC_huUL8Ltfw6s5zyjg5Zxbey-99yQ8vLwaccePFFS4VE2axuHj9DxKkEET_lD7rKcuCPVgt3MI50W7maDDsy5A1o/s1600/lol+298.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQV1xOsNQjqhljghZwTxK8A-OyAwmc88RG_faDBce79ndqNwxN8sC_huUL8Ltfw6s5zyjg5Zxbey-99yQ8vLwaccePFFS4VE2axuHj9DxKkEET_lD7rKcuCPVgt3MI50W7maDDsy5A1o/s320/lol+298.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><em>Bright Shadows is Coming Soon! </em></strong></div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-85889874291260297472011-04-29T07:48:00.000-07:002011-04-29T07:48:39.267-07:00Odie Hawkins and Nedra Wheeler at AC Bilbrew Library April 30, 2011<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6r79Fsf630ehIz4lLXmg3Xsvg3CntPupenYAsY_hoj1wyAMMDALCSEy55FwrgNlhQZDwlSBXML1J5Y5lerYy0z6106unCe6otsR4ER_PITgfpSttbK9CF8N3S6_AkbOrQ50-I8waoMk/s1600/4005832391_cd0789de28_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6r79Fsf630ehIz4lLXmg3Xsvg3CntPupenYAsY_hoj1wyAMMDALCSEy55FwrgNlhQZDwlSBXML1J5Y5lerYy0z6106unCe6otsR4ER_PITgfpSttbK9CF8N3S6_AkbOrQ50-I8waoMk/s320/4005832391_cd0789de28_o.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBhmlLigg3LMeXXjx3VaeM6YpCHQe_eo3OS63Am7pObdyRtjYeBkwYHa78dhLy9qtPaQmh7v1dejFjmSfc_A4TVnbrWaqoqMAsWKbEQkJ6X6BMjqsUFhQYddy_v2vJtT4BHGtqiuEUNx4/s1600/432334050_2fb8984918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBhmlLigg3LMeXXjx3VaeM6YpCHQe_eo3OS63Am7pObdyRtjYeBkwYHa78dhLy9qtPaQmh7v1dejFjmSfc_A4TVnbrWaqoqMAsWKbEQkJ6X6BMjqsUFhQYddy_v2vJtT4BHGtqiuEUNx4/s320/432334050_2fb8984918.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59-18SMxkk631opOamvcTS5moYi4-rBnRf3BEryc64HG3sO0D3vp8wmDQfCe4pyy8YiemGBSl0qVdzCG5KCcGI5sP01095iOPChW9hvB2DdjbhoDM8EuYmM3RnpBduyvQRiZAppr02go/s1600/Nedname%252520sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59-18SMxkk631opOamvcTS5moYi4-rBnRf3BEryc64HG3sO0D3vp8wmDQfCe4pyy8YiemGBSl0qVdzCG5KCcGI5sP01095iOPChW9hvB2DdjbhoDM8EuYmM3RnpBduyvQRiZAppr02go/s320/Nedname%252520sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKnL0CGAF9XpqUwn3SWPeehXXGrHGdlgSvsDUUCQD0C5ZtnCFUdMj-en4igLfMzUCN1JjX2NZB2CihmjvuDy2yTWikUy309Ir4nT_sH6nyXuPzMbA9bh4Y3SbBMrawQ83TiaBGwpsuN4/s1600/oh.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKnL0CGAF9XpqUwn3SWPeehXXGrHGdlgSvsDUUCQD0C5ZtnCFUdMj-en4igLfMzUCN1JjX2NZB2CihmjvuDy2yTWikUy309Ir4nT_sH6nyXuPzMbA9bh4Y3SbBMrawQ83TiaBGwpsuN4/s1600/oh.bmp" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpDQLTS_c_KAWO6C6pzqlybD8NXaGUvO5sNTCezSycIrkU6tYDVZEIbN68PTABaCBnM1TwwSmQpm5Akd8UAq4ejvtrOM5VFfz6PJlPFVE8L7KbF0g_1c4OeX02hVs80mP-KW4_IJ4NBE/s1600/poetry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpDQLTS_c_KAWO6C6pzqlybD8NXaGUvO5sNTCezSycIrkU6tYDVZEIbN68PTABaCBnM1TwwSmQpm5Akd8UAq4ejvtrOM5VFfz6PJlPFVE8L7KbF0g_1c4OeX02hVs80mP-KW4_IJ4NBE/s320/poetry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> The <strong>AC Bilbrew Library</strong> in South Los Angeles, CA will present <strong>Jazz and Poetry as part of the Celebration of Afrikan American Poetry. </strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><strong><em>THE CELEBRATION OF AFRIKAN AMERICAN POETRY! </em></strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><strong><em>THE CELEBRATION OF AFRIKAN AMERICAN POETRY! </em></strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><strong><em>THE CELEBRATION OF AFRIKAN AMERICAN POETRY! </em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
<em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>THE CELEBRATION OF AFRIKAN AMERICAN POETRY! </em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
<em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>THE CELEBRATION OF AFRIKAN AMERICAN POETRY! </em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
<em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>THE CELEBRATION OF AFRIKAN AMERICAN POETRY! </em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
<em></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>THE CELEBRATION OF AFRIKAN AMERICAN POETRY!</strong> </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em></em> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, you got Jazz great <strong>Nedra Wheeler</strong>, singing and playing stand up bass. You got The Underground Master <strong>Odie Hawkins</strong> performing his poetry for the first time in 25 Years! This is a MUST See! </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Where: AC Bilbrew Library </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 150 E. El Segundo Blvd.</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Los Angeles, CA 90061-2356</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Phone: (310) 538-3350</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When: Saturday, April 30, 2011 </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Time: 1:30 PM </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Cost: Open to the Public</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-49698132556639000712011-04-04T09:20:00.000-07:002011-04-04T09:20:59.660-07:00Black and Brown on the Blue Line Chapters 10-16<strong>Good Afternoon, I hope that you are enjoying the serial novelette "Black and Brown on the Blue Line". I would lke to present Chapters 10-16. Odie</strong><br />
<strong><br />
</strong><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>CHAPTER TEN</strong></div><br />
<strong><em>Moments in the Osu Cemetery</em></strong><br />
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A soft wall of silence surrounded him the moment he stepped across that supernatural threshold that divided the Osu Cemetery from the other world,<br />
<br />
Across the road thousands of people had moaned, screamed, commiserated with two soccer teams in the National Stadium, the day before. He could look across the curving roadways that led to the elaborately structured government buildings, and imagine how much pain and joy had been suffered in both places.<br />
<br />
Familiar names flickered up at him through the dappled splashes of sunlight; <strong>Appiah, Kotey, Lartey, Hlovor, Hamabata, Forsdon, Amegashie, Steiner, Reindorf, Brew, Azigi, Nkrumah, Ashi, Brown, Seyiamah, Amartefio, Hayes, Quaye, Annan, Sackey, Wiafe, Wreh, Yankah.</strong><br />
<br />
The sleepy men who "guarded" the cemetery saluted him with drowsy waves and silent greetings.<br />
<br />
“0, you're here again? Hello. So, how is it?”<br />
<br />
He returned their greetings, with equally lazy greetings... <em>“So, you’re sleeping, huh? Well, why not? Who needs to be awake in a cemetery?”</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
But he was telling a bold lie. He felt a sense of awareness in the Osu Cemetery that he had never felt in his life. He was forced to conceal this sense of internal ebullience. What would people think if they saw an African-American skipping through the cemetery as though there was something in the place that turned him on? It was a complex joy. The tranquility was usually triggered by a morning, or mornings that were never tranquil. He had discovered the Osu Cemetery... the tranquility of the Osu Cemetery, by accident.<br />
<br />
One midmorning, after a serious Capoeira exercise workout in the steam humidity depths of the National Stadium, he stumbled out of the wrong exit and wandered across three lanes of errant traffic, into the Osu Cemetery.<br />
<br />
Several of the large, above the ground rooted trees, beckoned him to their juicy shade. He chose the odd looking one to the left, went to squat on tree fingers that were perfectly molded to his back.<br />
<br />
The sweat of the workout, the exhaustion of dealing with everyday life in Ghana, the mysterious headache that was threatening to become a malaria episode all seemed to be sapped from his body by the strength of the tree.<br />
<br />
After thirty minutes of <em>"treetment,”</em> he slowly stood and stared at the tree, from its accommodating trunk, to the gigantic head that blotted out the Equatorial Sun. He turned from staring at this tree, to the trees that filled the cemetery.<br />
<br />
The next day, after his workout. It didn't require much effort to bring up a sweat in Ghana. He stepped across the threshold for the first time. The men who were "guarding" the cemetery looked at him with indulgent surprise. He was obviously an Obruni who had discovered something of interest in the Osu Cemetery. O!!<br />
<br />
By now, the names on the slabs of concrete (Appiah, Kotey, Lartey, Hlovor, Hamabata, Forsdon, Amegashie, Steiner, Reindorf, Brew, Azigi, Nkrumah, Ashi, Brown, Seyiamah, Amartefio, Hayes, Quaye, Annan, Sackey, Wiafe, Wreh, Yankah) and the trees that air conditioned the dead seemed to be familiar strangers.<br />
<br />
He strolled up and down the aisles, blatantly fabricating life histories and short stories. It was unavoidable.<br />
<strong>Grace Appiah</strong>, the youngest daughter in a family of seven brothers, must have dealt with a couple serious, romantic situations in her life. Maybe she had a foreign love affair.<br />
<br />
<strong>Kotey</strong>, a woman of spirit, substance and light, an entrepreneur. Wasn't she the owner of the Shalizar Bar in Osu? Descendants? Wasn't she the victim of inflation and a wounded heart?<br />
<br />
<strong>Ben Lartey,</strong> one of the greatest actors in the world, who said <em>"To hell with Britain if they don't discover me heah, I certainly won't go there!"</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Grace Hlovor,</strong> the professional maid; "I am a maid, I know what my job is, I know what is expected of me and I am pleased with myself."<br />
<br />
<strong>Hamabata,</strong> the Fulani broadcaster, on the<strong> Ghana Broadcasting Corporation</strong> honor roll. The circumcised Muslim woman who sought to raise Ghanaian women's consciousness.<br />
<br />
<strong>Forson,</strong> the peteshie drinker. "I had one too many shots of “kill me quick!"<br />
<br />
<strong>Amegashie.</strong> My God in Heaven, did this woman raise the educational consciousness of the people of Ghana or not? Yes, she did. It's in the history books.<br />
<br />
<strong>Paul Steiner</strong>, the Professor. What he did, over there, behind that petrol stations, is incredible. He taught Ga and he taught respect for Ghana.<br />
<br />
<strong>Rama Brew,</strong> an actress. Ahhhh, but much more than that. She took reality to another level because she was a step above real.<br />
<br />
<strong>Azigi.</strong> Well, he could've been the best Capoeirista in Ghana, but he was a serious negligent and loved the flash rather then the substance.<br />
<br />
<strong>Nkrumah</strong> was the best and the hippest taxi driver Ghana has ever produced. The problem is the <strong>C.I.A</strong>. realized that and had him poisoned. Or shot. Well, whichever, he doesn't drive anymore.<br />
<br />
<strong>Ben Ashi.</strong> they didn't discover him 'til it was tooooo late. Ashi was in possession of spiritual information that he had managed to computerize.<br />
<br />
<strong>Brown</strong> tried to cheat himself aboard an American deal, and failed because ho didn't really know what the Deal was.<br />
<br />
The student <strong>Sekyiamah</strong>. She was the brightest and best of her generation. Too bad she died so soon.<br />
<br />
<strong>Arthur J.M.R. Amartefio,</strong> destined for greatness, everyone knew it but <strong>Arthur J.M.R. Amartefio</strong>.<br />
<br />
<strong>Mr. Hayes,</strong> the crippled barber. He lived the life he preached.<br />
<br />
<strong>Kofi Annan,</strong> who tried to put the world back together and almost succeeded.<br />
<br />
Here lies <strong>KoJo Yankah</strong>, a hero.<br />
<br />
He settled himself against the thick trunk of one of his favorite trees and stared, from the mossy shade of the trees in the cemetery, to the blistering scenes beyond the threshold of the cemetery. For a few moments he wondered if he were dead.<br />
<br />
The dimensions were surrealistic. Inside the cemetery there was peace, stillness, cool shadows. And fifty yards away there was strife, heat, disease, animal passions. Why would anyone want to be out there rather than in here?<br />
<br />
His question caused him to smile. Only dead people want to be in here. Well then, what the hell am I doing in here? The compound questions broadened his smile.<br />
<br />
He look around the cemetery, taking in everything; a mother hen and chicks, scratching here and there for food. Two men slowly digging a grave, a hundred yards to his left. A woman with a child walking down the center aisle of the cemetery.<br />
<br />
By now, after weeks of pausing to rest, to think, perhaps to meditate, the names and the slabs of marble were familiar strangers to him.<br />
<br />
They inspired silent monologues; on this planet we are all searching for a way to know The Unknowable. Competition has given us different names for this search. Buddhists, Catholics, Jews, Hindi, Muslims, Protestants, Searchers, Santeria...<br />
<br />
He felt no fear of the snake as it made its weaving way five yards away from his feet. A beautiful pattern, green and black, not too large but probably poisonous.<br />
<br />
Well, I'm already in the graveyard. He tilted his head back and stared at the branches and leaves of the tree that gave him such a cool place to relax in.<br />
<br />
Just the simple things really matter, a cool drink of water, shade from the hot sun, a smile from a friendly person, the innocent laughter of a child.<br />
<br />
It was a gorgeous morning, the sky overcast with blue grey clouds. He sprawled on the marbled top of Kofi's large tombstone and stared up at the sky.<br />
<br />
He had pushed himself a bit doing his workout in the stadium by running up and down the stadium steps ten times. Ten times, five hundred steps. He felt his thighs tingling from the exertion. Man was designed for exercise, for running, jumping, moving around. What does it feel like to be immobilized?<br />
<br />
The fine droplets of the rain awakened him from his soft nap. The rain was a soft kiss, a mist being sprayed. He sat on the side of the tomb and looked at the people beyond the threshold of the cemetery, buying, selling, working, playing, living, enjoying, the spray.<br />
<br />
He closed his eyes and pouted his lips skyward, to receive the misting as a kiss. He had been in Ghana long enough to know that all of the Ghanaian languages had many names for the types of rain that came down during the May September rainy season. They would have to call this the kiss mist. The mist was so warm and sweet that he felt his shirt dampen and dry up on his back. A beautiful rain. He felt the urge to talk to someone about it. But, there was no one there. Well, there was no one that he could talk to.<br />
And the day he had strolled into the cemetery, (forgetting that it was a Saturday, a big funeral day in Ghana), and found himself engulfed by a funeral memorial party. He could tell that they had come to commemorate the death of someone, but he had walked into the cemetery too late to see who had been honored.<br />
<br />
Clusters of people in funeral clothes (possibly considered unfunereal in other places) circulated through the cemetery. They obviously knew more than one person buried there. The old man in his rich cloth, with the rich smell of palm wine on his breath, spoke to him.<br />
<br />
"My son, do you have relatives buried here?”<br />
<br />
The African American in him responded,<em> "Sir, I have relatives buried all over Africa.”</em><br />
<br />
The old man readjusted his cloth and nodded wisely. He wasn't certain that the old man clearly understood what he meant. The White man, Yellow man, Black man, Brown man, Native American stuff seemed so far away in the cemetery. And drive by shootings, ritual suicides by space cadets, Wall Street manipulations, the C.I.A. the price of gold, of butter, of all commodities, of all the drummed up dramas that insecure people had designed to make their lives, and the lives of all the people they touched miserable. None of it meant anything in the cemetery. The thought made him sit up straight. Why not have the people who were determined to kill each other meet in the cemetery to discuss their differences?<br />
<br />
It seemed perfectly logical to him, they would all have to reach the same conclusion; we 'nay not be able to live together, peacefully, but we will definitely be in the same place peacefully, if we kill each other.<br />
<br />
The thoughts, the ideas, the notions filtered through the trees, landed on his head, never allowed him to forget that he was being advised by voices he couldn't hear and faces he couldn't see. No problem. He knew he would be with them in the future. For the moment, he was simply spending moments with them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>CHAPTER ELEVEN</strong></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIUdgG_ZJ9jVKT12kClYIgGJuXyXCu1L8L__muju6I42d1IbpUZgfVQq3rl4f0mP2MkqZZZUbTwEIKhOaAtk2LcnOQaSFi_W0y0uGom-ltPsR3UztGtUq3zaIseD9EJ7H6_OGqdgPBGI4/s1600/accra_beach__barbados_by_trichocyst-d38g3ew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIUdgG_ZJ9jVKT12kClYIgGJuXyXCu1L8L__muju6I42d1IbpUZgfVQq3rl4f0mP2MkqZZZUbTwEIKhOaAtk2LcnOQaSFi_W0y0uGom-ltPsR3UztGtUq3zaIseD9EJ7H6_OGqdgPBGI4/s320/accra_beach__barbados_by_trichocyst-d38g3ew.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<strong>Accra</strong><br />
<br />
Accra is supposed to be the capital of Ghana, West Africa, but I'm sure that a mistake has been made. Accra might be more than that, it might be a frame of reference for a kaleidoscopic state of urban hallucination. Accra, Ghana, a kaleidoscopic hallucination. Mmmmm, good place to start. Being a part of it does not make it any less fantastic; realism becomes chained to the surreal, and therein we have the beginning of an understanding (Rastafarian use of the word) about how to describe life in this place.<br />
<br />
Buying/selling, re buying/re selling. Perhaps three fourths of the people who live in this city are trying to sell something, mercilessly. On some days, everyone seems to be trying to sell something to everybody else.<br />
Arbitrarily; con men/women attempt to give those who are illusion oriented whatever they feel they need, to feel “complete.”<br />
<br />
The slicksters are quite overbalanced by the beggars, people who are so completely done in by life, that they can't imagine taking themselves to another level. Or maybe they don't need to. After a few months of walking up and down, I became focused on two beggars. One of them was a woman who looked as though her limbs had developed in spider fashion. She was a daughter of the dust, actually.<br />
<br />
The other source of my enchantment was a woman who had leprosy. She frequently claimed donations from me by sneaking up behind me, to present her noseless face for my intimate inspection. I screamed a couple of times and gave her thousands of cedis on each occasion.<br />
<br />
What/why was I giving her money?<br />
<br />
A) Because her nose, fingers and toes had rotted off?<br />
<br />
B) Because she made me think of my late, great, Aunt Mary?<br />
<br />
C) Because she was so clearly a representative of all that I was being exposed to? I was quite certain, with her visible signs of disease, that she probably was not spending her begged income on well chilled bottles of ABC. <br />
<br />
I wasn't so certain about "the spider woman,” the daughter of the dust. Passing through her querencia, I was frequently surprised to see her having her hair braided. Why did that annoy me? Why shouldn't a woman who happened to be a beggar cripple have her hair braided? I had to let go of a few notions. Just because a woman has a body like a spider doesn't mean that she isn't a woman, or doesn't want to behave like a woman. The afternoon I strolled past her, my mind on a bunch of other thoughts, was a feverishly recalled day for months to come.<br />
<br />
<em>"Hello,"</em> she spoke to me. <em>"Hello,"</em> I replied, and took careful note of the two young children playing around and about her spidery limbs.<br />
<br />
<em>"These are my children,”</em> she said as she slithered into a defensive coil. Her children?<br />
<br />
How could a severely crippled woman, hobbling along under the power of her knees and knuckles, have children? How could she get pregnant? Who was the man who made love to her?<br />
<br />
My mind was fast forwarded and reversed at the same time. Maybe it was the Sun. Or the malaria or something else that I have been infected by, that I couldn't identify. For days, I was bombarded by those kinds of rhythms. For days I tried to think logically about the things that whirled around me. There were times when I succeeded for a moment, and then I was forced to relinquish that small victory by something overloading it. I flowed with the flow of Accra, finally, not being intellectual, but careful, observant and feeling.<br />
<br />
In the middle of the stench that piles layers of negative thoughts in front of us, there are flower smiles, magical body gestures that convey a sense of human warmth that cannot be found anywhere else in the world, especially if you are an African American.<br />
<br />
(A word of caution. Many Ghanaians, many Africans are not totally hip to the Diasporans. We may have a certain look, but they discount that and buy into culture.)<br />
<br />
If your Twi, Ga or Ewe isn’t up to snuff, then you will probably have to suffer with the ridiculous concept of being an "Obruni,” an outsider, a European. Some African Americans have been so offended by being labeled "Europeans" that they've not made an effort to return to the Motherland.<br />
<br />
(There's much more to be said about this peculiar phenomenon, at another time.)<br />
<br />
We can put ourselves on Pause, from moment to moment, recognizing Fathers, Mothers, Sisters, Brothers, Uncles, Aunts, Cousins, friends, neighbors, enemies. And they see those same figures in us, but the “Obruni" thing gets in their way and makes it difficult to claim kinship to us, in the way that we claim kinship to them.<br />
Accra brings up all this, all of these things. Strangely, in this place where commerce means everything, sin is not easily found. It is not unknown, but it is not flaunted either, O.K.? Commerce in many places means selling the human body (sexually); that is not the way it works in Accra.<br />
<br />
There is a proper order of things, which may be attributed to the Ashanti domination (pre-British) rather than anything colonial. During the heat of the day (starting at full daylight) breakfast is sold; waakji, tea, breads, peanuts, pineapples, fruits. No sex.<br />
<br />
(A word of caution: The Ghanaian beers, ABC, Club and Stan, have been substituted for what can be called breakfast, with a number of traditional men ... buying into the idea.) Those who are addicted to Akpeteshie (a profoundly low grain gin that may be West African Liquid Crack) will have their drink whenever they will have it. They are the vanguard of the dope plague.<br />
<br />
But, so far, no one is selling ass for Akpeteshie (1997. Maybe it's changed). Sex is reserved for the night and there is plenty of it. Of course, in a third world country (Chairman Mao's designation), with as many smart people as there are in Ghana, someone figured it all out years ago; sex sells better than Kente cloth.<br />
<br />
There is no competition, of course, because the Kente cloth market closes down well before the sex market on King Road opens. Corruption and commerce. Can we separate corruption from commerce? Well, we'll try. But first, in Ghanaian terms, we’ll have to define each one, and which is which.<br />
<br />
Corruption, in Ghanaian terms, means "dash," a little something that you present to whomever is going to help you get something done. Formerly, as the historian socio people tell us, there was a person ("the Atsiame/Linguist”) who was responsible for making the citizen's needs/urges/desires known to the uppers and vice versa. The European takeover knocked the "Linguist" into a cocked hat. Now anyone who feels that he/she can facilitate matters can contribute to the corruption by simply contributing money. And not promising anything.<br />
<br />
Formerly, the Okyeame (Atsiame) was a solid figure in the pantheon. He was responsible for doing something, and he did, because his reputation depended on it. Nowadays, when any underpaid policeman is able to demand a two thousand cedi “tip” at the nearest roadblock, the notion of an "Atsiame"/"Okyeame” levels corruption to the ordinary level. Commerce, driven by corruption, takes us to another level.<br />
<br />
Commerce, driven by corruption may be equated to wholesale mendacity, or to be more down to Earth, outright lying. Accra, on the business level is bursting at the seams with liars. No one is expected to tell the truth, if they can get away with lying. Of course, this is a fact of business in most parts of the world; in Accra, Ghana, it is a finely honed art.<br />
<br />
<em>"So, Kwame, we have a deal. You have promised to pay me one million cedis tomorrow.”</em><br />
<br />
<em>"Yes, I promise.”</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Tomorrow comes, for example.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>"Well, Kwame, it is now tomorrow. You have the one million?”</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
"I did not say that I would pay one million cedis. I said that I would promise to pay you if I had the cedis. I'm still chasing the cedis.”<br />
<br />
And so on and so forth. Now then, in the middle of all this chicanery, there lurk honest people whose word is their bond, whose every action is governed by a strict code of ethics. The pendulum swings and sways from one to the other, giving the bite of life in the city a rough edge, sometimes a slippery slop, always something interesting.<br />
<br />
There is a kind of PMS rhythm to all of this, an off rhythm that feels like a soloist soloing with an orchestra of soloists.<br />
<br />
And it goes on from sun up 'til sundown. After the sun goes down the rhythms change. There is a night life filled with stories of young girls from small villages who have discovered how much easier it is to make their cedis, selling themselves, rather than selling oranges. Want to hear a story?<br />
<br />
They also tell lies.<br />
<br />
<strong>Lina Sappong</strong><br />
<br />
It would be hard to imagine that a Lina Sappong could exist in Africa. For the Eurocentrists (that's not really a put down word) she might've been considered a Ghanaian "Holly Golightly," minus the ballet shoes in the 'fridge.<br />
<br />
I met her, forced fed, one might say, at the outdoor screening of an incredibly boring European film at the Goethe Institute in Osu, Accra.<br />
<br />
I was impressed by the nonchalant way she left her purse in her seat, midway through the pretentious cinematic nonsense we had wandered into, to do whatever she wandered off to do.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, for some vague social reason, we were channeled past a couple tables loaded with Guinness stouts, to discuss the stuff we had just sat through.<br />
<br />
Lina reappeared, snatched her purse from the seat (it wouldn't've been there that long in Chicago) and joined me in the Guinness reception line. Her nostrils were flared for some unknown reason.<br />
<br />
Sexy woman, that's the first impression. Sexiness oozed from her pores. It had more to do with the look in her eyes (layered by black horn rims), than her shape.<br />
<br />
She wasn’t what you would call "a fine woman," but she did have a well shaped figure. The long jersey knit dress gave her a smooth look.<br />
<br />
"So, what did you think of what you saw?”<br />
<br />
She stared at me as though I had said something dirty. Or did the look mean that she wished I had said something dirty? I would become quite familiar with that ambivalent look in the months ahead.<br />
<br />
“Oh, it was not too bad.” ,<br />
<br />
(No one outside of Ghana is ever going to be able to deal with the immense number of tonal qualities that can be lavished on “Oh!”)<br />
<br />
Now what? We did a clockwise, counterclockwise stroll, our Guinnesses held at port arms, and wound up in front of each other again. A staggered, spacy kind of conversation started in earnest.<br />
<br />
She came to see the films at the Goethe Institute every Thursday because they were "windows to the outside world."<br />
<br />
It was my first time. And I wasn't impressed.<br />
<br />
We fumbled to discover what we had in common. Beyond what seemed to be our ability to chat about ordinary things, it was difficult to determine what we had in common.<br />
<br />
Some of it had to do with this opaque quality about her, and some of it had to do with me making an easy effort to preserve my cool.<br />
<br />
Within another time frame it would have been quite easy to take matters to a "your place or my place" level, if the vibe had warranted that kind of honesty.<br />
<br />
But we weren't there anymore; we were in the bitter grips of a sexual plague ... alas, 1992, and only the foolish and the crazy were into making daredevil propositions without doing a lot of screening.<br />
<br />
Time to go, the Germans were putting us out. “Raus! Rau nuit ihnen’ raus!”<br />
<br />
I strolled to the parking lot with her. Surprise! She had a car. First woman under thirty years of age that I had met in Ghana with a car. Was she rich? Well, maybe not, but the car was certainly an indication that she had a more than average income coming in from someplace.<br />
<br />
We agreed to meet again, the following Thursday, unless it rained (it was the rainy season), and if it did, we'd meet the Thursday after.<br />
<br />
I strolled through Osu's rutted roads after our handshake and datemaking. We were going to meet again next Thursday, unless it rained. We were going to meet again, for what?<br />
<br />
I spent the following week puzzling over that question. We were not planning a platonic relationship, that seemed quite obvious. But if there was going to be a label placed on us, what would it be?<br />
<br />
In Ghana, women still hold the reins concerning what the nature of a relationship between a man and a woman is going to be, appearances to the contrary.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFKeb_yU9yPs0c1NBbS_3gtC72s61fDAcZxaghDpb-8ZPaLbYyIT81JZfhsG8IVWISoHbt_6YD1PZBWSepXgO4bvH1VHCLoDhpI5_vIC1Jj50cxoiphtlvYueRX7uKIYJJM0N9EbCHs4/s1600/169075_1771853945503_1513915877_31845410_150307_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFKeb_yU9yPs0c1NBbS_3gtC72s61fDAcZxaghDpb-8ZPaLbYyIT81JZfhsG8IVWISoHbt_6YD1PZBWSepXgO4bvH1VHCLoDhpI5_vIC1Jj50cxoiphtlvYueRX7uKIYJJM0N9EbCHs4/s320/169075_1771853945503_1513915877_31845410_150307_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div align="center"><strong>Photo used courtesy of the Web</strong></div><br />
At the lowest level, the pussy-for a price lady makes it plain that that is what it's going to be.<br />
<br />
The "girlfriend" to the unmarried man. The "girlfriend" to the married man. The “mistress/second wife.” The "married woman/mistress.” And on and so forth,<br />
<br />
The subtle fringes and flows are carefully tended; it keeps everybody “properly” oriented.<br />
<br />
Which means that I had to iron my emotions out and determine what we were going to be to each other. I had to assume that it was on me. The "game" indicates that the man pays for the game, but the women determines how it's going to be played.<br />
<br />
Well, she wasn't married, I could assume that because I had met her by herself at a movie. That wasn't a married woman's thing to do.<br />
<br />
My status was clear; I was a mature, single, African-American male, back home again, who was not expected to be celibate.<br />
<br />
By Thursday I had figured it all out. I was going to ask Lina to be my "girlfriend" and take it from there. I was completely open to whatever after "girlfriend" might lead to, including matrimonial "hiss and bliss," as a cynical matrimonialist once described it. I had figured it all out. I hadn't figured Lina out.<br />
<br />
The movie was much better than the last one and we left the outdoor theatre chatting about the ambiguous ending as though we'd been attending films at the Goethe Institute for years.<br />
<br />
We were in her car and heading for the beach in front of the Labadi Beach Hotel, complete with a string quartet of Guinness Stouts, before I really had a chance to seriously air my views about what I thought we might come to mean to each other.<br />
<br />
We parked in front of the artificial barrier in Labadi, that separates the rich from the poor, the Africans from their beach....<br />
<br />
(Malibu is different. The White people in Malibu have an unwritten agreement; if you get enough money, we'll let you in, no matter how dark you are.)<br />
<br />
And sipped our Guinness stouts. After the final one, Lina signaled for me to get out of the car, I followed her.<br />
<br />
We came to the narrow passageway that was guarded by an incredibly hip ol' dude, who took one look at the full moon glaze in our stout shot eyes, and asked me, “Hold my gun and I will get you a blanket.”<br />
<br />
I stood in place, silently howling at the moon, holding "his gun," a large gauged stick, 'til he returned with a woven mat, the kind I have often seen Muslims pray on.<br />
<br />
I handed him his "gun," “dashed" him 500 cedis and he graciously allowed us access to Labadi Beach at midnight. We arbitrarily stumbled to the dunes at our left.<br />
<br />
It was a primeval evening, humidity as warm as our blood, an African night sky filled with so much moon that it made me feel as though I was walking under an interrogator's chalky white light.<br />
<br />
Who decided where the place was going to be? Was the place decided before we got there?<br />
<br />
"Do you have condoms?" she asked in a voice that I didn't recognize. Maybe, I thought, we would discuss what we were going to be with each other. There was no time for that before we “hit the beach.”<br />
<br />
Minutes later we saw the stabbing beams of search lights (they're called "torches" in British oriented Ghana) rapidly waving towards us. We had plenty of time to realize the gravity of our impetuous, Guinness driven actions; "Oh! You should have used protectors, this one has spoiled.”)<br />
<br />
"It is a protector.”<br />
<br />
The police/army people, with their beaming lights, arrived anti-climatically. That is to say, after scouring the mat and my pelvic area, they couldn't find any spots of conviction, plus my dominating Afro American-Obruni speech pattern (Lina was strangely silent) seemed to have an effect on their authoritarianism. They escorted us to the exit and sent us away with a solemn warning.<br />
<br />
"Do not come back here to do what you have done again.”<br />
<br />
I could tell, from the sneaky way the "guard" studied the ground at his bare feet, that he had sicced the police on us. Too bad. I sneered at him, we were too quick for your snitching.<br />
<br />
Maybe that was the way they had set it up; the "guard" lets you in for a small "dash" and then notifies the police. If you're caught flagrante, and want to get out of it without a lot of trouble, then you "dash" them.<br />
<br />
The "guard," of course, gets a piece of the action for his troubles. In Ghana, unless things have changed incredibly, the “dash" can work miracles. And so, thusly began my evenings with Lina.<br />
<br />
She worked in one of the Ministries. I never found out which one, and when she finished her day at the office, she had to have her Guinness.<br />
<br />
A mysterious person, filled with unpredictable moods, behavior. She tells me that it would be quite impossible for us to have dinner (on this particular evening), but, as I slip through the gate to go and have the dinner we were not going to have together, she is parked across the narrow, rutted road, slumped down in the spy mode.<br />
<br />
I'm being surprised all the time. One evening, after one Stout too many, she tells me that she has two children.<br />
<br />
"And your husband?"<br />
<br />
"He is not about.”<br />
<br />
He is not about. Does that mean he has taken a temporary leave of absence? That they are divorced? What?<br />
Paranoia grabs my attention for a few evenings. What does the husband who is "not about" look like? Why is that man with the reflecting sunglasses, the one with the slashed cheeks, staring at me?<br />
<br />
Why is that man following me? Is he following me?<br />
<br />
An evening at the Rivera hotel, the sound of the ocean lapping the shore is hypnotic, it's time for us to have a serious conversation. "Lina, I've been doing a lot of thinking about us.” A crashing splash creates a watery accent. And immediately afterwards the ocean returns to its velvety ebb and flow.<br />
<br />
"Well, tell me what you've been thinking.”<br />
<br />
"About what?” I'm at sea. What should I do? I want to ask her to marry me. But she already seems to be married. And has two children. What happens to the children when she spends the night out? Does she love me? Do I love her?<br />
<br />
Well, what's love got to do with it?<br />
<br />
"Lina...?"<br />
<br />
The following Thursday at the Goethe Institute film showing. I was ten minutes late, the film had already started. Lina was seated between two large, dark skinned men. They looked like bookends. I studied their profiles and body language from across the aisle, discreetly. Were they her husbands? Was one of them her husband? Were they simply two men who just happened to be seated on her right and left? I didn’t know what to do.<br />
<br />
The wrong move would be terrible. Even if one of the other men was her boyfriend, there would still be a nasty thing happening, for me a stranger, to tap her on the shoulder. Her boyfriend? I thought I was her boyfriend. But she wasn't looking around anxiously, the sort of thing a person would normally do if they were expecting someone.<br />
<br />
What to do?<br />
<br />
Indecision paralyzed my intentions, and before the lights came on I low profiled out via the outer aisle. The whole business felt tricky. I felt confused, low, distressed. What the hell was going on with us? I couldn't put it together. We had suddenly zipped from something (whatever it had been) to zip. I didn't know where she lived. I didn't have her phone number at the Ministry of whatever. I was miserable about her for a whole week.<br />
<br />
It rained on Thursday, film night, a blizzard of water. It took a serious hair of dandelion petal pulling logic -- "she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me” -- to prevent me from going to the Goethe Institute in the rain.<br />
Another week before the next film. I had firmly packed my program into a neatly paragraphed sentence. <br />
<br />
“Lina, I love you and I want you to be my wife."<br />
<br />
I'll always wish that I hadn't arrived before the film started, before the lights were turned off. In the dark I could have made another low profile exit, but now it was impossible. She gave me that strange ambivalent look and strolled to her seat behind a bushy faced, tall blonde man. I was devastated.<br />
<br />
The ninety minutes of film was a blur in front of my eyes. I kept trying to persuade myself that I wasn't crying. Maybe I wasn't crying, maybe my eyes were simply bleeding. The film must have been a good one because the gathering moved out slowly, exchanging comments as they made their way to the exit. Lina and the tall blonde man were a few couples in front of me. He suddenly split off from her. The men's toilet. Now is my chance. I tried to be as casual as my urgency would allow me.<br />
<br />
“Lina, what happened?" I tried not to grind my teeth together.<br />
<br />
"You didn't come.”<br />
<br />
"I did come but I thought you were sitting with your husband."<br />
<br />
"This one is my husband," she nodded toward the men's room with her chin. I remained in place, like a rock in the middle of a stream, as the other people and her husband flowed onward.<br />
<br />
That was the last time I went to the movies at the Goethe Institute.<br />
<br />
There were days when it seemed that I had walked from one sector of Acara to another, seamless, dreamy walks.<br />
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A mid-afternoon bottle of well chilled ABC at the Shalizar Bar in Osu. It's a warm day, not hot, the sun slowly climbing to a vertical position. I'm walking to Labadi Road, to take a taxi to a friend's house in Nungua. Sometimes all of the taxis are running on Labadi Road, sometimes none. I catch a tros tros going to Labadi. Why not? I need a haircut and there is this small side of the road barber shop owned by my friend, Mr. Lee Hayes.<br />
<br />
(A tros tros is a Volkswagen van that's been converted to a mini bus. The tros tros stuffs about 20 people into it's interior, plus the driver and the “mate," and is not comfortable at all).<br />
<br />
Labadi seems hotter, dustier, a bit more ragged about the edges than Osu, but that's clearly a momentary impression. I manage to escape the maws of the tros tros without ripping my clothes on a couple of sharp edges but the "mate" manages to hold onto my 200 cedis change. They cheat as often as possible, everybody, ancient riders as well as new blood. O well.<br />
<br />
I'm strolling through passageways, over trails, small “alleys" actually (called Lungu Lungu), that only the local people know about. The "alleys" are caked with stagnant wash water, slimy green moss, garbage, people cooking, buying, selling, chickens, children, goats, wash hanging on the lines.<br />
<br />
Mr. Hayes sits in the window of his one room barber shop. He greets me, welcomes me.<br />
<br />
"Come in! Come in! You are welcome. Long time!"<br />
Once again, I'm standing in the doorway of his shop, unselfconsciously checking him out. He is a marvelous spirit on many levels.<br />
<br />
He is sitting on a crate, leaning out of the window to greet friends, tell dirty stories, give instructions, welcome his clientele. He has a normal body from his head to his waist and from that point his body becomes a spider’s body. I've seen this abnormality a lot, like the young woman begging at "37.”<br />
<br />
<br />
He directs you to “remove your shirt and hang it on a hook” (or directs one of his eight children to do the job). He has two "normal" wives. And you are positioned on a low stool between his withered legs as he offers profound commentary on the state of the world and clips your head.<br />
<br />
<br />
Mr. Hayes would never take prizes as the greatest barber in Ghana, or anywhere else, but he offers something on a spiritual level that no ordinary barber could give. He doesn't complain about life, how poor business is or any of that. He takes care of business and that's that.<br />
<br />
I was on my way to Nungua, just up the road a bit, but after the mediocre haircut and the superb chit chat, I'm hungry. I'm in Labadi. Why not go to Mojay's Chop Bar? My friend will understand.<br />
<br />
Mr. Hayes tries to return my "dash" halfheartedly, agrees to accept it after I gently insist. Once again I'm making my way through the Lungu Lungu. We are familiar strangers after a year or so. Some people give me a friendly nod and smile, definitely puzzled by my passage through their secret avenues.<br />
<br />
Mojay's Chop Bar is not at all remarkable. In some ways it's like Mr. Hayes' barber shop. There is much more in the place than its reason for being. Its screen doors open onto a fair sized room with fifteen tables strategically placed. The tables are covered by checkered table cloths that feel like linoleum.<br />
<br />
The floor is slanted downward from the door by a few inches, the walls are covered with Christian posters (St. Patrick, Jesus, Lazarus, Mother Mary, St. Michael, St. somebody else, all painted in pale Venetian Euro White) and four fans mounted in the ceiling that are as noisy as tornadoes.<br />
<br />
(Someone is always requesting that the fans be turned down a notch or two.)<br />
<br />
A bar at the slanted opposite side of the door and off the side, behind a dreary little curtain, "the kitchen.”<br />
<br />
The menu at Mojay's is simple: fufu and light soup, with fish or goat. Kenkey and fish with pepper. And when you least expect it, okro stew, or palmnut stew. I will have the fufu and light soup with fish and two eggs. And a cold ABC. Maybe that's Mojay's ace in the hole, the cold ABC.<br />
<br />
Some people who have never eaten fufu before they tripped to Africa profess a profound dislike for it. I like it, but I found it odd to "eat" a food that was simply swallowed.<br />
<br />
A waitress named Irene caught me "chewing" fufu one lunchtime and sternly admonished me for it.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing, sah?! You mustn't chew fufu. You must swallow it. Are you getting me, sah?! You must swallow it."<br />
<br />
I sip my beer, swallow my light soup flavored fufu and chew on my fish and eggs. The combination of flavors is interesting and exciting. I am satisfied. It's late afternoon now. Time to visit Susan in LaBone.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I manage to grab a taxi that's going to Danquah Circle from Labadi Road. I'll come down at Danquah/King Road and walk the six or seven blocks to Susan's on 3rd Norla Lane.<br />
<br />
(The scenes I'm about to describe occurred largely before Susan's marriage to Ben Ashi, a dynamite brother in his own right.)<br />
<br />
LaBone must be considered "upscale." The homes in that area are quite nice and it literally sits "upscale” from Osu. Susan's in La Bone. Susan is the Head Mistress of the only Montessori School in Accra (imitators lurk just beyond her front gate), and maybe in all of Ghana.<br />
<br />
I have only the vaguest idea of what the Montessori Method is, after having been talked to about it for hours and hours. Apparently, it is a “Children oriented” method of teaching that gives four year olds the power to read, write and reason. Her waiting list is two years long, the parents are pleased, the children are happy, but Susan remains unimpressed by her success. That requires a great deal of self-grounding in a place where titles seem to encourage the title bearers, like everywhere else, to behave like assholes. She is a short, slender woman with a lovely, humourous face and beautifully beige skin. A self-proclaimed "half-caste" (her father is Ewe Ghanaian/mother is English) who is all Ghanaian. We begin to arrive after the school day has ended (say, 2:00). We? Who are we? Who were we?<br />
<br />
We are the ones who come after the children have finished for the day. And like the children, we come from all parts of the world. Susan welcomes us with Cold Star beer (periodically replenished by her right hand men, Zacariah ("Yessir, madam") and Jacob.<br />
<br />
It took me only one week away from the hospitality of her home, her school command post, her "salon," to realize what I was missing. Yes, the chilled beer on a warm afternoon was quite nice, welcomed with gusto, but it was the freshness and variety of ideas from passionate people, eccentric people, supernormal, intelligent people, that gave those long afternoons such a lovely flavor.<br />
<br />
And Susan was the heart and soul of it. Where did she find the energy to spend the whole day running her school (and a number of teachers ragged) and most of the evening participating/moderating/dealing with all of the rest of us? I've only had one other time in my life (from 1960-1962) that was filled with as many rich sessions as we had in her space. We talked, argued, discussed, analyzed, rhetoricized, pontificated, learned.<br />
<br />
Atheism was the only tabu subject. And there was no argument any of us wanted to give up in favor of having the subject on the agenda. Above and beyond that, the world was open to explore. There were evenings when the explorations took such a lucid turn that all of us were made to feel as though we were staring through clear glass.<br />
<br />
It wasn't about big words at Susan's, or being oppressively intellectual. It was about pragmatic clarity. The people who came regularly wouldn't permit murky, draggy, intellectual bullying to take place. Usually a slight, witty nip was enough coerce the heavyweights back into the people-friendly lane. The nip might become a full fledged bite, if the intransigent deserved that, but it didn't happen often.<br />
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John Henrik Clarke, the great African-American history maker/historian, once defined a civilization as a place where people were civil to each other. There, that was the hook of Susan's place. We were a civilization and I haven't been in an atmosphere like that since I left her place.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>CHAPTER TWELVE</em></strong></div><br />
Susan is the person responsible for me meeting Tom Appenteng, for acting as the Atsiame in my dealings with Tom, for helping me become the roommate of a rich rich man’s son with a four bedroom house in Kanda. Tom Appenteng is a novel, at least. And quite possibly three novels. Someday, perhaps, someone will be responsible for that task.<br />
<br />
I'll be too old and slackheaded to do the work. But hopefully, someone will.<br />
<br />
Kanda is yet another section of Accra. It's off of King Road, just past the GBC studios. And from there it can only be called Kanda. In that rare, incomprehensible way that certain sectors of cities can be identified by certain intangible characteristics, Kanda is Kanda. I felt more privileged in Kanda than anywhere else I ever lived artistically. I was sharing a large house with a compatible spirit (he was over there in his section and I was in mine), we lived in a large compound that was filled with young legs and arms to save us, and, as a bonus, there were four gorgeous Ghanaian women/girls to stare at as they performed their daily tasks.<br />
<br />
The women/girls were Tom’s nieces. It made for a complex set of circumstances. Tom, you see, was the result of a mating between his Dad (an Ashanti man) and an Irish woman. The other issue (from his rich father) were from African women.<br />
<br />
I think he had eight or eleven wives, and children from all of them. Which means that Torn, a kind of Londoner in drag, was the uncle of a number of authentic Ghanaian people.<br />
<br />
No problem. He simply accepted his "uncle" status without attaching responsibilities. And I was his honored guest/renter, privileged to watch the beautiful women wash clothes, do spontaneous dance steps, have animated conversations and listen to a Twi that sounded like birds singing.<br />
<br />
Kanda was five o'clock in the evening, sipping that vitally interesting second bottle of ABC at the outdoor bar, “across the road," with Tom, watching many thousands of bats swarm out of wherever, to begin an evening of doing whatever bats do after dark. During this time frame, I was writing a series of human interest pieces for "The Ghanaian Voice," Mr. Dan K. Atsah, Thankyouplease. The pieces dovetailed with life in Kanda, Accra, Ghana.<br />
<br />
All I had to do was describe, honestly, what an African American writer male felt like to be in Accra, Ghana, West Africa. I never experienced anything close to a "writer's block" during the course of the series, or beyond. I was in a writer's paradise.<br />
<br />
On an evening, I would sit on my lovely little porch, right there under the hugely flowering Magnolia tree, notebook in my lap, and scribble to my heart's content, if the lights were on. Kanda was layers upon layers of interests. If I felt adventurous, I could walk up a dirt road, turn a corner and find myself in the center of a neighborhood mini marketplace, or standing in front of a home that looked like a South American dictator's palace. Kanda seemed to be filled with supernatural people; the woman who strolled the back roads, her body caked with white flour. I was told she might be fulfilling some sort of religious obligation.<br />
<br />
The small small couple (they were "normally” shaped, they just seemed to be miniatures) who strolled around at dawn. No one seemed to know where they lived, who they were, what they did for a living, nothing.<br />
They seemed to glow, to have an aura about them, and they were always smiling. It's easy to slip over the border, from Kanda to Nima; the whole vibe changes.<br />
<br />
Nima is Muslim, more or less. But beyond that it always made me think of the word "medieval," maybe it was because there were so many Old Testament looking men strolling around. And the Arabicized Ghanaians, in their floating garments. I never felt good about strolling through Nima. I couldn't get the idea of female circumcision out of my mind. It was a real consideration, despite a law passed to discourage the practice.<br />
<br />
Nima was at its best for me during the month of Ramadan. During the course of any day of that month, going through Nina, it was quite easy to see the effects of serious believing. The men and women (but especially the men) looked as though they were suffering from an invisible burden on their backs. Their cheeks were caved in from fasting (in a place where people are not overfed ordinarily; to fast...) and many of them had a look in their eyes that was either a sign of desperation or sheer fanaticism.<br />
<br />
And then night came and the holiday started. The street stalls, kiosks would be selling food, the devout would seem to stagger from one party to another (rumors consistently suggested that many of the Faithful swallowed Guinness Stout after sundown, for its “nutritional value") and the sounds of Arabicized drumming and singing could be heard as far as Kanda. From Nima to Adabraka, from the devout to the profane Adabraka, especially the neighborhood bordering Kwame Nkrumah Circle, was where the action was.<br />
<br />
The Kilimanjaro, the Joy Joint, Eddie's Place, Esther's and dozens of other clubs were linked to a chain that was artfully designed to grant the pleasure seeker his/her just desserts. The basic number was body peddling and they did it with gusto, but with a Ghanaian gusto, that is to say, in a reserved, and rather proper fashion.<br />
<br />
The Kilimanjaro will serve as an excellent example. Friday night, 'round about 10:00 P.M. (things slow down remarkably in Accra, after 9:30 10:00 P.M., the majority of the citizens are still simply working stiffs, not into partying for money), in the maw of the Kilimanjaro. The music is loud, crunching, the sound is a musical whip for the sexually entrepreneurial, as well as the famished. The fluttering lights that are trying to strobe seem to be glued to the gorgeous faces of a half dozen beautiful village girls who have come to the city to see themselves, to try to make money for the care and feeding of the folks back home.<br />
<br />
The beautiful village girls have done everything imaginable to make themselves ugly, that is to say "attractive" to the men who will purchase the. They sit, four to a table, sipping endless glasses of draught beer, lips smeared with unbecoming lipstick, charcoal cheeks reddened with European cheek redness, hair smashed, fried, broiled and bent or be wigged, awkward dresses squeezed onto their lush, kinky-fufu fed bodies.<br />
<br />
And the sexually famished, mostly European, because they are the only ones who can afford casual sin, fluster about, trying to decide which one of the salesladies will best fit their fantasies. A casual note: large blonde men seem to gravitate to small black women with big asses. Wonder why? Arriving at Jamestown from Adabraka is like firing a slingshot backwards, or, as the Lukumi people say it, "hitting a bird with a stone fired yesterday.” Jamestown was always a special place for my mine, in Ghana. First off, it made me think of the Near Westside of Chicago, circa 1950 something. And that would be enough to create the vibe mindset for a gigantic mound of stuff.<br />
<br />
It was the most ragged section of Ghana that I'd ever been exposed to. That was an element. But there was something else happening. The place was deeper. There were no tourist designer haunts, no place that catered to anything but local tastes. If you went to Jamestown, there were no "lifeguards," you were in Jamestown period.<br />
<br />
It was dilapidated, it created instant strength or weakness, it stank, but the people were splendid examples of what an individual was supposed to be and the Ga they spoke seemed to hint at a sense of rhythm that could only be approximated by African American jazz. My friends in Osu, Ga speakers, thought it interesting that a non Ga speaker felt drawn to the Ga of Jamestown.<br />
<br />
"They are not speaking the correct Ga.”<br />
<br />
"But the Parisians are not speaking the ‘correct’ French.”<br />
<br />
But all of this was placed on a sideboard by Panafest '94. Locally, Panafest '94 was labeled "Panaflop '94,” and the reasons were fairly obvious to anyone who makes any effort to understand media hype, popular tastes and designer notions. Panafest was not hyped. There were taxi drivers who thought that it was an African American family gathering, that they decided to do "in Ghana here.” No real attempt was made to involve the average Ghanaian. If it's not going to be done at the same level that a local soccer team is going to be promoted, then... what's that?<br />
<br />
The government, no doubt, had ideas notions, about what they thought Panafest should mean, but their ideas notions, were badly articulated. It (Panafest) didn't make a lot of sense at all, 'til that night they had a ritual event in Jamestown. The announcement came in lower case letters in the local newspapers, buried in the middle of page five. The words, to this effect, said, "At 2:00 A.M. the spiritual chiefs, the biggest chiefs, will have a ceremony, asking the Gods for their forgiveness, for the Ghanaian/West African participation in the Trans Atlantic slave trade.”<br />
<br />
The African American community in Ghana hustled down to Jamestown. We didn’t want to be late for this event! It was the first time any of us could recall that any Ghanaian (or perhaps any West African) had made a public acknowledgment of the African participation in the Atlantic slave business. It was an important acknowledgment, the decoding read - “forgive us, forgive our ancestors for selling our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers to the White people.”<br />
<br />
Jamestown at 2:00 A.M., on a well lit soccer field, at least five thousand Ghanaians, many African Americans, in attendance. The chiefs made their appearance, durbar style, and the business of the evening proceeded. Speeches were made that caused many of us to cry. It was the first time we had heard a responsible collection of Elders, Chiefs, say, in effect, "Forgive us for what we did.”<br />
<br />
The speeches went on for a time, as African events usually do, and finally we came to the most important part, the blood sacrifice, the Ebo, as it's called in Yoruba. A large, well muscled, unruly bull was trotted onto the field, well handled by two bullhandlers who definitely knew their stuff. They made a great impression on all of us, using the lengths of rope on the bull to control him. The effect was that of seeing two men controlling a huge force with strings. And then a white sheep, which required much less control.<br />
<br />
The blood sacrifice indicated the level of pain that the Africans felt for their participation in the slave business, and the depth of their desire to be forgiven. When blood is shed, for whatever the reason, we know that the most precious commodity on earth is being utilized.<br />
<br />
I don't feel that all of the Ghanaians were in sync with what was happening. It was a bit like Panafest itself, not enough information had been given out. (Sadly, a great deal of information about the Diaspora is missing from Ghanaian history books. I think this is the greatest reason for their ignorance concerning us.)<br />
<br />
African Americans are equally ignorant in many cases, because our Eurocentrically oriented educational institutions have not made any great efforts to inform us. In both cases a greater effort should be made to bridge the gap. There were drummers and people having fun which boxed out a lot of the solemnity but also betrayed the gravity of the event. However, there were enough people there who clearly understood what was happening and why they were there. You could tell from the expressions on their faces.<br />
<br />
The bull was "hogtied," his throat cut with what they call in Ghana, a cutlass. The blood that gushed from the bull’s throat was collected in a large basin and the presiding priest, a man dressed in white clothes, scooped hands full of blood into his month and "sprayed" the earth, three times.<br />
<br />
I had a good seat, my vision is good and I was totally sober. The priest then scooped/ladled the blood from the basin up into the air. I saw huge clots of bull's blood flung out over the crowd, in several directions.<br />
We were dodging the blood, afraid of being drenched, but it never reached us. The blood was sucked from the air above our heads as though a huge mouth was sucking it in. I saw this and no one had to explain that the Gods had accepted the sacrifice. After the bull was sacrificed, the sheep was sacrificed.<br />
<br />
The ritualistic importance was there, but it was almost anti-climactic. I made it my business to edge as close as possible to the priest who had performed the blood spraying and blood throwing. I still find it unbelievable that his white clothes didn't have a speck of blood on them. How could anyone scoop his hands into a basin of blood and not be bloodied? Spray blood from his mouth to the ground and not be bloodied?<br />
<br />
And what kept the blood from drenching the crowd, from splashing all over us? Later, I was told that this same person had walked into the sea, during a ceremony, years before, and walked back out dangling two fish in his hands. The so called supernatural can be quite natural in Ghana, at times. We were led by the priest and his “congregation" through the dark, rutted roads of Jamestown, to another site, where speeches and events would continue. En route, I took a hard look at a hard place. Many people were sleeping by the side of the road, because that's where they lived and the place stank, the way poverty stinks the world over. Now, at 4:00 A.M. or so, at the new site, more speeches were made, libations poured. I studied the profile of the priest who had performed the earlier ceremony.<br />
<br />
He wore a white head cloth and a white straw hat over that. And he wore a white, fringed skirt over his white pants. He wore a pair of white men's shoes but I couldn't say for certain that he was a man or a woman. It finally ended at dawn. I felt cleansed by what had happened (a similar even/ceremony was staged at Cape Coast on the same day). As I walked through the dawn streaked streets of Jamestown, listening to the ocean lap at the beach on my left, I cried for all the souls who would never know the peace that I felt.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>CHAPTER THIRTEEN</em></strong></div><br />
Nungua is in the opposite direction from Jamestown, in many, many ways. From the dark and bloody ground of people seeking redemption, to the clear air and soft ocean breezes is about a thirty minute taxi ride on Labadi Road. Nungua. How did I wind up in Nungua for most of a glorious year? I'll have to use my fingers and toes for this capsule chronology.<br />
<br />
I had decided to go to Ghana many months before the LAPD tried to beat Rodney King to death. Los Angeles was still smoking as the British Airways jet took off from LAX.<br />
<br />
From May, 1992 to September, 1992, I boarded with this dysfunctional couple (African-American) in that wonderful section of Accra called Osu. After five brutal months listening to the man of the house cuss his wife out, under the influence of one beer too many, I left.<br />
<br />
From September, 1992 to December, 1992, I lived in a cell in the Fair Gardens Hotel, directly across the road from the Trade Fair Centre in Labadi. I have to call the room a cell because that's what it most closely resembled. A narrow bed with a thick foam rubber mattress, a small table, a chair and a wardrobe dresser.<br />
<br />
If it hadn't been for the window that gave me a view I wouldn't have been able to stay there. The window was my television, my movie screen, my pictures of Ghana. In the afternoon, children played soccer, always interesting and frequently fun to watch, especially when the little ones imitated the big ones.<br />
<br />
On Saturday mornings, official wash days, the window fairly exploded with colors from the clothes spread on the clothesline across the way. And every evening, when the call to prayer came from the nearby mosque, I watched figures move across the football field like religious ghosts.<br />
<br />
My room in the Fair Gardens (nicknamed Mosquito Heaven by the cognoscenti) was my hell and my heaven for the four months I lived there. I had episodes of malaria in the Fair Gardens that made me dump buckets of water on my body in bed. During the course of one evening, with my foam mattress completely soaked from my attempts to cool my fever, I had the feeling that I was boiling in a foam rubber pot.<br />
<br />
I was saved by becoming a tenant/roommate of Tom Appenteng’s in Kanda. I'm make a wide swing here.<br />
<br />
From January '93 to May '93, the groove in Kanda. But the jog was up. I had pushed a two month visa into a year's stay. It was time to return to the land of the Big P.X. Five months later (after an incredibly interesting stay in John Outterbridge's studio), I returned to Ghana. I had to, that's how homesick I was. Tom had promised me that he would rent his place to me when I returned. But neither one of us had counted on him going bonkers and going back to England, which is what he did. Well, instead of a four bedroom house in Kanda, I would up with an apartment within an apartment in Roman Ridge, from September '93 April ‘94. (It's a friend passing a word to a friend that secures a place in Accra, the space is crowded.)<br />
<br />
Roman Ridge might be considered "upscale.” It has a number of embassies scattered about (The Iranian, Japanese, Brazilian, Italian and Ethiopians were with strolling distance) and several slabs of concrete that are called government subsidized housing.<br />
<br />
The family I was turned onto (or that was turned on to me) consisted of a single mother with a huge, jealous boyfriend, a juvenile-15 years old delinquent son, a seductive 12 year old daughter and a semi maid with sticky fingers. The household squirmed with schemes and scams. There was never a weekend when someone didn't put in an appearance; the gold salesman, the woman selling the most gorgeous African cloth I‘ve ever seen, people offering hayrides in the sky, relatives.<br />
<br />
I suspect the household, and specifically the lady of the house was quite disappointed with my failure to produce money spontaneously.<br />
<br />
Greedy, conniving people. The boyfriend was always sneaking into my room to use my deodorant, cologne and toothpaste. The lady of the house was either borrowing money from me (or stealing stuff being mailed to me via her post office box). The son was attempting to borrow whatever he could borrow.<br />
<br />
"May I wear your shirt today?”<br />
<br />
The daughter was making an effort to push her budding breasts under my uninterested hands. The semi maid, Ama, was taking sexual naps in my bed with her latest boyfriend whenever I stayed away longer than an hour and then a completely larcenous brother put in an appearance.<br />
<br />
I fled. I feel fortunate that I wasn't poisoned and my body parts sold for juju work. That’s a real item of business in Ghana.<br />
<br />
I'm making a wide swing here. To Nungua.<br />
<br />
Nungua, May, 1992, to January, 1995. How did I come to meet JaJa Bakari? No matter. He'll always be considered a fairy tale good genie in my book. He was the brother who offered me refuge from the vulturous people in Roman Ridge.<br />
<br />
"Well, I'll be going out of the country next week but my man Kalo will be there, you can move in anytime.”<br />
A spacious, four bedroom house, surrounded by a half acre of ground, cooled by an ocean breeze that found its way up the hill every day.<br />
<br />
JaJa had his things to do and I had a novel to write. We were ideal roommates....<br />
<br />
The five hundred page novel I wrote during the nine months we shared a house is called "The Snake.” Sometimes, when I seriously think back on it, "The Snake" seems to have written itself. It seems that way because of the frequency of the malaria episodes.<br />
<br />
One night will always remain in my mind. I had had a really good writing evening, one of those times when it seems that twenty pages of well written novel flows from the ballpoint tip with only the slightest guidance from the ballpoint's jockey. I closed the notebook and strolled out onto the balcony to look at the distant lights that seemed to flutter like fireflies. Gorgeous Ghanaian night, a blood warm breeze from the ocean, the sound of a woman laughing ... drifting by.<br />
<br />
I felt uneasy and I couldn't figure out why. I had eaten a wonderful vegetable fruit meal earlier. I had just received a check for thousands of cedis and my Capoeira class at Mr. T's was not only making me feel incredibly healthy, but was also giving me a little extra ABC beer money. I stared in the direction of the ocean, trying to recall the plot of an Indian film entitled "Distant Thunder.” The title of the film began to take on a life of its own after an hour. I couldn't get the “Distant Thunder" out of my head.<br />
<br />
The distant thunder that was pounding my brain was no film, it was the hard attack of one of the worst malaria episodes I'd ever had. I didn't have any pills and it was too late for the pharmacy. I had to survive the night. Demons roared in my head that night -- small men with steel pointed boots kicked at my temples from the inside, and the pain intensified by the hour. I muffled my screams in my pillow. And I prayed. I prayed to every form of deity I could remember -- Esu, Obatala, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Khrisna, everybody. None of them could help me. I started to jump off the balcony a dozen times but I had to rule that out because I knew it wasn't high enough for me to kill myself. I know I went insane for a period of time during that night. There was no other way to cope with the pain.<br />
<br />
I felt long ribbons of screaming slip out of my throat, but I wasn't making a sound. The pounding inside my head had stolen my voice, I was shaking/trembling/freezing/melting from the pain.<br />
<br />
The blue light of dawn hurt my eyes, but I began to feel that I would be able to make it.<br />
<br />
I did make it, stuffed full of chloroquine pills and a couple other kinds of medicine. And I continued writing the next day. "The Snake" would not wait. Nine creative months in Nungua, under JaJa's root, a good time. JaJa is an unusual man, a brother who made it up from the streets of Detroit to get a degree in law from Berkeley University, and managed to pass the Ghanaian Bar to become the only African American qualified to practice law in Ghana.<br />
<br />
Somewhere along the way he lost his right eye and became a vegetarian and a Muslim. The loss of his eye, his vegetarianism and his belief in Islam, simply added layers to his fascinating character.<br />
<br />
In December, 1994, JaJa had a lady come into his life, into his house, and it was quite obvious that she and I were incompatible. What do you do when you discover that you can’t get along with your friend's woman? (In addition, I could detect a jealous streak in JaJa that was as long as my belt). You grab your hat, that's what you do.<br />
<br />
I split on December 30th. It seemed to be very important to be in my own space at the beginning of the New Year. (I was having a neat little house built in a compound at Palm Wine Junction, but that was going Ghana slow. However, the contractor promised me that they would be finished in about a week. Ha!)<br />
<br />
The Grace Jones Hotel in deepest Labadi was supposed to be a four day layover. It became a four month hangover because of the Christian crook name Ocansey. Never will forget OCANSEY - "I love Jesus.”“Do not be annoyed. We will be finished building your house within two more days."<br />
<br />
He kept saying that so often that I almost began to believe him. Well, I wanted to at any rate. So, now, there we were, in the Grace Jones Hotel, Grace and I, waiting for our little palace to be plastered.<br />
<br />
Grace and I had gotten to know each other when I lived in the crazyhouse of the African-American couple in Osu, back in 1992. We had become friends and lovers during my "incarceration" in the Fair Gardens Hotel, and she had visited me, nursed me and loved me through my time with Tom Appenteng, Marilyn Amponsah and family, and JaJa Bakari.<br />
<br />
We were going to spend our lives together, beginning in the Grace Jones Hotel. Mr. Nai rented us the deluxe suite, the room with the shower. My friend, the taxi driver, Mr. Kwame Asiedu, had turned me on to the Grace Jones. "It’ll only be a matter of days before your house is finished.”<br />
<br />
We had no real understanding of what the Grace Jones Hotel was really about until the first weekend settled in on us. It was a charming little fast foods sex house, rooms for rent by the half hour. (That might give you some idea of the attitude many Ghanaian males have about the act of love.)<br />
<br />
Entrance, with a neat little bar to the side, where drinks wore sold through a window facing the dirt road, and a tavern courtyard behind a six foot high wall. Our room faced the tavern-courtyard, and it was cool.<br />
<br />
In the U.S., in similar circumstances, say, a Figueroa Street motel with a drinking spot, it would have been a very bad situation. The Grace Jones was cool. A classy selection of ladies cruised the courtyard, the sudden lovers did their abbreviated thing without any sound, the music was ethnically interesting, not too loud, and the whole thing was short circuited at 10.00 P.M. or so. The Ghanaian party types will always have my vote for being the most intelligent, the quietest, most enjoyable people I've ever known to drink and enjoy themselves.<br />
<br />
Many evenings I would come "home" to find the tables in the courtyard loaded with drinks and surrounded by drinkers, but no one, not in the four months we were there, ever got too loud and rowdy.<br />
Same thing with the people who were renting rooms to the left, right, and across from us. One would think that people who were sharing so little time together would've been a wee bit more vocal, but they weren't.<br />
<br />
I attributed the quiet way of doing things to the fact that we lived so closely together. It was in a sense, a way of protecting the other person’s privacy, and vice versa; it was the proper etiquette.<br />
<br />
Four months is a nice slice of time for two people to spend together in one room, even with a shower. It wasn't a huge room and, aside from the curtain that opened out onto the courtyard (which we kept closed), it wasn't a particularly interesting room.<br />
<br />
I wrote, sitting in a low slung chair, balancing my notebook on my lap while Grace sewed, or did whatever she did. And we got to know each other better than I've ever known another woman. Maybe it had something to do with the barriers we had to break through. The language barrier, as everyone knows, is a serious cloak for a collection of other barriers. Grace's English was her second language and she didn't do badly with it, but I often had doubts about how well I was being understood, whenever we got into any form of esoterica.<br />
<br />
We tried to give me a little Twi to tongue on, but I gave up on it after two weeks. I think Ghanaian languages have to be learned when you're young and your ears are still fresh. But it didn't really seem to matter that much, our linguistic conundrums. We seemed to say an awful lot just staring at each other. I often floated above the scene, giving my mind new camera angles. The man is 58, the woman is 28. She's from a village town called Sunyani and he's from the concrete slave vessel called Chicago.<br />
<br />
She is Ghanaian Christian, he believes in what is popularly called Santeria or, as some P.R. master in the African race calls it, The Religion.<br />
<br />
She is slow, slow to dress, slow to anger, slow. He is not slow.<br />
<br />
He has dealt with racism. She barely understands what it means.<br />
<br />
He has been married three times, officially, and lived, marriedly, with several other women.<br />
<br />
She has had one almost boyfriend in her life, prior to him.<br />
<br />
He has done the do, gone to the orgies, used the drugs, unstoppered thousands of bottles, been infected by the socio maladies of a place that she can only imagine from watching the lies on t.v.<br />
<br />
They are a caring, loving couple. One day, pressured by the need to come up with four thousand cedis every day, to pay for our room, and certain that the roof das on our house at Palm Wine Junction, we broke out of the Grace Jones Hotel.<br />
<br />
Nothing flashy about the move, just doing what was necessary. If we had stayed another day in the Grace Jones, it would have made us rent peons for the rest of the year. Ocansey, the Christian crook construction man, had me paying him little extra bits of money to do “just this other little something,” while I was paying Mr. Nai his daily dose. I was paying money in two different directions and we still didn’t have a place of our own.<br />
<br />
As time moved on, Ocansey lied and said that he would cover our hotel bill if his construction crew overran a certain date. They overran by a marathon length. The kind of head trip that makes grown men break down in Ghana, and everywhere else that this kind of beauromadness goes on.<br />
<br />
We were in our own place, finally. Strangely, only a few things needed to be done after we took possession.<br />
<br />
(I wonder if Mr. Nai worked out something with Ocansey. Maybe Ocansey would do a slow up to give Mr. Nai a chance to collect more cedis and, quite possibly, they could do a neat daily split.<br />
<br />
That's what happens when you become involved with those kinds of people, paranoia is localized.)<br />
<br />
We didn't have much furniture to bring in (the 'fridge, the bed, desk, chairs, pots 'n pans) but we were in our own place. It was the first time I had a home I could call my own and I was puffed up with pride. There were so many things to be done. But first, an indoor toilet. After the toilet, a television, and nice curtains. We began to make plans for our marriage.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>CHAPTER FOURTEEN</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
Another Facet<br />
<br />
It had been raining all day and it was still raining at midnight. The rain sounded like thousands of tennis balls being racqueted on the roof. I had a manageable episode of malaria.<br />
<br />
I reached over the side of the bed to touch the cool floor and was surprised to feel the wetness. Maybe it meant that my fever was going away. Wetness? I leaned up to see that the floor was covered with water and rising; we were being flooded. It took about ten seconds for us to tie the mattress into a roll, cinch it the way you cinch a horse saddle and retreat to the kitchen, to stand on the kitchen table, in water up to our necks.<br />
I've never felt calmer in my life. Is this what Death is like? We stood on our tippy toes, floating a bit watching the flood waters wash through our compound from our kitchen window.<br />
<br />
It became very clear to me, that night, why our ancestors worshiped natural forces. The rain was no longer a blizzard, just a merciless downpour, a God. And the roar of the thunder, with an occasional flash of lightening, was a truly humbling experience. If the water rose above our heads we would drown after a while, very simple. I had flashes of Chinese criminals from another time, who were handcuffed, a stout rope placed around their necks and standing on a large cake of ice in a cage, on a warm day.<br />
<br />
We talked, surprisingly small talk, made plans for our future together, listened to people stranded on their front porches scream at God, call to the gods, pray aloud. I cannot ever imagine that I will experience another night like that in my life. Aside from that during the course of the night, my malaria evaporated.<br />
<br />
I had to reason that standing on a table, with tepid flood water up to my neck was the healing factor. And eventually the water was slowly leveled by drainage and the rain slowing down to a weird series of sprinkles. We were not going to drown after all.<br />
<br />
In Los Angeles, I stood on the balcony of the 7th floor apartment, trembling slightly. Was the malaria still with me? No, just a bit of chilly air on the back of my neck. But it wasn't only the air. There were memories, flashbacks of the long night we spent in the flood water. <br />
<br />
Back in the U.S. now (September 1995), wading through the bureaucracy to rescue Grace, the woman I want to spend my life with. The waters of the bureaucracy are as deep and murky as the flood waters were, but no matter, we've learned the art of surviving without surrendering.<br />
<br />
Accra comes to me from so many directions, in so many ways. There is always the dreamlike quality that accompanies any thoughts I have about the place. The afternoons I spent sitting on the second floor balcony of Watos in Central Accra, the "downtown" section, just across the way from the main post Office, drinking beer and staring at the masses of people swirling through the roundabout. So many people, an African people, glittering with life, blazing with color, each person doing two, three, four things at the same time.<br />
<br />
See the mother selling smoked fish from a large, round wooden platter on her head, bargaining with another woman about the bananas she's selling, while she carries on a sidebar conversation with a girlfriend and nurses her baby simultaneously. The swirling of the masses in the roundabout are indications of a rhythm that could not be found anywhere else on earth. There are moments when the rhythm seems to be so far off that it will never find the One again, yet it does miraculously.<br />
<br />
There are so many stories, rhythms, that it becomes intoxicating to even try to focus on just one; the naked woman walking through the collection of stories, people... is she mad? fulfilling a religious obligation? or am I hallucinating? A miniature dance drum ensemble (I count six) gracefully performs for the river of people who pass around them. They give five minute performances on the pavement that would put any of the well known, so called National companies, to shame. They are so good that even poor people throw a few cedis in their direction. Men pull loads in the broiling sun that would force a donkey to collapse in his tracks. Women carry children on their backs and mountains on their heads. People dribble the effects of diarrhea behind them, all of us have malaria and radio announcements warn us of the Cholera.<br />
<br />
Grotesque cripples, people with body deforming diseases, all kinds of beggars inhabit the roundabout.I feel a dreamlike film settle over my consciousness as I think about what I did while I was there, the moments of exhilaration and depression. The exhilaration might stem from the flavor of a well made kenkey or palm nut stew, or the wonderful atmosphere of a great funeral. The depressions were always stimulated by the sight of small boys and girls working adult days, and poor adults acting as watchmen and gatekeepers for the wealthy. The wholesale corruption ("dash") and inefficiency were bonus factors in the mix.<br />
<br />
Accra, the glazed ocean over there, hopes, dreams, woven with beautifully brownished black faces, wearing jungles of color around their hips. Men, brothers, filled with the blood of my fathers and mothers, Accra, a place that will always be my home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>CHAPTER FIFTEEN</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><strong><em>Dreamtime in Ghana</em></strong><br />
<br />
<em>From Florence to Imperial...</em><br />
<br />
The smoke was still spiraling up into the sulfite caked clouds of the Los Angeles Basin, the residuals of the Rodney King whipping riots, as 'SC circled out to sea and made a u turn east for the trip to the Motherland, May 6, 1992.<br />
<br />
We lived at palm Wine Junction in Labadi, around the corner from everything. I used to get up about 8:00 A.M. every morning, two hours after most of the people living in our compound, and walk a half mile to the Ghana Trade Fair Center to take a shit. This was before we had our own personal indoor toilet/shower put in.<br />
<br />
I had a double/hidden agenda. I wanted to rid myself of the fufu/kenkey fish and pepper that I had eaten the night before. For some esoteric reason, it seemed extremely important that I clean myself of yesterday's stuff, before I began to sample the magic of the day. After the crap, in a far corner of the Trade Fair Center's bowels, I did my Capoeira workout. I'm sure I will never feel that sense of wellness again. Perhaps, as usual, I was a day or two past my latest episode of severe malaria, punctuated by curative Chloroquine tabs and four brutal shots in the ass at the local maternity clinic. Down to the proper body weight and having the agility granted with the weight loss made me feel supergood. Just being alive” after a malaria attack made me feel supergood. I was in Ghana about a month before I had malaria the first time. It was the malaria, more than anything else, that caused this to be called "Dreamtime.” I never knew anything about malaria before I went to live in Ghana.<br />
<br />
Malaria had always been a mysterious tropical ailment that caused Englishmen to give up their will to conquer all of West Africa, or a sickness accompanied by sitar music in one of Satyajit Ray's films. The mosquito that vomited into my bloodstream, that first time, introduced me to one of the world's most horrible experiences. It's the intimacy of the experience, the personal fever, the personal chills, the pounding headaches, the aching joints, the weakness, the hallucinations. No one could possibly feel this sick but me. After a few dozen bouts with the monster, I could predict its coming. But I could never prevent it. I took the anti malaria tabs and all that, but they only seemed to delay the experience. It seems, for some gruesome reason, some people are going to have malaria, no matter what they do to prevent it. Maybe we are simply the malaria prone people.<br />
<br />
After a year of malaria attacks I found myself capable of going into the heart of the matter. I wanted to die, and I did, for fifteen minutes one night. On another occasion, I climbed into a celestial swing that gently pushed me from the horizon to the sky. I was overwhelme6 with the joy of the rush that swept through my being as the soft winds seemed to glisten inside myself. I was the bell of a beautiful horn, gleaming, brassy, starting the world with incredibly atonal music. Drums polyrhymed my temples as I tried to keep an accent in mind, a One that was going to keep me sane.<br />
<br />
When it got too bad, I did some celestial hiking, floating over rocky places as I stared down at grandparents I'd never known. Grotesque images made me scream silently, I think. Under the influence of the malaria I felt my blood boil, freeze, coagulate. In between the triphammer kicks of the little men wearing steel toed boots trying to kick their way out of my forehead, I felt the total calm that exists in the eye of a hurricane.<br />
<br />
Add self pity to the mix and we have the ingredients for a potentially suicidal situation. I asked myself and I asked others "why not commit suicide when this stuff gets this bad?"<br />
<br />
”Some do,” someone told me. I wanted to, before the malaria caused me to have temporary amnesia.<br />
<br />
“The Third World," that's the designation that Chairman Mao Tze Tung is supposed to have given for that huge cauldron of colored people who are living substandard lives. I would call it Another World.<br />
<br />
It is Another World, and therein, everything is topsy turvy. And, without a doubt, it is the people in Another World who make it what it is. The people are fantastic, gorgeous, wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, stupid, all of the things that people are everywhere, except that the coloring of Another world gives them a more vivid cast.<br />
<br />
Another World is where everyone seems to accept the unusual as usual. There is no consistent pattern to any of the bureaucratic frames of reference, no way of knowing which way the wind will be blowing, from day to day. Sometimes the people who would most benefit from cheating won't cheat. But at other times, they may become rapacious. It may have less to do with the economy than with the emotional vibe. I can close my eyes and hear the drums playing in Nungua and Kokrobile. I can smell the rotted rat shit stench from the roadside drain gutters in Osu, the deadly funk of ol' Jamestown, the red light district of Adabraka, where big butt Ester lives.<br />
<br />
A glistening sunlight flickers through the trees, dappling the long walk home in Roman Ridge, creating hot and cool spots inches from each other. I pause, thirsty, broke, to have a well chilled bottle of ABC on credit in Herman's Tropical Hut Bar. I walk from Betty's Shalizar Bar in Osu, to Susan Amegashie Ashi's Montessori School in LaBone, where a well chilled bottle of Star beer is waiting or will be called for.<br />
<br />
"Jakob! Zacariah!?"<br />
<br />
Kanda and thousands of bats circling the sky above King Road at 5:15 P.M. And finally, Labadi, where a piece of my soul was chipped away one wet night. I can close my eyes and hear NaNa's voice, that strange, musical cackling that she spoke in, coated with a heavy chocolate veil of compassion, love and concern.<br />
<br />
Dear KoJo Yankah, the brother who gave me the opportunity to write and direct the "Inspector Bediako" detective series, a first for Ghanaian, and maybe for West African history. How many times have I been given the opportunity to write and direct a television show in America? Without even showing a glamourous resume.<br />
<br />
Susan Amegashie, before and after she became Ashi, a visionary and the sweetest hearted human being in Accra, unless you mess with her.<br />
<br />
Betty Adule Kotey, my savior on so many occasions I lost count. Betty, the woman who pulled me through gates that were locked and chained by malaria; the beautiful person who fed me and talked with so much logic that some of what she said still makes sense. Brother Kwame, the cynical taxi driver, who gave me hours of rides and shared my prayers.<br />
<br />
"The check is in the mail....”<br />
<br />
Grace Hlovor, the philosopher-maid, who clearly understood who she was and where her place was, and where my place was.<br />
<br />
"Everyone wants to be something they are not or something they think they should be. I only want to be what I am, a maid. I'm satisfied with that.”<br />
<br />
Oscar Provencal, the Actor. Never could see Oscar being anything other than an actor, with his deeply dramatic voice. Akosua Abdallah, also an actress, and a gorgeous woman, the essence of femininity, swathed in her diaphanous gowns and robes. As Salaam Alaikum.<br />
<br />
Pastor Betty, the Iyalosa Tanina Shongobumnis’s double in Ghana. It would be hard to believe that two people could be so much alike and live in two different parts of the world. I never saw Pastor Betty without thinking of the Iyalosa.<br />
<br />
They parade across the back of my brain, a stream of warm figures, JaJa, my Osu Capoeira Group, Lina, ahhhh, Lina, the pixie headed White girl who woke me up to the possibilities of White people behaving in a civilized way.<br />
<br />
Victor, the Shotokan gentleman who studied Capoeira Regional with me, from Sierra Leone. Jan, the German from Hamburg, via Rio de Janeiro and who only knows where else? Doris, the charming bar owner in the Fair Gardens Hotel, who had only two bottles to pour from and made a profit from each one of them.<br />
<br />
And always Grace, my love. If I had had any notion that it was going to be such a problem for us to be reunited in America, I would have stayed in Ghana. The sun, blisters, fungus, okro stew at twilight, small, important pleasures, made larger by the circumstances. Walking again. Where? Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe the important thing is to walk and think. Walking and thinking in Accra requires yogic concentration. Without thinking you may walk too far, or if you are thinking, you might not walk far enough, but it is inevitable to walk, unless someone is driving you or you are driving yourself.<br />
<br />
Accra is one of the great walking cities in the world. It is possible to walk from the ocean to Burkino Faso. Or from Jamestown to Kwame Nkrumah Circle without stumbling across one obstacle. Well, to be absolutely honest, it may not be quite that easy. A number of things may occur; the riptide of human waves may be an impediment, the thousands of people swarming from place to place, without the synchronized choreography of a school of fish or a flock of geese.<br />
<br />
There are moments, times when it seems that every individual is going in his/her individual direction. The thing to do is go with the flow, wherever it's going and return to the private journey later. The sun may be the catalyst for disorientation, forcing the purposeful hiker to pause for bottles of ABC en route to wherever he/she might be going. Gripping sights might arrest the unwary walker with the intensity of their effects; the leper woman with a hole where her nose used to be. The thousands of cripples, crippled in ways that are seldom seen in the "developed countries." People with limbs that look like spider legs, with movements to match. Sad baby faces with eyes that have seen so much misery that they can't become any older, they only die and hope to be reborn. Legions of beggars, madmen and women.<br />
<br />
Who will ever forget the sight of the young women who walked east and west on the beach, back and forth, mile after mile, day and night, totally naked, totally insane? What happened to her? Did she drown? And the insane couple who found each other in Labadi, who ripped live chickens into manageable pieces and ate them? It doesn't pay to think a lot about what you may see, if there is a time frame involved. An hour's walk in Accra may last a week, a week a month, a month a year, a year a lifetime. The seasons change slowly, strangely, in Accra. Sometimes it's raining, sometimes it's hot and dry, and then there are in between times filled with the stuff that no season is made of. No please, it may never be possible to get where you’re going in Accra, but maybe that's the point of walking.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>From Imperial to Compton Station ...</em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
The Accra Girls Secondary School writing class will have to remain my plum description of unrequited love.<br />
I still can't identify the demonic impulse that provoked me to go into the school and offer my services.<br />
<br />
My inclination could probably be considered perverse, depending on whose point of view is considered. Personally, it seems to be the most intelligent way to get to know a large number of beautiful young women at one time. A completely collapsible educational system was the conclusion I reached, after two sessions. Mrs. Gartey, this gorgeous, chocolate skinned woman with the most kissable looking mouth in the world, was my "faculty liaison," but I only saw her for brief, lust filled chats, every now and then.<br />
<br />
So, I'm granted total access to fifty gorgeous African females, aged fifteen to eighteen. And most of them are virgins... virgins.. virgins physically, mentally, socially, ideologically. Virginal in every sense that you could think of a young woman being a virgin. No one asked me for a resume, a copy of my degree, teaching certificate, nothing. I was an African-American who showed up one day and said "I'd like to teach a creative writing class here."<br />
<br />
A completely collapsible educational system. I could have been some kind of Jack the Ripper. I wasn’t, I couldn't be. I could only do the class and voyeur. There we were, in some off room in the system, fifty yards from the girl's dorms on the other side of the graveled road. How many days did I hurry to get to school a half hour forty five minutes early? Just to fold my arms on the window ledge and casually adore some of the most feminine women I have ever seen.<br />
<br />
They strolled, ran, skipped, slouched, paraded in and out of the dorm dressed in wrap around lapa towels, white sheets (in emergencies), and a variety of slips. I never knew that women's underslips were considered decent cover for outdoor wear. There were days when it seemed that the world was filled with pouting nipples, spitting out at my eyes from the top halves of these glittering underslips.<br />
<br />
And my students, "my girls" I called them, were coming from these very same dorms. A half dozen times I tried to match up the image of the beautifully undressed girl (that I had just seen from the window) with the green checked skirt and starched white blouse sitting in front of me. I never made the correct match up. They seemed to become different people with each change of clothes, but they were all beautiful. Some of them were West African heavy, not fat, but heavy from solid meals with kenkey, banku and dende.<br />
<br />
Many of them were thin, almost too thin I thought, dealing with the nutritional deficiencies of their school cafeteria, but they were all beautiful.<br />
<br />
They didn't know anything about reefer rum wine beer sex soaked nights, the kinds of decadence that most high school students in America take for granted. Or dirty pictures. They were fascinated, and I'm sure they thought I was lying, when I talked about the behavior of the young people in our schools.<br />
<br />
“Sah, even the young Blacks behave this way also?"<br />
<br />
It took two weeks and four class sessions to answer that question. They forced me, with the plainest of their innocence, to stay away from the glib, the slick, the simplistic.<br />
<br />
There was no doubt in anybody's mind, after a full month, that I adored them. And it was clear that they felt the same way about me. Such sweet love. We did it with our eyes melting, our voices softly seeking the answer, serious respect.<br />
<br />
I had designs on three of the eighteen year olds, but a reasonable discussion with myself over a cold ABC gave me the conclusions that I needed. So, what would happen? I would make love with them, one by one, and it would be joyous. And then what? I was definitely not prepared to play "sugah daddy." And I couldn't really imagine what life would be like trying to explain who Bird, Diz, Coltrane, Miles and Billie had been, amongst other things.<br />
<br />
Fatima, Mabel and Esi. They rotated our deeply felt conversations so cleverly I'm inclined to believe that they must have put a schedule together. The conversation took place after class was over and never lasted for less than an hour. Fatima was the most mature, in terms of vision and physiology. She had eyes like a doe in heat and gave me a lot to think about. "I cawn't stand it, sah, I really cawn' t. Why must you persist in tawlking to me as though I were a child? I am not a child. I can certainly assure you of that. And I do know what goes on between men and women.”<br />
<br />
I closed my eyes a lot whenever I talked ("tawlked") to Fatima. Number one, I was terribly tempted to stop her from talking by kissing her. Number two, I was utterly fascinated by the rich sound of this Ghanaian-British accent (no pidgin in Ghana for some reason, not like Nigeria) coming from the mouth of an eighteen year old from the Volta region.<br />
<br />
My arguments against doing what we both wanted to do were decidedly weak, but supplied just enough barricade for us to prevent ourselves from crawling over. During the course of one of our final discussions, a few weeks before the end of the term, we fell into each other’s arms and cried passionately.<br />
<br />
Mabel was more determined than Fatima, but a bit too romantic to be taken seriously.<br />
<br />
"why don't you confess, sah, confess that it's me you love?"<br />
<br />
(I could never stop them from calling me “sah,” not even when we discussed condoms, diaphragms, pills, birth control. "Yessah.")<br />
<br />
"But, Mabel, how can you say I love you? I’ve never said anything like that.”<br />
<br />
“You don't have to say it, sah, I can feel it."<br />
<br />
Esi made me feel vulnerable because she looked so vulnerable. She was quite short and very stacked and she knew quite well how to use her height, or my height, to her best advantage.<br />
<br />
For example, she never failed to have the top two buttons of her blouse open whenever we talked. And she had a breathless way of making these two rich brownskinned orbs of soft flesh palpitate to make her point.<br />
<br />
“I know that you care about the other girls much more than you care about me, sah. But that's not important. What is important to me, sah, is that you know I love you and I always will.”<br />
<br />
No need to lie about it, these protestations of affection from these three young ladies directly, and others indirectly, certainly did a lot to boost my ego. But it was like empty calories. They weren’t women and I needed a woman.<br />
<br />
Weirdly, I became acutely aware of that need, surrounded by all of these gorgeous girl women.<br />
<br />
They were becoming women but they had not arrived yet, and that kept me honest. I kept my distance.<br />
<br />
<br />
I often think about "my girls" and I'm sure they must think of me. I'm proud to say that I never had to ask any of them if she still respected me the morning after.achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-90488332047724405152011-04-01T12:06:00.000-07:002011-04-01T12:06:33.498-07:00Maybe if He wrote about Pimps and Hoes!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ajx5c6bRNSJNVuivXjEdt24A-UvZR1Y-p6FyQFxIPQsVKLi5oSHPJOIE7A69HmfjH_sdInCLvzDbOtX8l8xK22Cn753_VEn3eFWEtJs73dzN9vQ-30aPc_Z75LtiiTVsvOa4O7blN1k/s1600/pimp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ajx5c6bRNSJNVuivXjEdt24A-UvZR1Y-p6FyQFxIPQsVKLi5oSHPJOIE7A69HmfjH_sdInCLvzDbOtX8l8xK22Cn753_VEn3eFWEtJs73dzN9vQ-30aPc_Z75LtiiTVsvOa4O7blN1k/s320/pimp.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>His first novel <em><strong>"Ghetto Sketches"</strong></em> is <strong>REQUIRED</strong> reading at the <strong>University of Nevada.</strong> The <em>Classic </em>movie <em><strong>"Monkey Hustle"</strong></em> was based on one of his short stories. He won a <strong>NAACP IMAGE AWARD</strong> for writing an episode called <em>"Old Sister</em>" for <strong>Alex Haley's Palmerstown USA.</strong> <br />
<br />
<em><strong>Maybe if Odie Hawkins had written about PIMPS and HOES he'd be alot more famous</strong></em>.<br />
<br />
<em>Odie Hawkins the Underground Master! A Modern Day Jean Genet!</em> <br />
<br />
<strong>The Next Installment of "Black and Brown on the Blue Line" 4-6-11</strong>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-31347791028644932442011-03-25T10:05:00.000-07:002011-03-25T10:05:30.800-07:00Rare Unsigned Copy of Sweet Peter Deeder Sells for $500 Dollars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ErCjdK4zN3EC2q_csJaPsLZJH_QKPDPFt5hVGfmtz_uVVb2Jy7GSrbzsI1kqszJPQdv-aymAikmierOmKs-C9A9ps9iG6KlPe6mNpP_i6bKCB7W0PQiG37O2Pi1z0PwCBu0TQy6gpGI/s1600/41FxSOM%252B4UL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ErCjdK4zN3EC2q_csJaPsLZJH_QKPDPFt5hVGfmtz_uVVb2Jy7GSrbzsI1kqszJPQdv-aymAikmierOmKs-C9A9ps9iG6KlPe6mNpP_i6bKCB7W0PQiG37O2Pi1z0PwCBu0TQy6gpGI/s1600/41FxSOM%252B4UL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">An <em><u>rare, unsigned copy</u></em> of <strong>Odie Hawkins</strong> <strong>"Sweet Peter Deeder"</strong> just sold for $500.00! This begs the question, <strong>WHO THE F*C*! is ODIE HAWKINS????</strong> !!!!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-84452459229072947102011-02-18T08:15:00.000-08:002011-02-19T12:25:46.549-08:00A Long Awaited Honor Has Been Recieved!<div style="text-align: justify;">In 1980, <strong>Odie Hawkins</strong>, wrote a teleplay for a new <strong>CBS Television</strong> Series <strong>"Palmerstown USA"</strong>. The show was the results of a new formed partnership between <strong>Alex Haley</strong>, Author extraordinaire, of the groundbreaking <strong><em>"Roots"</em></strong> Novel turned television miniseries and Producer powerhouse <strong>Norman Lear</strong> (All in the Family, Good Times, The Jefferson's) I could go on but I won't!<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The series aired seven episodes before it was cancelled. Well, this past weekend, Mr. Odie Hawkins, along with other esteemed guests were invited to the <strong>Paley Center in Beverly Hills, CA</strong> for a private screening of the episode he had written <em><strong>"Old Sister" </strong></em>all those years ago. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh22OF6BK9DSnd7hGI7C3agBnf77qEuA92Eoz-eiELD744Y1vbQUIH6wTZ85PiC6_P4tfg8R0KOAn6MHialLRw0ZK4W21wDqBiyXEY_nlxfTET0YhxaVE0tnqJSPPkjXXfM9ocKW4mI08/s1600/property+of+VWade-Williams+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh22OF6BK9DSnd7hGI7C3agBnf77qEuA92Eoz-eiELD744Y1vbQUIH6wTZ85PiC6_P4tfg8R0KOAn6MHialLRw0ZK4W21wDqBiyXEY_nlxfTET0YhxaVE0tnqJSPPkjXXfM9ocKW4mI08/s320/property+of+VWade-Williams+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Mr. Odie Hawkins being honored at the Paley Center's John Mitchell Theatre</span></strong><br />
<span style="color: cyan; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: #cfe2f3;"> Photo by V. Wade Williams</span> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"> We were escorted into the <strong>John H. Mitchell Theatre</strong>. <strong>Mr</strong>. <strong>Martin Gostanian, of </strong>the <strong>Paley Center</strong>, explained upon his exit, the lights would lower and the program would start. As the lights went low and faded to black, the music and opening credits rolled <em><strong>"Old Sister"</strong></em> <strong>Teleplay by Odie Hawkins</strong> other credits included famed <strong>Actor/Director Bill Duke of Carwash and Predator</strong> in the starring role. The episode also featured <strong>Actor Glen Turman of Cooley High. </strong>Oh, we must not forgot a very young <strong>Michael J. Fox (Back To the Future, Family Ties)</strong> What a cast of people that would all go on to do awesome work! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLxPyOUZ63QJyRPLXC94IY4UTtVvomvR5OcN5C1GdxZHNLB7_pWxjgEN2_HWe1VBgIhZXrY8hS5KO55p65RgRxV2q3H3tDk67kP6SV4PxK2owNtavHQQSq02fzzf3oaqG2baVJHAYQS-Q/s1600/57469530.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="274" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLxPyOUZ63QJyRPLXC94IY4UTtVvomvR5OcN5C1GdxZHNLB7_pWxjgEN2_HWe1VBgIhZXrY8hS5KO55p65RgRxV2q3H3tDk67kP6SV4PxK2owNtavHQQSq02fzzf3oaqG2baVJHAYQS-Q/s320/57469530.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">This was high quality television. The ensemble was top of the line and the script was nuanced. Like <strong>CBS</strong> other show <em><strong>"The Waltons"</strong></em> it was set during the Depression but this show explored the life's of two Families. One White, the other Black. The Families knew and cared for one another but lived with the backdrop of Jim Crow. The show was not ruled by cliches and did not brush over Jim Crow.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><strong>WD Hall to his Wife.</strong> <em>"Why did you say that we would be at "Aunt Jenny's" ceremony at the "Colored" Church?</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><strong>Mrs. Hall:</strong> <em>"Why wouldn't we be? In WW 1 when you were all shot up and hurt she nursed you back to health and "Aunt Jenny" nursed half the town back to health. She wants her Family there. I've known her my whole life." </em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><strong>W.D Hall:</strong> <em>You think that I don't know that? I agree and am happy that she is being honored as an "Old Sister" she certainly deserves it but We ain't Family and "She" ain't your Aunt"! (Ant) It seems hypocritical is all. They invite us to their church but do you see anyone from "Our" Church invite any of them? </em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">The episode revolved around the the Afrikan American Matriarch <em><strong>"Auntie Jenny"</strong></em> being honored by her Church as an <em><strong>"Old Sister".</strong></em> This honor was bestowed on one every <strong>25 </strong>years to a Woman who had great character and charity. This was something that <strong>Alex Haley</strong> recalled from his childhood in the South.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsVJISZcg3yx4qwKE_rUZcxcz17X5y3B_RwxwayA7B5EnjL8O4_plyaQChM78HQOrepBE45Vbm6_5HK1Lm5Lyf56RCgwyC50Nj76z_qMN20qAJ1ybsy7-xTuKFaHo1l-XHkoOF1RgNoeM/s1600/182976_192576347427034_100000240106402_655626_2669647_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsVJISZcg3yx4qwKE_rUZcxcz17X5y3B_RwxwayA7B5EnjL8O4_plyaQChM78HQOrepBE45Vbm6_5HK1Lm5Lyf56RCgwyC50Nj76z_qMN20qAJ1ybsy7-xTuKFaHo1l-XHkoOF1RgNoeM/s320/182976_192576347427034_100000240106402_655626_2669647_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">From Left to Right Mista Jaycee, Martin and Odie Hawkins</span></strong><br />
<span style="color: #cfe2f3;">Photo property of V. Wade-Williams</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After the show ended and the lights came up, <strong>Mr. Martin Gostanian</strong> from the <strong>Paley Center</strong> presented Odie with a vintage copy of a <strong>TV Guide magazine</strong>, from the week when the <em><strong>"Old Sister"</strong></em> episode of <strong>Palmerstown USA</strong> aired. Odie would go to win an <strong><em>NAACP Image Award</em></strong> for writing the episode. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>The show was nuanced and well thought out. Check out the above dialogue. This was<em> courageous</em> even after "Roots" and <em>certainly </em>for 1980 era Television. I doubt the show would even be made in today's hyper politically correct date and age. <br />
<br />
I was immensely proud of Odie and the work that he allowed to come through him. <strong><em>"Palmerstown USA"</em></strong> may not have succeeded as a <em><strong>Television program</strong></em> but it was and is still <em>great Television. </em><br />
<br />
<br />
Congratulations!!!!<br />
<br />
BE Prayerful! BE Mindful! BE Careful!<br />
Jaycee <br />
<br />
Guest Blogger <a href="http://www.achoiceofweapons.blogspot.com/">http://www.achoiceofweapons.blogspot.com/</a><br />
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</div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-77076944744353087312011-01-26T09:16:00.000-08:002011-01-26T09:16:40.579-08:00Drumming at sunset: Odie Hawkins and David McKnight<iframe height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/pXzh2fmg-5k?fs=1" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-54126187903723412292011-01-11T11:58:00.000-08:002011-02-22T12:15:37.583-08:00Black and Brown on the Blue Line Chapters 5-9<style>
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<div align="center" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left"><b>And we continue with Odie Hawkins Black and Brown on the Blue Line!</b></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBqlKWpI_A7yKJKOd9UxSuDIEOdupPl4IRBNnW24oa3zYjuqIqppYSl_Xy5lNnWNj6qgJAdK5dgwweAChm8hTuZIKoEdCNhbRMuOCn3wjrqwooVPdg22VYybFmPg2zHeeDg0yHItO0x0/s1600/blueline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBqlKWpI_A7yKJKOd9UxSuDIEOdupPl4IRBNnW24oa3zYjuqIqppYSl_Xy5lNnWNj6qgJAdK5dgwweAChm8hTuZIKoEdCNhbRMuOCn3wjrqwooVPdg22VYybFmPg2zHeeDg0yHItO0x0/s320/blueline.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><b>CHAPTER FIVE</b></div><br />
<b>Koreatown...</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkE4ysSShSBLcVfr3doiZD3DIPkkvK8Aje53Ia3ImyZKJxJnNDxC9zYgfi70WUOs2gZJrpb3Wpk-en7mqoDKIjG773QnK4BKfNAyoI-EGWTIXk4scVA_TVVcoBX0ADftn5Y9_7mkwWkEM/s1600/Korea+Town.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkE4ysSShSBLcVfr3doiZD3DIPkkvK8Aje53Ia3ImyZKJxJnNDxC9zYgfi70WUOs2gZJrpb3Wpk-en7mqoDKIjG773QnK4BKfNAyoI-EGWTIXk4scVA_TVVcoBX0ADftn5Y9_7mkwWkEM/s320/Korea+Town.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Master Kim felt completely bewildered by the actions and activities of the people on the bus, but he didn't allow his feelings to show.<br />
<br />
The young White couple at the back of the bus, kissing and feeling on each other. The shame he felt about their conduct was transmitted to the other Koreans on the bus, who informed him with a glance ... this is not Korea, this is America, this is the way they are.<br />
<br />
Master Kim bowed his head in thought. Riding the bus for a month was his idea.<br />
<br />
I want to get to know the people. In Korea there are only Koreans, here there are many different kinds of people. When I open the doors of my dojang and they come, I must know who they are, how they are, what they think.<br />
<br />
I have never had a conversation with a Mexican, a Black, Filipino.... I must know them, they will be coming to Tosan dojang.<br />
<br />
Master Kim's relatives and those friends who had been in Los Angeles for years before he decided to see "this America," simply smiled and bowed.<br />
<br />
One could not tell an 8th Dan in their national martial art form, <strong>Tae Kwon Do</strong>, what to do, and how to do it. They all bowed discreetly and offered hint their advice concerning the different kinds of people he would be likely to meet.<br />
<br />
No one could possibly prepare him for the madness that he was likely to experience during the course of his one month trip around town.<br />
<br />
Daily he set out from his apartment in Koreatown to ride the busses. Sometimes (using his monthly bus pass) he rode the Wilshire bus west as far as it would go, or east. And the Vermont bus south, as far as it would go. Or the Western Avenue bus. Or one of the others.<br />
<br />
<br />
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It took a full week of being constantly shocked by the anti- social behavior of the people for him to relax; why did the people rush and push each other to board the bus? Why did they frown so much? Why were the people so... so isolated from each other?<br />
<br />
Why did the young African-American men, good potential for Tae Kwo Do, disrespect everyone so badly?<br />
<br />
One afternoon, on the westbound bus to Venice, two Black men, maybe fifteen sixteen years old, screamed dirty words, pounded on the seats in the back of the bus, told obscene stories to each other, obviously begging others to listen in on their misery. Master Kim felt like crying. What kind of pain would produce people to behave in such a fashion?<br />
<br />
He made a special effort to listen to them, to try to understand what was forcing them to misbehave so badly.<br />
<br />
Why would they put their shoes into the seats that other people would be sitting in?<br />
<br />
They had no respect for others. They had no respect for themselves. He wasn't gang sophisticated enough to determine if they were doing what they were doing because they had to, or because they had been driven to that nebulous nihilism that sells self destruction.<br />
<br />
<em>I must work on the African American youth.... I must teach them to control their anger.</em><br />
<br />
The straight out crazies were much more complicated for him to relate to. First off, Master Kim's English language skills were not way up there, and many of the English warbling crazies could sometimes ensnare him, emotionally, with their convoluted, psycho Babylonized mush chat, before he realized where they were.<br />
<br />
He "talked" to one poor, homeless, obese, drastically sexually abused African American teenager (maybe) for fifteen consecutive bus stops before he realized that the youngster needed more help than he could possibly offer.<br />
<br />
The types of madnesses running around freely distressed and disturbed him. How can they allow people who are completely crazy to ride the bus?<br />
<br />
The clothes, the tattoos, the craziness made him feel very sad, but the attitudes of the people made him feel even worse. Some were "normal" people who could see the bright side of life, but most seemed to be bogged down by personal demons....<br />
<br />
Maybe he was ready for Darrilyn when she came.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, Sir."<br />
<br />
The brightness of the greeting, the open flavor of the woman's voice startled him.<br />
<br />
"Ahhh, good morning.”<br />
<br />
They rode side by side, exchanging obliquely pleasant smiles. Master Kim was intrigued by the young woman's attitude vibe.<br />
<br />
She is obviously someone who has a healthy regard for herself. Master Kim decided to make an effort to use his whiplash English.<br />
<br />
"This is nice day, you think?”<br />
<br />
“0 yes, certainly. Any day that gives us an opportunity to begin breathing is a nice day, to put it mildly."<br />
<br />
Master Kim puzzled over the flow of her words and came to the conclusion that she was saying something he agreed with.<br />
<br />
"My English, you know, not good.”<br />
<br />
"Ohhh, don't worry about it," she announced in high gliding tones. "This is America, no one speaks good English here."<br />
<br />
He nodded to her, a smile creasing his face. This is a nice person.<br />
<br />
"Where going?" he asked, feeling more confidence in his language skills.<br />
<br />
"It could be here. It could be there. I'm just riding. And what about you, where are you going?"<br />
<br />
“I am also here and also there."<br />
<br />
They laughed aloud at the joke they shared and shook hands. Master Kim felt a certain kind of awkwardness, shaking a woman’s hand, especially one who was younger than himself, but in America, do as the Americans.<br />
<br />
Block after block they talked, exchanging ideas, points of view. He was delighted to know that she knew something about Tae Kwon Do.<br />
<br />
"Hand and foot way, a very interesting way to look at the world. I have had several clients who studied this art."<br />
<br />
“And you, the astro logist, I like this also.”<br />
<br />
Language was left far behind their relationship to each other. They could feel that, the people around them could feel the vibe, Master Kim studied the woman's hands, her feet, the beauty of her neck and ears, the positive way she sat in her seat.<br />
<br />
She was the first woman from another race that he had ever felt attracted to. But she seemed so Asian. Perhaps one of her parents was an Asian.<br />
<br />
"Well, this is where I get off."<br />
<br />
He stared at her, stunned by her declaration.<br />
<br />
"Here, you are getting off."<br />
<br />
"Yes,” she answered him and moved quickly to the exit.<br />
<br />
Master Kim felt like leaving the bus with her, but he had not been invited and he didn't want to lose face. He looked at her as she stood at the exit door, waiting for the bus to stop, wishing that he could invent a reason for being with her a little longer.<br />
<br />
She dipped into her Kente cloth bag and pulled out a card as they shuddered to a halt<br />
<br />
"Here, this is my card. Get in touch with me if you wanna have your chart done."<br />
<br />
He studied the name for a few seconds, to familiarize himself with the sound, and bowed in her direction. Darrilyn was gone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>CHAPTER SIX</b></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Click On: "Bone Daddy's Journey"</i></b><br />
<br />
How did it begin? Well, to be gloriously honest with you, I don't know. That is to say, I don't know how it began, but I do know when it began. It began in nineteen hundred 'n 88.<br />
<br />
In nineteen hundred ‘n 88, in search of Heaven inspired rhythms, the elusive sound of the reddest chord ever played, and a woman named Self-Determination (the Nguzo Saba has the key to this translation code), I flew nervously to Oakland.<br />
<br />
All might have been cool if I had only sub-leased my apartment. Mr. and Mrs. Chan, after ten years of hard Berimbau listening, would have granted my every wish. I was still paying the lowest rent for a trendy area apartment, solely on the basis of me being "Bone Daddy."<br />
<br />
"0, please don't worry about prosaic stuff, you are destined to pay us the six months back rent soon. Go about your business, we are not worried about you.”<br />
<br />
That's the way it was between me and my landlords. Could anything be better? I mean, when you have that sort of understanding between you and your landlord ... Hello!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5gyXsdt5iWdzIipEEkh6bVGnE4gug0qlt3nMTPe7PeFSdRWV2Cz72xSdZRe7dg-34IOx8M-JMXupDG4Cmyp9hPCFhBxsKv2esPkG79J5uP9CrVcLoDuvbCzLWWSzPqiVO0u9t7wWFbg/s1600/untitled.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5gyXsdt5iWdzIipEEkh6bVGnE4gug0qlt3nMTPe7PeFSdRWV2Cz72xSdZRe7dg-34IOx8M-JMXupDG4Cmyp9hPCFhBxsKv2esPkG79J5uP9CrVcLoDuvbCzLWWSzPqiVO0u9t7wWFbg/s1600/untitled.bmp" /></a></div>If only I had sub leased that beautifully designed, gorgeously situated, one bedroom palace when the Frenzies drove me to fly to Oakland. But I didn't, I gave it up.<br />
<br />
I invited Tabula, Donna, Cedric, Synthia St. James (subsequently famous for designing a U.S. postage stamp), Waheed, 'Bridge, Henrique, Eliana, D.J., Willie, Nancy Cox, Amde, Richard and Otis (the Persuasions of the poetic world) and hundreds of other well meaning spirits to share my "going out.”<br />
<br />
Bottom line: I gave up my apartment. Never more would my sexually conservative neighbors (Italians who screamed "fuck you" out of their second floor windows at each other, next door Armenian incestists, Chinese puritans) have to redface me the next day, after listening, horrified, no doubt, to the screams of histrionically inclined African Americans. Or wonder what the hell I had done with the trio of Brazilian sisters who had done a midnight session with me. And followed me, loaded on cachasah and empadao, to continue the play.<br />
<br />
Nor would I have to subtly subtitle for the Chans, my landlord friends, after evenings filled with music from the Corrida, female circumcision ceremonies, Afro Cuban Santeria rites and the blues from a few brothers who had paid their dues in Angola (not the country, the prison in Louisiana).<br />
<br />
Gave it up. Never thought I'd have any need for the place anymore after Self-Determination.<br />
<br />
We were going to call it, "This Time.”<br />
<br />
What it spelled out was quite clear to me. I, "Bone Daddy," had declared an end to my boning. That's how highly I thought of Self Determination. And still do. Ase.<br />
<br />
The chords, red and blue, and some that I would never be able to describe were there. The Heaven inspired rhythms were there. Some of them resembled earthquakes ("and did the Earth move for you, Bone Daddy?"). But a lot of other goodies were blocked by Self-Determination's self-righteous rigidity and brutal insensitivity. The danger zone was curved.<br />
<br />
None of these qualities were apparent to me when I made myself apartment-less and flew nervously to Oakland. It took months to discover the cause of my night sweats, why my molars were grinding themselves to nubs, why my stomach was churning before and after the Heaven inspired rhythms had played out.<br />
<br />
It didn't matter to her, these feelings, for her, the control freak, all that really mattered was that I obey the will of self determined Self-Determination.<br />
<br />
Little bit like a religious fanatic who asks very few questions but has all the answers. I felt trapped. The boning was bon, no doubt about that, but there are times when even the bon of boning won’t cover up for what's bad. I began to plot my escape.<br />
<br />
Most of the exits were barricaded with sex furniture, promises, visions, sinsemilla reasoning, concepts that meant a lot, even if they weren't carried out to the letter.<br />
<br />
We wanted “This Time" to be the real time, we really did. We were both seasoned vets of the emotional wars, with hundreds of wounds (and wounded) in our files and felt a serious need to have “This Time" be "The Time."<br />
<br />
For two long hill dipping years we tried. The bookmakers in Oakland libeled me a dark horse, maybe the darkest, and pushed the odds up to a hundred to one against the dark horse limping across the finish line.<br />
<br />
<b>Kahlil Gibran,</b> the Lebanese mystic, is the one who wrote,<b><i> "We should love what is between us, not each other." Well, that might've been good advice for a lot of lovers, but for me and Self Determination, there was too much between us.</i></b><br />
<br />
I doubt if I spent one whole week without staring into the abscessed eyes of one of her ex men, they were everywhere. Well, I guess that was to be expected. After all, I had moved onto her turf. I was between them and her.<br />
<br />
Frequently, I scrapped my escape plan because the music had been exceptionally groovy that night (morning, afternoon, mid-afternoon, evening, mid evening, dawn, midnight, whenever we got into the groove) and I just couldn't see myself straying too far from the magic of her music.<br />
<br />
Frequently, my escape plans were foiled by the deeply felt circumnavigations of the self determined head. There were moments when I could almost say that she held me captive by the powers of her mind, head.<br />
<br />
Matters finally came to a head, I guess I could say, on a trip we made to a conference in the San Bernardino mountains. After the conference, on the way down, appropriately, I made an instant decision.<br />
<br />
"Drop me at my friend's house in Torrance.”<br />
<br />
“You’re not going back with me?"<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
So, there I was in Torrance with $75 and the clothes on my back. I was free. Free of the delicious tortures inflicted deliberately (and accidentally), free of the tyranny of a love that was too tough, bent, warped and shaped by previous investors.<br />
<br />
My whole body felt that it was being pulled, magnetized to her cherry red vehicle as it shot away from the curb, and at the same time, absurdly a weight was suddenly lifted from my head.<br />
<br />
I spent two years in my friend's garage, sleeping on a mattress that was piled on layers of cardboard and newspapers. "Bone Daddy's nest,” one of my girlfriends called it.<br />
<br />
Of course, I had to trip back and forth to Oakland a few times to grab a couple leftover boxes and have my pleasure pan singed. So much danger, so much. I was never certain that I was going to be able to escape again, until the last second.<br />
<br />
But I did pull away, the cruel thoughts of what I had endured shot me straight back to Torrance.<br />
<br />
From 1990 to 1992, I wrote books and I read books. I will never be able to say how many books I wrote or read. There were evenings, during the rainy season, with the droplets on the roof sounding like Tito Puente, when I wrote two five hundred paged novels. Two...<br />
<br />
My dream time was unaltered, left intact. My friend didn't really care what I was doing in the garage, and I didn't really care what he was doing in the house. We came together for conversations and to watch one of his favorite t.v. shows in the evening.<br />
<br />
(Never could figure out what was supposed to be so appetizing about "The Love Connection.” But, hey, what do I know?)<br />
<br />
I felt like a special kind of Monk; maybe I had drifted away from the Major Vehicle to something that might be called a "garage monk,” definitely an off shoot of one of the major sects.<br />
<br />
During the course of the day, my friend at work, with no one to distract my focus, I did five things.<br />
<br />
I walked about a mile (of long, long Torrance auto-designed blocks) to this huge, neighborhood park for my morning Capoeira workout. Capoeira workout. What's that? Stretching, moving, kicking, sweating for an hour. Homes, with the good jelly feeling in your upper body, the tight urge to kick in the legs. Home for a ritual shower, hot and then cold.<br />
<br />
<b>Write.</b> I would write about what I was writing, write what I was writing, write what I was going to write. Write.<br />
<br />
<b>Read.</b> Once a week I staged a guerrilla raid on the Torrance Library and came away with treasures that they didn't know they had.<br />
<br />
“A survey of African dances? Are you sure we have that?"<br />
<br />
"About 92%, seems likely that someone has written something like that. Check your computer."<br />
<br />
And, after surveying/reading as much as I could possibly read about the dances of Africa, I would write some more. Some of this writing may have been very good, I don't know. I simply wrote and let whatever was going to happen to it happen.<br />
<br />
Some of it got published, some of it didn't get published. Some of it I'm still writing....<br />
<br />
In the garage, I sometimes spent days sprawled on "Bone Daddy's Nest," staring up at the gorgeous spider webs that emblazoned the garage ceiling. I spent days not moving my lips, other then to say "Hello" and/or "Goodbye.”<br />
<br />
I would be pushing the envelope (uugghh, hate that term) to suggest that this was a deliberate thing. I think it was simply about what it was about. There was no one to talk to or anybody to talk about somebody with. So why talk?<br />
<br />
(Sat at Lake Merritt, in Oakland, California, this past Wednesday, June 5, 1997, talking with my friend, Lena Slachmuijlder, who had just pulled in from Accra, Ghana.<br />
<br />
She was giving me loads of help to try to help Grace Appiah, the woman I love, to secure a visa.)<br />
<br />
As we talked, Ishmael Reed strolled past. He may have been exercising in his exercise clothes. No telling. Ishmael is a strange dude. He looked at me and recognized me, and I looked at him and recognized him. We exchanged salutes -- "Uhh ugh.” Or something like that.<br />
<br />
Lena didn't know who he was and I couldn't immediately think up enough titles to explain to her why he is considered "an important Black writer.” I wouldn't've been able to explain why he was important. Or considered Black. Or a writer (by some, in any case).<br />
<br />
It had something to do with what went through me on a daily basis in my friend's garage. It wasn't an easy time, those two years. I don't know if Africa was calling me before I moved into the garage, or if Self Determination had intercepted the previous phonings.<br />
<br />
In another man's garage the call became quite insistent. Africa was calling. Specifically, Ghana, West Africa. The drumming (why was I always playing somebody's conga, or buying one or two? Or going to worship Armando Peraza, Mongo Santa Maria, Carlos "Potato" Valdez, Julito Collazo, Modesto Duran, Papito, Francisco Aquabella, Totico and all the others?). The sounds of the languages they speak has always been clear to me despite a serious effort to prevent us from relating to, learning about or knowing Africa. The first time I heard a prayer in Yoruba, the hair stood up on the back of my neck. And then my head. The Ga took me straight to about six centuries of Jazz that I'd never understood.<br />
<br />
I could easily see the separate headlines in the mainstream newspapers. "Ga, a Ghanaian language, has made Bone Daddy understand Jazz much mo' betta'.”<br />
<br />
My uncles; Africa could explain my four uncles, including Uncle Sweet Milk. And maybe offer me a linchpin clue to why my Daddy was as wild as he was, and called "Honey.”<br />
<br />
In addition to that, conglomerations of people who had gone to Africa, kept going to Africa, and who were always talking about what it was. Plus the spiritual vibes that have been shaking me out of deep sleeps all of my life.<br />
<br />
"Come on Over1 the waters are swimmable.”<br />
<br />
This couple that I had known in Los Angeles were now living in a section of Accra called Osu and they had a spare bedroom. The call became a siren in the night. Yeahhh, go to Ghana, see what that's about....<br />
<br />
The couple had never been intimate friends, but we had hung out on some of the same artistic fringes, so I felt at ease. I felt I knew her a little better than I knew him, but it didn't matter a whole bunch. They were offering me a stone to step across the pond.<br />
<br />
Never would have been able to predict the kinds of problems they were, that they were having, that he was having, that she was having, that they caused me, in a hundred years. But, before all of that would be revealed to me, I'd have to get over there.<br />
<br />
Spiritually, I was there the minute I had made up my mind to go there. The second part of the program required me to buy a round trip ticket. It seemed to be an impossible number to pull off.<br />
<br />
I had no money in the bank, no rich relatives, no dishonest cash flow, no lucrative hustle, just a ball point, some notebook paper and a $170 Veterans pension. How was I going to buy a round trip ticket to Ghana, West Africa?<br />
<br />
The solution came to me in my third dream. Simple. Sell two well written paper back books to Holloway House Publishing Company, one of the weirdest publishing houses in the world, collect the lousy advance and move out sharply.<br />
<br />
And that's exactly what I did. Just one small catch to the whole business; I was leaving my "home," the garage, to vault into the unknown. Where would I wind up? On the streets of Accra?<br />
<br />
The hell with it. In May, 1992, with the smoke from the aftermath of the Rodney King pachanga still curling up over the Basin, I looked out onto the ugly, sulfite flecked clouds and started thinking about my first African based move.<br />
<br />
I drifted off to sleep, trying to blot out the guttural curses of the man stumbling through the house. The African American couple who had invited me to come share their place in Osu were crazies.<br />
<br />
Damn, I wasn't really angry with them for being who or what they were, I was angry at myself for not having the common sense to check around before I made the trip. There were at least a dozen people who could've run the scene down for me.<br />
<br />
"Well, how long is Mr. Bone Daddy gonna live with us? I mean, like, how long are we gonna have to put up with the presence of this asshole fuckin’ son of a-bitch?<br />
<br />
"Huh?! Answer me, bitch.”<br />
<br />
"Now, John, please. He just got here last week...."<br />
<br />
"Are your sure?! Seems to me this motherfucker been livin' in that room for months!"<br />
<br />
It took less than a week to realize that I had landed on the wrong side of the coin. The brother was a hostile drunk and his wife was glorified (in her mind) by her martyrdom. It was a win-win situation for them and a no win no win situation for me.<br />
<br />
Objectively, strangely, maybe, I find myself comparing them to gangbangers I've ridden with on the Blue Line, especially that section of the run from Florence to Compton. They were screamin' for help but they wouldn't accept help. Maybe it sounds like a contradiction, but that's the only possible description one can make of behavior that begs for correction, but awaits it in order to refuse it.<br />
<br />
Ghana, Africa, came easily. The crazed couple came hard. From May 1992 to September 1992, I lived in their house. I drank with them. I smoked with him. I fell in love on my own.<br />
<br />
No doubt in my mind that I was going to have to leave that crazy place. If the scene in Oakland had been infected by PMS, this scene in Ghana was infected, fueled and driven by PMS of another sort, plus Malaria.<br />
<br />
I got the Malaria about one month after I arrived. Malaria, in retrospect, was like a severe form of LSD intoxication, coupled to the possibility of dying. (In recent times, I've asked myself why the people who are involved with extreme mountain climbing, “recreational budgeting" and extreme "martial arts" shouldn't get into "extreme Malaria.”<br />
<br />
“Extreme Malaria" would offer them all of the wonderful stuff they seem to be seeking. Hallucinations are cheap, weight loss for the fat conscious is guaranteed, "drive by rush" is definitely on the menu, plus a real good sweat plus a real good chill plus visits, under the hallucinogenic influences of a female mosquito of demons.)<br />
<br />
On the serious level, Malaria is a hell. And there I was, in hell, with hell in my bloodstream. Didn't matter, about me being sick for a couple weeks, it was simply a part of the mix. He continued to get drunk, come home, rant and rave, and start the next day off like a choirboy.<br />
<br />
(Nothing is ever all bad. I met Grace while I was living in the Nasty House....)<br />
<br />
Accra is a very difficult city to live in. It's easy to get from place to place, but difficult to find a place to live. It was a crazy time for "Bone Daddy.”<br />
<br />
I would come across a hip little place in a groovy area for a million point two cedis (a thousand two hundred dollars), get halfway into the place and wind up being out bid by the guy who was offering a million point four cedis.<br />
<br />
It went on like that for eight months. It was really a bad scene. The Nasty House couple were quite aware that I was seeking accommodations elsewhere, and why, which didn't endear me to their malevolent little twisted hearts.<br />
<br />
“Now, don't you get out there and start tellin' people what's going on in here." This, from the Lady of the house. As though no one knew. Seems that I was the only one who didn't know, 'til too late.<br />
<br />
Eight beastly long months. Finally, in desperation, I threw all of my belongings in a couple cardboard boxes and fled to the Fair Gardens Hotel ("mosquito heaven"), right across the road from the Trade Fair Center.<br />
<br />
Now, I could begin to do a little bit more of what a "Bone Daddy” is supposed to do, without having obscene people peek over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
Grace was coming to me but she hadn't fully mounted my soul yet.<br />
<br />
Four months in a Fair Gardens Hotel cell. A window on the west that slatted out onto a sheep grazing soccer field, a door on the eastside that opened into a dead-end corridor, a "bed" with a foam rubber mattress, a chair and a small round table, a room that held generations of female mosquitoes captive, who took out that anger on me, nightly,<br />
<br />
Four hot months of sizzling Malaria episodes, many hours of introspection. What else is there to do in a room that was smaller than many American closets?<br />
<br />
But it wasn't all malaria and serious thinking. There were many orgasmic moments, many. Plus the novel that seemed to be writing itself whenever I picked up the pen.<br />
<br />
Four long months in a small room. Grace was beginning to edge her rivals over the side of the nest. I could see it happening but I didn't have a name for it. In addition, I didn't know if I liked the idea or not. What is a “Bone Daddy” with no bones?<br />
<br />
Susan Amegashie-Ashi, bless her Montessori soul, saved my life from becoming a Fair Gardens statistic by introducing me to Tom Appenteng.<br />
<br />
Tom’s rich Daddy had given him a three bedroom house in Kanda and he was open to the idea of a roommate. From a cell to a palace. Technically, Bone Daddy was still basically homeless, but he wasn't sleeping in the street. Thank Tom for that.<br />
<br />
Big house, actually three big houses in a large, cobble stoned compound courtyard with a giant, gorgeous magnolia tree in the center. It was Paradise.<br />
<br />
Tom was what they call a "half caste" in Ghana. (We always argued about which was the "half and which was the "caste.”)<br />
<br />
His father was King of Salt in Ghana, the equivalent to a Kennedy in revenue terms. And Tom was his son by an Irish maid. All of the father’s other wives were African women (and, I assume, the girlfriends, secondary girlfriends, mistresses, etc.), which placed Tom in a unique position.<br />
<br />
He was the "half caste," non Ashanti speaking uncle of a quartet of truly gorgeous nieces, and the half brother of a formidable female who lived in a huge house across the compound.<br />
<br />
Tom was, of course, an eccentric. He loved a beer in the evening, fufu for lunch, always (he attributed his hunger to the Akan in himself), and dabbled in a cross coded collection of odd interests; numerology and astrology were only two.<br />
<br />
We clicked. He was cool, I was a diplomatic scribbler and at the end of the day, we both liked to have a couple of ABC's at the little outdoor bar across the road and watch the oats pepper the air as they started their evening's hunt.<br />
<br />
In between times, I sat on my little roomside veranda porch, at night, nourished by a dim bulb, sipping local gin and scribbling to my heart's content.<br />
<br />
In the afternoons, I might be privileged to scribble and watch the nieces do what they had to do.<br />
<br />
The gorgeous nieces made me think of Tom Peelings' work. Even during the course of the most prosaic work, there always seemed to be art and grace attached to the accomplishment of the task.<br />
<br />
I fell in love with all of them, of course, and held my attraction in so strongly that it almost forced them to break the ice. But they didn't, and I didn't, and thusly, we retained and fed on a tension that gave the sexual vibe a new dimension.<br />
<br />
I studied them. I studied their language, their gestures, their clothes, the way they ate omo tuo, the way they ate fufu, the way they swept the leaves away from under the tree, the way they watched me, the way them watch each other, the way they stood.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Four beautiful girls (I think the oldest was 17-18) who sparkled like diamonds. I took note of the fact that Grace came to visit me, even times when she hadn't been invited. But, of course, she was welcome, she had to be.<br />
<br />
May, ‘93, came like a shot between the eyes. My plane ticket was going to expire, I was going to go into a delinquent visa status. I had to leave, I would have to leave my place to go back to No place.<br />
<br />
Grace came to spend the night with me before I left. No one has even tried to describe what lovemaking, during the rainy season, in Accra, Ghana, can possibly be like.<br />
<br />
I have several concrete theories; number one, all of the Ghanaian writers I've read are/have been so sexually colonialized they blot out what they see and feel, in order to achieve Eurocentric/Puritanical approval.<br />
<br />
Number two; writers in Ghana, like writers in America ('til recently) tend to be dry ass academics.<br />
<br />
Number three; I just don't feel that they've even had a 'hood to 'hood Bone Daddy view of the sexual picture.<br />
<br />
It doesn't always rain during the rainy season, but there seems to be a pregnant moisture in the air, even when it's not raining. The lovemaking is silent, there may be people in the next room, the next compound, all quite close.<br />
<br />
Stuff can go on and on, especially if the man is an African American who has come home to enjoy himself.<br />
<br />
(Several African American oralists have been highly placed on a number of hit lists.)<br />
<br />
Moist night, everything outside the darkened bedroom window huddled under the flossy leaves and ivory waxy flowers of the Magnolia tree. Sexy frogs croak (the males, they say), begging the females to come.<br />
<br />
We are two quiet, aroused naked human being, enchanted by our senses. A distant drum signals the beginning of a Pleistocene rhythm. Our kiss lasts for hours. We swim in love, we burst silent bombs inside each others heads and bodies. No doubt in my mind that I had finally found the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, exploring.<br />
<br />
But first I would have to leave her, to return to America. Minister/Colonel Owusu had declined to grant me resident status. The big bastard. If only I had had enough cedis to "dash" him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>CHAPTER SEVEN</b></div><br />
Back in the United States of America, California, Los Angeles. Homeless again. A real bummer. My only serious consideration was finding a way to get back to Ghana. Meanwhile, I'll homeless. Well, almost anyway.<br />
<br />
“You can stay with me, Bone Daddy, you know that.“<br />
<br />
Foolishly, I moved in. Four weeks later, wisely, I moved out. If John Outterbridge had decided to say “no,” I would've taken a blanket and a bottle of water to Griffith Park. I had already staked out a place.<br />
<br />
The lessons that I learned while spending four tortuous weeks in my girlfriend's house will stay with me for life. Number one: some men and some women should never attempt to live together.<br />
<br />
They are capable of fighting, loving, sky diving, running, pissing or whatever together. But they shouldn't try to live together. I didn't know that until I tried to live with Lady P.<br />
<br />
Number two: don't assume that you are going to be at ease with this person you’ve always been at ease with, under her roof. If you've been at ease before, you'll discover that she has changed.<br />
<br />
"Sorry, Bone Daddy, that's not the way I like to have things done up in here.”<br />
<br />
And there are other situations that will occur. Each man must find his own way.<br />
<br />
The 'Bridge's pad. John Outterbridge, Artist, former Director extraordinaire of the Watts Towers Art Center (1975 1992), who is generally credited with causing an artistic hullabaloo in South Central "EL A" during his watch. A friend.<br />
<br />
"Well, Bone Daddy, I'm preparing works for a retrospective... hope I won't disturb you too much.”<br />
<br />
I should be so lucky to be disturbed every day of my life, the way he disturbed me. He "disturbed" me for five incredible months.<br />
<br />
I would go to sleep at 11:00 PM. and wake up at 5:00 AM., anxious to see what John had created. Creative people are Gods. I haven't had any doubts about that for years.<br />
<br />
Those were five of the most "disturbingly" satisfied months of my life. Art is the 'Bridge’s life, and mine.<br />
<br />
So, I’ve sld anther book to tat weird Holloway House, time to go back home.<br />
<br />
September, 1993. Kotoka Airport, home. Grace was there to meet me. How did she know the time and day of my arrival? I hadn't told her. I was beginning to suspect that the baby knew a lot more about Bone Daddy than I cared for her to know. Now then, after reasoning all that out, where am I going to live?<br />
<br />
Well, this sister who practically commutes to Ghana, had given me the name and address of a lady named Marilyn Amponsah, a member of the Children's Commission or something like that. I was set for the moment, but I still didn't have my own spot.<br />
<br />
Marilyn Amponsah lived on the 3rd floor of an apartment building in Roman Ridge. Osu, Kanda, Labadi, Roman Ridge, I was beginning to know Accra.<br />
<br />
In Ghanaian terms, Marilyn had a hip place. As a government employee of some standing, she had a rent free place with running water in a decent area (there were embassies all over the place; the Brazilian Embassy was around the corner and the Algerians were down the road) and a vehicle to drive. A cosmetic check of the scene would have given her situation a big thumbs up. But that ain’t the way it was.<br />
<br />
First off, the seemingly hip house was dysfunctional. Her two children, appropriately named "Mommy” and "Poppa” in Ashanti, were as delinquent as the circumstances would allow. Her huge boyfriend was a mass of contradictions and Marilyn was a rotten sneak and a petty cheat.<br />
<br />
I was not living on sacred ground. The apartment within the apartment that I rented from Ms. Amponsah had some definite advantages. My room had a toilet, which gave me the opportunity to evade and avoid a lot of the family madness.<br />
<br />
It took me approximately two days to realize I was living in a den of pirates.<br />
<br />
The boyfriend wanted to borrow money from me. I said “no.” Marilyn borrowed money from me to buy bread. The “maid," Ama, sneaked into my room to make love to her boyfriend.<br />
<br />
The children, uncharacteristically ill behaved for Ghanaian s, tried to borrow money from me. The girl, a conniving twelve year old, tried to seduce me. And there was all of the other yang-yang stuff that is customarily found in dysfunctional households -- Marilyn avoiding people she owed money to, the children having problems with other children and adults in the building, money missing, stuff.<br />
<br />
If they had been speaking English, instead of Twi, they would've fit the frame of any Negrocentric family on the Near Westside of Chicago.<br />
<br />
And then the brother comes from Sierra Leone, a real slickster who wore two toned shoes, his pants up around his chest, pimped a woman who looked like a small hippo and asked to use my deodorant once too often.<br />
<br />
“No, buy yourself some.”<br />
<br />
Of courser his feelings were hurt, but I didn't give a damn. The whole family had gotten on my nerves. Meanwhile, I'm teaching a Capoeira class at Mr. T's Aerobics Studio, teaching my own group of students in Osu, teaching a creative writing class at the Accra Girls Secondary School, teaching a creative writing class at the Ghana International School, writing articles for the Horizon newspaper and the Public Agenda newspaper, writing reams of letters to the people I care about everywhere, writing a novel, trying to figure out how to escape the dysfunctional household (I was experienced now, I knew there was a way), showing my lady, Grace, how much I loved her, drinking a lot of beer and learning a lot at Susan Amegashie's afternoon “seminars.”<br />
<br />
Yeah, I was busy, maybe too busy, but not too busy to begin to code my way off of the third floor. I was beginning to show signs of bite wounds.<br />
<br />
What's the matter with you, Bone Daddy? Are you going to allow a collection of low grade scam artists to eat you alive?<br />
<br />
No, of course not.<br />
<br />
Well, then, what's the plan? You can either change your personality around and stay on the frontline of this mess, fight it, or run from it.<br />
<br />
I opted to run. I couldn't see a bit o’ win happenin' in her house, on her turf.<br />
<br />
How did I meet the brother? 0 yeahhh, my Osu Capoeira group gave a demo on Labadi Beach and he came over to speak to me after it was over.<br />
<br />
I didn't pay him any more attention than I wouldv'e paid any other shave headed, one eye hooded, bright smiling, first African-American-Attorney-to-be-qualified-to-practice-law-in-Ghana.<br />
<br />
JaJa Bakari was his name and he became my savior.<br />
<br />
"Well, I've got this four bedroom house in Nungua. There’s a sister from Philly living there now but she'll be gone next week. I’ll be leaving next week, also. I have some business I have to take care of in Atlanta.<br />
<br />
“But, hey, don't worry about anything, my man, Kalo, will be there. He'll take care of you.”<br />
<br />
That's a mild idea of the way JaJa moves. It was impossible to determine what he was doing, on a day-to-day basis, but one thing is certain, he was doing it.<br />
<br />
It gave me great satisfaction to see the lady, her rapacious boyfriend, her greedy children and her predatory brother washing their hands with distress.<br />
<br />
"Please, you mustn't go!"<br />
<br />
“Why not?!”<br />
<br />
"O, we need you.”<br />
<br />
"That's one of the reasons why I'm going.”<br />
<br />
If Roman Ridge was a slice of domestic hell, Nungua was a piece of rental heaven. Teshie-Nungua, never will forget it as long as I live.<br />
<br />
Three bedroom house in a walled compound, fresh ocean breezes gently sweeping through every day, even on the muggiest days. A San Francisco high ceilinged bedroom to work in, no domestic clap trap to be involved with.<br />
<br />
"Bone, come! ‘Dynasty’ is on the tellie!”<br />
<br />
"Why the hell would I want to watch ‘Dynasty?’”<br />
<br />
"It's from America!"<br />
<br />
And brother Kalo to serve. I have to believe that Kalo was from a different atmosphere. Kalo was JaJa's man about the house, which means that he did everything that had to be done.<br />
<br />
And he didn't do it reluctantly. Kalo added a new dimension to the word "servant.” He was a servant, but he wasn't servile. He took pride in what he did, no matter whether it was washing the dishes or cutting the weeds that sprouted all around the place.<br />
<br />
He set a standard that encouraged me to do better. To try to do better. To do my best.<br />
<br />
And there was Grace at my side. I had gradually fallen in love with Grace. Stupid, simple me, after all these months of having this beautiful human being in my life, before I reached the conclusion that I would be a fool not to love her. What could possibly prevent me from loving her, other that my own stupidity?<br />
<br />
Nungua was coming to an end, it had to. I was going to be my own man in my own house in Ghana. I had to be. I had spent eight months living in a lovely, ocean breezed environment, but it all belonged to someone else.<br />
<br />
It reached a point where I was feeling feverish about the idea. Or was that the latest episode of malaria?<br />
<br />
Grace and I decided to pull it together in January, 1995, at the seaside beach resort call Kokrobite.<br />
<br />
We talked all day about what our life would be like, together. There were so many things to overcome, to reckon with: cultures, age (I was 58, she was 28), attitudes, two bureaucracies. My visa had expired months ago and I knew I would have to deal with the mean spirited bastards at immigration, eventually. But I would deal with them when the time came.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, there was a house to be built, a life to be lived with Grace.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNRbqR9XCe_1Asu9A5qRk0yPGNoSEPLIrNeO5d6Ljj-qOh0IkAwGmgwC4QqgIWvalhPzMnXy4Rir_nk9_vM2kgOfIi1VtG3XRP2EyOw8H7xbiPbZ-suj3pIARDEJ6W3JaHv5yrX7soiE/s1600/Accra_Markets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNRbqR9XCe_1Asu9A5qRk0yPGNoSEPLIrNeO5d6Ljj-qOh0IkAwGmgwC4QqgIWvalhPzMnXy4Rir_nk9_vM2kgOfIi1VtG3XRP2EyOw8H7xbiPbZ-suj3pIARDEJ6W3JaHv5yrX7soiE/s320/Accra_Markets.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I was taken, but not too badly, doing my first home building deal, anywhere. To have done it in Ghana and escaped alive is a testimonial to the generosity of the Orisha and to God. In a place where the average person is literally living from day-to-day, sometimes from hour-to-hour, the human talent for rapacity can be developed in a way that only a Hollywood agent could possibly understand it.<br />
<br />
I had contracted a builder to do me a two bedroom house in Labadi at Palm Wine Junction. It was all set, all of the arrangements made, money exchanged, the whole banana.<br />
<br />
In Ghana, with the cheap labor and the proper amount of cement, a small house can be erected in a week or less. We set things into motion in October. By the time January, 1995 showed its scarred head, we were supposed to be moving into our place at Palm Wine junction.<br />
<br />
Nothing happening. The bare frame of the house was in place, with the beginning of a wall on one side and no roof in place.<br />
<br />
I had made an emotional decision: “Come January, '95, I'm going to be in my own place or else.” Or else what? I hadn't quite figured that out, but I knew I was going to have to be in my own space. I had lived under JaJa's roof long enough. January 1st, 1995 was my own personal deadline.<br />
<br />
Now what do I, we do? The house is half done ("we need three move days, at least") and we have no place to call home.<br />
<br />
What the hell, we'll go spend a couple days in the Grace Jones Hotel. Our house is only a half mile away; we can to check on it every day. That's the only way to have things done efficiently, in Ghana. You must sit on the site.<br />
<br />
The "couple days" lasted four long months, from February 1st to May 1st. A "couple days” in the Grace Jones Hotel was lifetime experience.<br />
<br />
At the end of a long, incredibly rutted road in deepest Labadi, packed with people doing every conceivable human thing anybody could think of, swarming with diseases of all kinds, was the Grace Jones Hotel.<br />
<br />
Mr. Nai gave us the best room in his establishment. It had a shower. We didn't unpack (for the first week), there was no need to do that, we were going to be moving into our own spot in a few days.<br />
<br />
Mr. Nai’s Grace Jones Hotel was where the local lovemaking was done by the half hour for a reasonable price. We didn't know that when we moved in and it really didn't matter because everybody was cool.<br />
<br />
Mr. Nai had a bar located at the entrance to his collection of rooms (Grace called them "money pots") and no one got loud and rowdy, and it was in an authentic neighborhood, which was good for my anthropological research.<br />
<br />
But, damn it! I was still living under another man’s roof. Four boring months, waiting for our little house to be built. It meant being forced to have a patience I didn't think I had.<br />
<br />
It did something for me and Grace that probably wouldn't have happened under other circumstances. We became very close friends. Four months in a small space is an interesting way to grow to love someone. Or hate them.<br />
<br />
With nothing to do for many hours of the blistering day, we sprawled out on the mattress that I had to lay on the floor to preserve my sensitive back and did soul chats. Or said nothing.<br />
<br />
I was enchanted, I am enchanted by Grace's femininity, of thinking, of acting, of being. I felt I was being exposed to a completely exotic trick in our little space inside the Grace Jones Hotel. But I was still living under another man's roof and paying him by the day for the honor.<br />
<br />
We had to get out of there. And we did, one bright day in May. What sense did it make to pay rent daily and at the same time pay to have a house built?<br />
<br />
My tortured reason forced me to see an advantage in living in a partially constructed house (that belonged to me), rather than pay rent for a room that would never be mine.<br />
<br />
Mr. Nai was severely pissed to see his "money pot" disappear. But it didn't matter, we were free. I think Grace thought that I had blown my cool, for a minute. And, "Oh," she said, "I see what you've done, you've taken us out of the room and put us in our house.”<br />
<br />
Damn! I was so proud! For the first time in my life I was living in my own bonafide house, my house, paid for and almost completed.<br />
<br />
The finishing touches were literally done over our heads. It seemed to make the workmen work more seriously when they saw that we were going to be THERE.<br />
<br />
By the first week in May, 1995, we had settled into our Little House in the compound. I have to force my mind to return to the scene to even begin to imagine what our neighbors must have gossiped about.<br />
<br />
Here is this middle aged obruni-African American writer-man moving into an authentic African neighborhood (there are neighborhoods that are the opposite, yes, in Ghana, West Africa) with a young African (Ashanti) woman.<br />
<br />
What the hell do you make of it? It was a complex matter. First off, it didn't take long for our neighbors to come to the conclusion that we were not rich folks doing a Harlem/slum scam. We had to get our pineapples on credit too, and eat at Mojays when the cedis grew thin. And I did go and sit in the bar to sip my gins and stouts, just like any other African chauvinist.<br />
<br />
Aside for all the regulation stuff, there were some distinctions. Grace didn't work and I had no visible means income "he's a writah" didn't mean much to people who were rationing their money for the gift of each day.<br />
<br />
Obviously, since I wasn't working and my wife wasn't working, we were "rich," in some weird, special way. No one could figure it out. I couldn't either.<br />
<br />
Those were divine moments in that Little House on Palm Wine Junction, carefully nourished by rainy season midnight thunder sessions and my blown up ego as a home owner.<br />
<br />
I wrote in the front room at my little school boy desk, enjoying the children's games that ebbed and flowed from the moment they got home from school until they were forced to go to bed while my woman prepared jollof rice and delicious gumbo type stews in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
We sprawled on the platform bed that I had had a carpenter down the road make and talked about the improvements we wanted to make on the house.<br />
<br />
(We had a shower and an indoor toilet installed; a first for the compound.)<br />
<br />
We played wari in the bedroom with Grace challenging me to beat her at her own game. I think she allowed me to do it a few times, just to keep the spirit of competition alive.<br />
<br />
And we held each other in the bedroom, sometimes like children who felt lost in the world, sometimes to give each other courage to endure the fevers of malaria and other exotic ailments that could only be found at Palm Wine junction, in Labadi, Accra, Ghana, West Africa.<br />
<br />
I couldn't see myself living at the compound level, or in Labadi forever, but I knew it was going to take years to build a front porch and to add another level to our little house.<br />
<br />
We were designing something (in our heads/conversations, that Home Beautiful would/could never imagine) that was going to be African African American unique. And then one night the rain came.<br />
<br />
May October is the rainy season in Ghana, but that doesn't mean that it rains every day at 3:15.<br />
<br />
Some days it doesn't rain at all, r but when it does, it can rain blizzards of water, huge golicious droplets that can blot out the sight of things a couple yards away.<br />
<br />
In July, 1995, on the 4th, it started raining very hard. It rained all day, which gave a moist, pregnant, romantic feeling to the time. And it continued to rain hard, way into the night.<br />
<br />
I was going through a malaria episode. Feverish rides on cold swings, marathon sweats, no desire to get well, these little gnomes in their steel plated boots, kicking my temples from within. I dropped my hand over the side of the bed to feel the coolness of the floor, anything to help me get through the night.<br />
<br />
So cool, so wet? I leaned over the side of the bed to look at the shallow lake on the floor.<br />
<br />
Hallucination. I sprawled back for a moment, smiling. No, I was not going to be fooled by a fever.<br />
<br />
I dropped my hand back over the side into water that soaked my elbow. We were being flooded. It felt so cool and pleasant. We're being flooded!<br />
Rain suddenly iced my brain, the fever was gone and we were racing around in our little space, trying to figure out what to do. Cinch the foam rubber mattress with a suddenly found cord, it will float on our mattress platform. Put a few things on top of the refrigerator. Hop on top of my writing table and drown.<br />
<br />
"Bone Daddy, are you afraid of dying?"<br />
<br />
It took me a couple wavy moments to answer that.<br />
<br />
"It's too late to be afraid.” And strangely, I wasn't afraid. My fever was gone, calmed down by the tepid water we were standing in, up to our necks.<br />
<br />
From our “ringside seats," standing on the table, we stared through the window slats at the rain, the water flushing into the compound from the narrow passageway that was always so cooly shadowed on hot days.<br />
<br />
The rolling of the thunder sounded like worlds fracturing and, periodically, the raindrops would become thicker. Our neighbors wore out on their porches, beseeching the gods and God to stop punishing us this way.<br />
<br />
The water was at the waist level in the compound; the pregnant woman dashed out into the middle of our neighborhood, screaming maddened by the thunder and the pounding rain. Her husband and another man rescued her, pulled her back.<br />
<br />
She would have drowned if she had fallen. The Obagyes were praying in front of a lantern that cast devilish shadows on their faces. Here and there were signs of panic, but it was contained by cooler heads.<br />
<br />
Rain, prayers, people screaming, thunder, prayers, as we stood on the table, exchanging comments from time to time.<br />
<br />
"Looks like the water is going down, see? You can see the level over there on the wall."<br />
<br />
"The rain is becoming more small, yes.”<br />
<br />
My all time love took hold in that rain. I stared at Grace's small, sculptured profile and loved her. I loved her for the moments we had shared, the days we had trudged through the blistering rutted roads together, the weeks we had spent in the Grace Jones Hotel, sprawled doggo, waiting for the evening to bring us some relief from the sun, the months we had held each other, not really certain of what the future would give us.<br />
<br />
The water surged up under our chins. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel claustrophobic in a small space. I can't say why exactly, maybe the water we stood in gave me a different sense of dimensions.<br />
<br />
Where do we go if the water continued to rise? We were trapped, and we would drown if the water rose higher. It didn't.<br />
<br />
Suddenly the rain was reduced to relative sprinkles and the people on the next porch started singing Christian hymns. We were not going to drown tonight, a night that lasted for days.<br />
<br />
We were clearing away rubbish, washing the mud from our walls and preparing to face life again when dawn came. Optimists, we knew that life was going to be better after the storm. It would have to be better.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>CHAPTER EIGHT</b></div><br />
<br />
KLM (In ‘Plane View)...<br />
<br />
KLM, World Business Class, after two weeks of running back and forth to the airport, to take a scheduled 'plane back to the future.<br />
<br />
flack and forth to the immigration, the month before that, blindsided by resentful, corrupt, underpaid bureaucrats.<br />
<br />
"We can't allow you to pay your overdue visa fee until you pay your overdue visa fee."<br />
<br />
"Huh?”<br />
<br />
In other words, if you don't "dash" me, you'll never get on that 'plane back to the place I’m dying to get to.<br />
<br />
Here, please, allow me to "dash" you so that I can dash out of here. I hated Ghana for a couple of days, during the course of this meanspirited exchange with these meanspirited people.<br />
<br />
“Why have you remained so long in Ghana here?"<br />
<br />
"Because I love the people, I....”<br />
<br />
“That is not a good answer....”<br />
<br />
I hated the brutality that their dogheaded processes took me through, the attitudes that permanently stamped them, "Africa, Ghana, Third World.” But I kept the whole business in perspective; I was only dealing with a few anal types, they didn't represent the whole society.<br />
<br />
KLM, World Business Class, the blonde placing a tray in front of you every ten minutes, or a glass of wine, or cognac. I spaced out on the treatment.<br />
<br />
I nodded, dreamed, cried a few times, thinking about my wife to be, back there on the ground in Accra. She couldn't come with me, she didn't have a visa/passport, we weren't married. What the hell, we'd have to do it long distance.<br />
<br />
Once again, my most immediate concern was a place to live. Once again I was back in the House, with no Home. As some of us used to say, “my baby's Momma" (the women said, "my baby's Daddy") offered me a place to stay in their apartment on Wilshire and Normandie, Apartment 711.<br />
<br />
Talk about being saved. I go from being homeless to living on the seventh floor of a "secure" apartment, complete with a swimming pool on the roof. It took me three months after my arrival to stop trembling.<br />
<br />
Residual malaria had me trembling for awhile, plus a sense of unrealness about where I was. I would be tempted to call it culture shock, but I don't think I had been away from America long enough for that to happen.<br />
<br />
This was something else, it was a sense of disbelief. How could I have come from there to this?<br />
<br />
It was much easier to identify the source of the tear jags. I was missing Grace more than I have missed anyone in my whole life. I know I was going to have to fight for her, but I didn't know what the choice of weapons would be, or who the enemy/enemies would be, beyond the concentrated bureaucracies of Ghana and the U.S.<br />
<br />
I had to stop crying to get a clear focus on my life, and on the life that I was determined to build for us. It took a few months of stabbing shadows in the dark before I found the proper bodies to shoot at.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, for the first time, I was having the rare experience of getting to know a grandson, a daughter and "my baby's Momma.”<br />
<br />
“Love,” the "baby's Momma" and the grandson, Brian. They gave me a family feast for a year, from September '95 to September '96, I wallowed in the family's bosom. I had never really know "Love," I had just simply got her pregnant, the way boys do at 16, and that was that.<br />
<br />
I had gotten together with my friend, the Iyalosa Tanina Songobumni, to have a some luruko, an adoption "cere for the baby we had," many years later, but I couldn't say that I actually knew my daughter, Gabrielle.<br />
<br />
And I could never have imagined a grandson like Brian....<br />
<br />
Over the years, "Love" had developed into one of the extraordinary women who had figured out all of the simple emotional stuff, and had a leg up on the complex items. We were acquaintances when we made the baby, and became friends thereafter.<br />
<br />
I think of her as the best woman-friend I've ever had. That friendship matured during the year I lived in #711. We talked. She talked, I listened, I talked, she listened. I watched the way she spread her "love" around. It was, to coin a cliche, “awesome.”<br />
<br />
There were days when she seemed to be feeling whole neighborhoods, sympathizing with dozens and dispensing advice across the country.<br />
<br />
She was/is a composite Oprah/Montell/Ann Landers/Dear Abby/Yo' Gran'momma, when it comes to advising wisely. Her insights were clear, her advice lush and clear. She did a wholistic number with her positive self.<br />
<br />
Adesina, “she who brings gold," Gay, gave me a female tinted view of myself. I could see the same characteristics in her that used to make people whisper behind their hands.<br />
<br />
“What’s the matter with him?"<br />
<br />
"He read too much, that's the basic problem."<br />
<br />
It was something else with her, a strong sense of reserve, a private person. I connected with her when she gave me a hug and said, "I'm glad you're here.” And that was that. No long gushy speeches, no false themes played.<br />
<br />
I liked that. I do like that about her, no need to do a jolly jolly number with her. If she likes you, she likes you, if she doesn't, that's the way that is, no apologies either way.<br />
<br />
She typed a fat novel for me, that will be sold by the time she reads this, a serious indication that she cares about me. I love her dearly.<br />
<br />
Brian, the grandson. I never really got to know. Erika's son, Americhe, or the children of my first delinquent sperm out. But during the course of one year, I got to know Brian pretty well.<br />
<br />
How old was he then? Ten years old? And full of piss ‘n vinegar. In my mind's eye I attach a basketball to his hands because I can't ever recall seeing him for longer than ten minutes without a basketball in his hands.<br />
<br />
I was called "Grandfather” for the first time and that made me feel honored. Just back from Africa, where titles like that carry great weight.<br />
<br />
#711, lucky numbers for sure. I stumbled around, looking for gigs. I wrote, I made serious efforts to hook up with somebody to make some serious money. I wrote. I wrote to keep my balance, I wrote because I have to, the only addiction I feel safe allowing myself to surrender to.<br />
<br />
I got nibbles and quibbles but no solid fix on anything. People promised me this and that but no one came through with anything.<br />
<br />
I wrote encouraging letters to Grace assuring her that we would be together again soon. I wrote.<br />
<br />
There were times, during that dark year, when I can't really understand how I wrote, but I did.<br />
<br />
I know that my mental well being depended on it. If I stopped writing I would collapse; I wouldn't be able to tell Grace that we were going to have our place (again), despite the fact that I was living in a corner of "Love's" apartment. I wouldn't be able to fantasize correctly.<br />
<br />
I wrote. And I'm still writing, with some of the same goals in mind.<br />
<br />
I saw a huge black pit open up in front of me when “Love” told me I would have to move out. The lease was designed for a certain number, and I was one too much. Management had taken notice of my rituals on the rooftop and my jaunty air about the joint.<br />
<br />
"Bone Daddy" was homeless again. Fortunately, I knew J.... Surely everyone should have at least one friend like J....<br />
<br />
J, the Packrat.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, you got a place here, if you can find a way to get in.”<br />
<br />
I cast around for other possibilities. I was willing to do any number of things to prevent myself from moving into J's space, what little there is of it.<br />
<br />
The thing that you have to understand about J is this; on the outside he appears to be "normal," but this is pure deception. One has to take a peek around the edge of the scenery to see the real person. His car is a bit more clogged with items in the back seat but that's only a hint.<br />
<br />
I was forced by circumstances to go into J's space. Come with me....<br />
<br />
The place would be as spacious as any street level loft, perhaps a grocery store without aisles, were it not so congested. The congestion starts at the entrance.<br />
<br />
The door opens and we are confronted by a curious mix of stuff crowding the aisle. There is a do it yourself wall on the left, bulging from the weight of the stuff on the other side. There is a motorcycle parked on the right side of the narrow aisle, and stuff parked on the motorcycle, and stuff piled on top of that stuff. Some of it is obviously useful; the cans of motor oil, ladders, car repair kits, futons, motorcycle helmets, mattress springs and stuff like that.<br />
<br />
But how useful are three four year old copies of the <b>LA Weekly</b> and miscellaneous other bits and pieces of this and that?<br />
<br />
Before I moved in with him, years before, visiting him, I became so claustrophobic I had to go back outside.<br />
<br />
But now it's a new day and I'm going to live in the incredible clutter.<br />
<br />
We feel things clutching and grabbing at us as we carefully thread through the jumbled entrance.<br />
<br />
It's almost impossible not to dislodge something, or trip over something as we walk the entrance obstacle course, which is about ten short yards.<br />
<br />
Ten short yards of pure clutter before we reach a fork in the passageway. An opening to the left reveals a large room, maybe twenty yards wide, thirty yards long, filled with every possible piece of stuff imaginable.<br />
<br />
A stuffed armadillo, a gumball machine, a full sized ten paneled window, photographic equipment (the brother is a professional photographer), stacks of boxes filled with all kinds of stuff, strips of film dangling here and there.<br />
<br />
There is a picture window, the kind you'd find in a Mom 'n Pop store, but this one has blinds and a metallic colored curtain hanging in front. Light comes through but there is no sense of its source.<br />
<br />
Standing there, looking at the metallic curtain, surrounded by heaping piles of old newspapers, newspaper racks, bags of ancient Chinese noodles, hat racks, a book case stuffed with what seemed to be files of some kind, file cabinets filled with dirty clothes, and God only knows what else, I felt like someone stranded on a desert island.<br />
<br />
The smaller room to the right is the most jammed of all. A desk that is piled three feet high with paperwork, old photos, books, prints, newspapers, memos on napkins, junk.<br />
<br />
In addition to a couple medium sized glass tanks where he keeps his pet lizards. In the middle of all this, he has two living creatures in these glass tanks.<br />
<br />
He feeds then what they eat, gives them water and talks to them occasionally. It seems so bizarre.<br />
<br />
The next room, also smaller, but with a higher ceiling might be called the nerve center of the establishment. There is an answering machine fax plainly visible under a pile of notes, candy bars, noodle packages, dirty socks, whatever.<br />
<br />
The television is centered in front of the weathered futon sofa, with the hifi ground into the same niche. A small computer is mounted adjacent to the television.<br />
<br />
Clothes that were laundromat-ed a year ago clutter the sofa, along with piles of junk mail, legal briefs, blankets, foot powder, etc.<br />
<br />
J clears a space for me to sit on and we sit there, jammed together like Siamese twins, watching the best of PBS. He loves movies and other visual stuff, as you would imagine a photographer would, and tapes every possible program that he can. It's almost as though he were trying to save TELEVISION.<br />
<br />
The racks on two walls are testimonials to his determination to record everything that passes through his hands. He has wonderful Japanese, French, Italian, Australian, African, Hungarian movies and documentaries but it is difficult for him to locate anything because there is no system with his arrangement, everything is everywhere.<br />
<br />
Onward to the next room, which is only slightly smaller than the front room. This is the "kitchen," but also a storage space for ancient sports jackets, odd bottles of exotically flavored liquors (watermelon schnapps, peach flavored brandy, chocolate flavored rum, ginger snap flavored whiskey), two year old copies of the L.A. Times, stuff so eclectic that it would have to be seen to be imagined.<br />
<br />
The "kitchen" also serves as a shower because there is no bathroom in the place. Bathing is done in a large plastic "boat.” It requires a little effort to learn the technique.<br />
<br />
I dug a shallow bed from the center of the clutter in<br />
<br />
the front room and cried myself to sleep every night for a month. I felt so bad about being so broke that I couldn't afford the rent for my own space.<br />
<br />
I was so bad off I had to ask J for help. I felt so low.<br />
<br />
Funny, complex kind of feeling.<br />
<br />
Here I am, "Bone Daddy, the Player," being forced to live in a junk pile, the most complex part of it had to do with J. He's a real brother, a true friend, a bit self-righteous maybe, but a heart that's this big. The big problem has to do with the fact that whatever he says, that's supposed to be logical, is invalidated by his illness.<br />
<br />
Yes, it is an illness and those of us who do not call him on it wind up being part of the sickness. I was part of the sickness for eight months.<br />
<br />
I became a part of it because I moved onto the set. I became a participant in the madness when I allowed my selfish needs to overcome the honest urge to talk with my friend, to help him deal with his massive denial of the fact that the environment he has created for himself (for whatever reason) is "abnormal."<br />
<br />
Each of us (his so-called friends) chose to suspend judgment of his ridiculous lifestyle (nowhere to sit, three people standing face to face, saving junk mail, plastic forks, spoons, vacuuming a few inches of space in front of the sofa with a mini vacuum cleaner, etc.) because of an affection for him.<br />
<br />
This affection for a quirky, giving, generous, complex human being, allows us to get what we want from him. What do I, we want? No critique of whatever our game is. In exchange, we are forced to surrender judgment of who he is.<br />
<br />
Why would an intelligent person stack mounds of stuff around himself? What series of events brought him to this point?<br />
<br />
The contradictions inherent to this lifestyle are incredible. He spends lots of time discussing other people's faults, but doesn't see the irony of the dysfunctional living space. Everything in the place is lost.<br />
<br />
I was under the impression, for a while, that he knew where everything was. I was amazed to discover that I remembered where some things were. It was so easy to put something down and have it dissolve into the crazy collage we were living in. How often did we search for his car keys, the television remote control, other odd items? No, he didn't know where everything was.<br />
<br />
And I could see the manifestations of that lostness in his daily life. The need to be everywhere at the same time, the mania of working to earn enough credit to buy enough stuff to be in debt for, and then to start the whole business all over again.<br />
<br />
I felt like a shyster lawyer, discussing the thin threads of a strange case, as we talked about the craziness of the world, standing a few feet from each other because there was nowhere to sit.<br />
<br />
I felt almost ashamed of us, sitting cheek to cheek on the sofa, trays placed under our heads like napkins, because there was no table, no place to really relax. It was like having dinner in the center aisle of a crowded New York subway.<br />
<br />
The good brother who would get up in the middle of the night to go to bat for you, but could not bear to hear the simplest advice he could hear -- “unload, brother! unload!”<br />
<br />
Don't you see: by surrounding yourself with things, with stuff, your mind will be stuffed with stuff? It's almost axiomatic. This has nothing to do with good or bad. Or right or wrong. But rather a closing off, a constipating of many of the good vibes that need clear channels to flow through.<br />
<br />
I prayed myself out of J's space. They were the most difficult prayers I have ever offered to my Ancestors, to the Orisa, to God. I prayed to be released from the burden of his hospitality and my prayers were answered.<br />
<br />
I would never be able to string the beaded circumstances together that gave me a spacious, furnished room in WLCAC's "Spanish House," a guesthouse used by WLCAC for people who are on the scene, doing something for WLCAC.<br />
<br />
Well, Cecil Fergerson was the catalyst and Teryl Watkins, the president of WLCAC, was the one who put the blessing on the cake.<br />
<br />
"O, you can live in the Spanish House. Rent? 0, well, that's enough...."<br />
<br />
So, now, here I am. From a foam mattress on the floor of J's junk pile to a furnished, five bedroom house (all mine when there are no guests around).<br />
<br />
From September, 1996 - April, 1997, J's. Now I have space to think, plan, strategize, write. My lease expires in December. If it hasn't happened by then, I'm going to request a full year. During the course of that time I will accomplish all of the things that I want to accomplish. How do I know I can do that?<br />
<br />
If I prayed my way out of J's space, I can do anything, even find a cure for my homeless condition.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>CHAPTER NINE</em></strong></div><br />
<strong>THE GYPSY IN ME (</strong>'Round trip to the Metro)...<br />
I don't know, maybe it stems from my nomadic childhood, this Gypsy thing, moving from one side of Chicago to the other side (the city only has three sides; the Southside, the Northside and the Westside. Lake Michigan is the eastside); before I was fifteen we, my mother and sister (Daddy was doing time in Statesville Penitentiary) had lived on all sides of the city, including a stay as far east as the Lake would allow.<br />
<br />
I didn’t feel put out by this constant shuffling of pads (evictions were the usual motivations for our motions), I was turned on. I hated the ratholes we burrowed into, for a week or a month, but I loved the scenes we wandered through.<br />
<br />
On the Southside I got to know a few Japanese kids at Oakenwald Grammar School, over there on Lake Park Avenue (Oakenwald was one of the 18 grammar schools I went to). Where did they come from? I didn't find out 'til many years later, they were refugees from the West Coast, hassled to find some degree of safety from Japanese haters.<br />
<br />
And the pimps and 'hoes (many people say whores). I knew where they came from. They turned tricks and lived in the building we lived in, for awhile, never too long, the Almo Hotel -- 3800 S. Lake Park Avenue.<br />
<br />
In tune with my nomadic side, the neighborhood, the buildings we lived in, the things that happened were never still, never stationery. Yes, the neighborhoods moved. Sometimes they would be Irish or Italian and change overnight to Black. Or Mexican, or Czechoslovakian.<br />
<br />
The building moved. A four story brick on Monday, a parking lot or a department store on Friday. I was in tune. It was like a Nature thing.<br />
<br />
Turning a corner was a voyage into the occult. Going to sleep and waking up in the same bedroom was an adventure.<br />
<br />
I crisscrossed the Southside like a White man who was in search of something to “discover.” There were moments in time when I was walking through a dream, experiencing the effects of something that I couldn't find a name for.<br />
<br />
On the Southside (which included the Lakefront, despite the fact; that it was east), there were collections, aggregations, congregations, glutamates, crowds of emotions, school units, ideas profoundly scholarly and hip men and women. Plus midnight carnivals with so much-much much music and life strengthening vibes that it was hard to sleep.<br />
The daytime promised and delivered daytime vibes and the nighttime promised and delivered nighttime vibes, and none of them were sleep invoking. I dream of the Southside as though it were a real place.<br />
<br />
And the same goes for the Westside (where I was born). The Maxwell Street Hospital was where it happened.<br />
<br />
Jewtown, they called it back then, and that wasn’t considered something derogatory or pejorative. It was where Jews lived, worked and hustled. I think the Jews help make the Westside my favorite side of town. It may have had something to do with their bread, or maybe it was the non protestant vibe.<br />
<br />
It took me a long time to find out where the Jews came from and what a Jew is. If I read the newspapers closely, it seems that they're having the same problems themselves – “What is a Jew?"<br />
<br />
I didn't have any doubts about the Gypsies. There was a Gypsy colony in Jewtown, down around Canal Street. I knew who they were, intuitively. The Jews had the bread I liked, but the Gypsies had the soul I loved.<br />
<br />
Day after day, I found an excuse to wander through their tiny neighborhood. Maybe three/four hundred people, and I still don't know if they were Spanish, Hungarian, Indian, Russian or what. But that was the drawing card for me, the fact that they never allowed national boundaries to fence them in.<br />
<br />
I stared into their mouths when they spoke, laughed at the music of songs I couldn't understand, but seemed funny because the singers made funny faces. And frowned when the sad music was played. I knew the blues when I heard it.<br />
<br />
The Gypsies hemmed me in with their stuff. They seemed to be ethereal. They were there and yet they were not there.<br />
<br />
Maybe the Maxwell Street Library offered a rationale for my hemming. I'll never know. I do know that it was a Bronzed Age chill racing through the streets, nipping cotton bound buttocks, that forced me into the two story building.<br />
<br />
A Library. I was twelve maybe, going on thirty, and had never heard of anything called a library not on the personal level, at any rate.<br />
<br />
A few minutes was all I needed to warm my mittenless hands in the vestibule (a place before you get into the a place, my definition of their definition), but that was enough to change my life forever.<br />
<br />
Someone was playing the piano upstairs -- "Dream Girl, Dream Girl, Awaken to me, 0 beautiful Dream Girl, awaken to me....”<br />
<br />
I followed the melody but never found it, or the pianist, and found myself in the Maxwell Street Library.<br />
<br />
I have to cool myself out even today, when I recall the excitement of walking into a room that was filled with books. In the warmth of the building I thought I was hallucinating, that maybe I had died in the Siberian cold of the Chicago winter and was reborn in a book bound Heaven.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
where was the Librarian? Maybe he/she was the piano/Circe who lured me into the Room of Books.<br />
<br />
I plunged and lunged through the stacks, leaving unread<br />
<br />
volumes behind me. And wound up with something called, "Romany Rye" and "Lawrence of Arabia.”<br />
<br />
Only God and the Orisa can say, what took me there, why I picked those books to read1 why I heard that melody in my head. “Romany Rye" was a sociological study of European Gypsies.<br />
<br />
I can't remember ~hat conclusions the book reached, or what the premise of the book was supposed to be. For me, it was a flight of birds flying higher than any mountain on earth, a glimpse at colors that shimmered in the sunlight.<br />
<br />
"Lawrence of Arabia" simply reinforced the romanticism I stumbled into the library with.<br />
<br />
I wasn't sophisticated enough to ask the Librarian's help to track down books about the Rom. I just simply stumbled blindly, from one occasional reference to a volume to another.<br />
<br />
Everything that I came across served to enhance my admiration for them, for a people who could dismiss borders by roaming the Earth, the way Human Beings should roam the Earth.<br />
<br />
During our own Gypsy period, in two grammar schools out of the eighteen we whipped through, I had two teachers, one African American and one White who asked me, "What would you like to be when you grow up?"<br />
<br />
And when I answered, "A Gypsy," the Earth stopped spinning for a minute. The Black teacher asked my mother to come up for a chat. The chat went on for awhile and I recall the teacher saying something about "identity” several times.<br />
<br />
My mother simply nodded, a neutral expression on her pretty little beige face. She knew her son.<br />
<br />
The White teacher who asked me the magic question turned slightly pink and stuttered, “But ... but they don't have any... any... anything."<br />
<br />
“They have Gypsy ways. That's what I like."<br />
<br />
The lady looked at me out of the corners of her eyes for the rest of the time (two months) I spent in her classroom. Guess she wanted to see if the Gypsy in me was going to bust out.<br />
<br />
Years later, in Spain, in the city of Alicante, on the southeastern coast, I became friends with a number of Gypsy people and for the first time in my life I realized I could never be a Gypsy. But I still feel like one.<br />
<br />
<em>Wandering.... Wandering.... Wandering.... Wander-ing.... Hmmm....</em><br />
*achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-30636908381771984462011-01-11T10:27:00.000-08:002011-01-11T10:27:03.260-08:00"Lady Bliss!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtY6aTvLPsTiu8_zfEbnmrqB5mNbmYCJnNMRdw4nMblHs2HBZYccDOSpoWThUNoO5DQoAo-uE3Io-EBIzB0wTb6jD822w-6_CMivzmEMy2mhqwN0QR83X-NOEI1BGASXMdzuG0rIe5Cgc/s1600/08_selita-ebanks_09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtY6aTvLPsTiu8_zfEbnmrqB5mNbmYCJnNMRdw4nMblHs2HBZYccDOSpoWThUNoO5DQoAo-uE3Io-EBIzB0wTb6jD822w-6_CMivzmEMy2mhqwN0QR83X-NOEI1BGASXMdzuG0rIe5Cgc/s320/08_selita-ebanks_09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><em>7 Male Astronauts, 30 Million Light Years from Earth! Sometimes it gets lonely in space.</em></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEEbA4TwvrinUGh9YIjwp8YOv6nYterRoaG2YbiAHOUUinmq7byoaTzYGZhyphenhyphenUI1FR69cLQcT6oENClGMXNlx8wQV7Iv2whVUVNyB3q_A11pNvpPobyuoGEj78oxBIP9qvgCvUQciy2Kb0/s1600/LadyBliss1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEEbA4TwvrinUGh9YIjwp8YOv6nYterRoaG2YbiAHOUUinmq7byoaTzYGZhyphenhyphenUI1FR69cLQcT6oENClGMXNlx8wQV7Iv2whVUVNyB3q_A11pNvpPobyuoGEj78oxBIP9qvgCvUQciy2Kb0/s1600/LadyBliss1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><em>Odie Hawkins "Lady Bliss" Available at Amazon.com</em></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><em></em></strong></div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-26592263189424646552011-01-11T06:00:00.000-08:002011-02-22T12:16:13.099-08:00Black and Brown on the Blue Line Chapters 1-4<div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Ym_oKXx0mwawANO17XnxYWI_GvtYjI7Nrm4gUVypqEuqllxqWOqp1u3tSFRtPAmLexuRkC7QWqQjxf6crK1J73_jMMudnPRIDBccnZ5Wm0KjTP8eN2yNzXsCVmGoGncpaMzZczExuvs/s1600/3294_1144450800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Ym_oKXx0mwawANO17XnxYWI_GvtYjI7Nrm4gUVypqEuqllxqWOqp1u3tSFRtPAmLexuRkC7QWqQjxf6crK1J73_jMMudnPRIDBccnZ5Wm0KjTP8eN2yNzXsCVmGoGncpaMzZczExuvs/s320/3294_1144450800.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>BLACK AND BROWN ON THE BLUE LINE AND OTHER STORIES</i></b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"></div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b>BY ODIE HAWKINS</b> </div><div align="justify"><b>Prologue...</b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">It would have been impossible to predict a Blue Line coming to live in the Los Angeles, Watts, 107th and Avalon Avenue, California that I (we, then) came to live in, back there in 1966.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">In Los Angeles County, many of us, pressed by circumstances, have suffered distances that would make a camel thirsty or cause a new car to need an oil change.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">There were people talking about putting trains on city tracks, no doubt. But I never heard their talks, I was too busy trying to force my raggedy ol’ car to run a few more miles. Or trying to figure out how I could walk from Belgium to Holland without peeing on myself.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">(Once upon a time, stranded beside a road to Eternity, down there in Orange County, someone told me that the property I was standing in front of was as large as Luxembourg. And I had walked across most of Austria to get there).</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Gotta admit it, I didn't have the vision to assume that there would ever be a railed transportation system, like our hard heeled CTA in Chicago. Certainly, nothing that would ever come close to that monstrosity that connects various tentacles of New York with itself.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Blue Line (and it’s crossing arms, the Green and Red Lines) is unique. It doesn't go very far; surely there's more railway at Disneyland, but it does take you to different places, if your mind is open.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">From the Metro station, 7th Street, Downtown Los Angeles, to 1st Street, Downtown Long Beach. From the end of one world to the end of another world.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Rich people do not ride the Blue Line, meaning that the Blue Line is there for people of color who are not wealthy. A hard core of White, working types ride the train in the morning, going to their jobs in downtown Los Angeles and again in the evenings.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">There is a heavy police presence (the train has it's own special police force), heavy. Lots of money invested in the Blue Line and none of the investors want to lose anything because of people being afraid to ride the train, or gang warfare.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Strangely, the honor system is in effect. Signs in English, Spanish and Korean explain that each passenger should have proof of payment, if not, the penalty is a stiff fine.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">No eating, drinking, smoking or outrageous behavior is permitted, and the rules are seriously enforced.</div><div align="justify"><br />
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</div><div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CyiP4zi3kvoXBxpNr1-mYgbcJENFzJU2Vrf6C_PtxQpn49dActtIUMnC5FoEKhyphenhyphenYT77eI_PETbnu7E0_s8dUE6iVZA1Ic6Mup9IC3eKeBhn4EjMGSCx92ja4V6CnIatNk6oZDrudmK4/s1600/untitled.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CyiP4zi3kvoXBxpNr1-mYgbcJENFzJU2Vrf6C_PtxQpn49dActtIUMnC5FoEKhyphenhyphenYT77eI_PETbnu7E0_s8dUE6iVZA1Ic6Mup9IC3eKeBhn4EjMGSCx92ja4V6CnIatNk6oZDrudmK4/s320/untitled.bmp" width="320" /></a></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Sometimes, for days on end, riding north and south, south and north, no one will check to see who has a ticket, a transfer or a bus pass (for train travel too), but the seed of obedience to the rules has been so deeply sowed that most sensible people know that it isn't worth the gamble to try to cheat the system.</div><div align="justify">African-Americans and Spanish speaking Brown skinned people ride the Blue Line. BLACK AND BROWN ON THE BLUE LINE comes from our experiences with each other. </div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>CHAPTER ONE</i></b><b><i></i></b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Babies/Infantile Thoughts <b>(From 7th to Pico)...</b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Babies, so many babies. Black and Brown babies, babies with attitudes, stoic babies, squawking babies, smiling babies, drooling babies, silly babies, laughing babies, funny babies, sad babies, frightened babies, fearless babies, sick babies, healthy babies, sleeping babies, clean babies, dirty babies, spoiled babies, unspoiled babies, little babies, big babies, all beautiful.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The babies are usually carried, but often pushed into the train in a stroller by women. But, from time to time, a man enters the vehicle with a baby in his arms.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">It would be emotionally dishonest to suggest that I was never attracted to babies, I think all curious people are attracted to these unusual creatures.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Blue Line offered me my first moving study of babies; their relationship to the person (persons) they are with, their relationship to themselves and the world at large.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Sadly, I must confess that I had to be cautious about how I looked at these innocent people. In today’s evil world there are people who would do harm to babies, and I never want to be mistaken for one of them.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">For that reason alone I was never able to make friends with any of the Blue Line babies. I feared the consequences of being too warm, too loving, too charmed by the babies.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Yes, that's what the world has come to. The men and women, however, who held the babies in their arms seemed to have an ambiguous attitude about friendly attention. They seem to like someone’s admiring glance or a friendly, "0, how cute she/he is,” but we were all too conscious of the mean spirits swirling around to feel totally at ease.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">I sat in place, stared whenever I dared and made mental notes.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The almond eyes of an eight month old clinched eyes with me. She has an absolutely round face and head and the look of a clairvoyant. She does not blink and seems to know something.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Eight months old. What can she possible know? I'm fascinated by the intelligence of her expression. She looks more intelligent than her mother and father even.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">I'm tempted to speak to her, to ask her serious questions about the world she just come from, but there is no need to disturb our telepathic communication, just to say some words.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Her mother, a small, beautifully sculpted lady, who has the profile of a face from an ancient Mayan wall notices our exchange and smiles.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Her smile seems to say, “Ahhhh yes, she is a deep child.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">I have to break the lock she has on my attention by staring out of the window for a few beats. I've had a couple of cats pull me into their psychic modes for spans of the time, the same way that the baby is doing. It's the opaqueness of their eyes, that seems to whisper everything you've ever wanted to hear.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">I turn back to discover that the mother, the father and the baby have disappeared. I make a quick, surreptitious search around the train. They're not there. We haven't come to the next station, they couldn't've gotten off the train.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">I’m forced to settle back and relax. Don't panic, simply the subject matter buzzing through my head that’s responsible for me imagining that I saw this baby. Just of my imagination. Yeah, right ...</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7mkTKik6yVR3idOldyqpvj4DLzJuOSPXgRbfCcWRNhPJTZoi9GmQprHqwzT2FF88Q0zJ2SNCi8njbhhFdZsV0j5P_LAOdXt9bfg1zJ6HXJ8ik5xwVajNmrFMyaT9rKjypjv1I2GEocA/s1600/sleeping-on-train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7mkTKik6yVR3idOldyqpvj4DLzJuOSPXgRbfCcWRNhPJTZoi9GmQprHqwzT2FF88Q0zJ2SNCi8njbhhFdZsV0j5P_LAOdXt9bfg1zJ6HXJ8ik5xwVajNmrFMyaT9rKjypjv1I2GEocA/s320/sleeping-on-train.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"The sleepers," I dubbed them, these extraordinary beings who have developed the ability to sleep through this world's chaos. How did they learn how to do it, at such an early age? Years later, rich people spend thousands of dollars, yeh, pesos, naira, cedis, pesetas, shekels, to find gurus to teach them how to do what they do.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">I stared at the baby, carefully noting the classic I-am-happy smile. Ten paces beyond it's stroller, within easy grasp of its mother's protective shielding arms, within the danger zone of a piece of social dynamite, the baby slept.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Ten of us, at least, were mentally/psychologically preparing ourselves to take the social dynamite down, if not out, if he got a micron too close to the smiling sleeper.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Fortunately, for him, he popped off at the next stop, cussin’ 'n screaming!</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The ten of us (it might1ve been twenty, counting the men) breathed a sigh of pure relief. Now, we won1t have to lynch a person with problems who was threatening Baby Space. Babydom was secure.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Suzuki (the Zen guy, not the motor guy), Ferlinghetti, and the hip Alan Ginsberg, knew a lot about Zen and being cool, but what did they know about sleeping babies on the Blue Line?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Day after day, I looked up from my reading of "Them is me" and "whatever that may be, is" and stared into the sleeping awake eyes of hundreds of "sleepers.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Don't they know what's happening in Zaire, Bosnia, Ireland, New Zealand, Russia, China, Hong Kong, Texas, Australia, Antarctica, Spain, New Jersey? Don't they realize the consequences of their sleeping?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Maybe they do, maybe they don't. We (been here much longer now) could easily rationalize what we understand about cool behavior by understanding how not behavior equates to nasty behavior. Usually.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"The Sleepers" have obviously worked themselves past all of this stuff.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They go to sleep when they're sleepy, and it's quite obvious to anyone who studies geopolitics, science, industry, economics, race relations, or any of the other Earthbound disciplines. That sleep is the ultimate solution to most of our shit.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Sad babies, funny babies, addicted babies. My daughter, Gabrielle, a mother, is responsible for revealing the natural addiction that babies are prone to suffer.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"What do you think that 2:00 A.M. feeding thing is all about?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">It makes all the sense in the world to me, this junkie pattern of behavior. They are not always hungry when they demand to be fed every four five hours, maybe it's something in the baby food.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Once again, Gabrielle points out, "Ever notice the difference between breast fed babies and bottle fed babies?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">I had to confess that I hadn't paid that much attention.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Well, check it out. Generally speaking, the breast fed doesn't seem to need as many feedings. They sleep sounder, give their parents more rest.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"The bottle fed baby has to have it NOW! And if they don't get it? . . . Well, you’ve seen the tantrums and all of that other negative behavior.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">What's in that formula anyway? Won't it be heart rending, twenty years from now, when some independent scientist reveals the secret ingredients that hooked our babies and created a junkie mentality for the rest of our lives?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The stoic ones most often held my attention longest. What's on their minds? What are they thinking about as they stare at this world they've just recently tumbled into headfirst?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Such a sophisticated expression for a year old face. How could they have learned how to be so cool in such a short time?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The babies with attitudes (see the Mussolini jut of the jaw and the pushed out bottom lip?), the squawking babies, the drooler, the silly ones, the delighted with life laughing ones (what is in that formula?), the frightened babies, the fearless babies who will stick their hands into a Rotweiler's mouth, or whip a rattlesnake around by the tail, the sick babies, the healthy babies, the clean and dirty ones, the spoiled, unspoiled ones and the big ones, all beautiful, all delightful mysteries. What are they going to become?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><b>Artesia...</b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEPKqZuSUApXWDMaCMhBth-HLFHsgG-4t813yuYj7gUmVnbwYRHTPGOc0LhVYQfwUdo3W24j0IIC4IGkrRVXbKd4nHHFnpGdUXzRNaLG-6dx9z5uxSlb2tVPqc5TR4OkRI940N-RSGpI/s1600/Artesia.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEPKqZuSUApXWDMaCMhBth-HLFHsgG-4t813yuYj7gUmVnbwYRHTPGOc0LhVYQfwUdo3W24j0IIC4IGkrRVXbKd4nHHFnpGdUXzRNaLG-6dx9z5uxSlb2tVPqc5TR4OkRI940N-RSGpI/s320/Artesia.bmp" width="209" /></a></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They were obviously upper middle class Anglos who were being forced to ride the train, probably for the first time. It was obvious in every move they made, every glazed, blue eyed look they gave the Black and Brown people on the train.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">A tall, blonde, blue eyed man, the father, a shorter, blue eyed brunette, the mother, and a boy and girl who were almost Xerox copies of their parents.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They formed a private kraal with the two seats they occupied. The parents held the children in their laps as though they were going to escape1 or be captured.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The children, full of Sugar Pops and White bread Anglo upraising, squirmed uncontrollably, unaccustomed to being restricted by their parents. And while they squirmed, they released a stream of revealing commentary.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Ooohh Mom! Look It's a river!”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"That's not really a river, Judy, that's kind of a large drainage ditch ... water...”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"You were right, Dad, there's a lot of niggers ‘n spics on the train."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The father pretended that he hadn't heard his son say what he had said, and at the same time slipped a garden calloused hand over the boy’s mouth.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"The niggers ‘n spics on the train," their racial remotes already tuned to the scene, exchanged sarcastic expression.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Which ones are the niggers ‘n which ones are the spics?" Judy asked her manually silenced brother.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Her brother squirmed and tried to pull his father's hand from his mouth. He succeeded.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Stop! stop it, Dad, I can't breathe!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The parents had developed a fiery glow on both sides of their faces and at the back of their necks. They gave the impression of having been stricken by hot flashes.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Uhhh, what time is it, Sally?" the father asked his wife, ignoring his own watch.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Um, approximately, 4:12 .. .uhh...4:13.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The children exchanged puzzled expressions. They were not sure of what to make of their parents behavior.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Look, Judy, Bud! Look down there! You can see cars on the freeway.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Their voices had a nervous, metallic edge, a bit too loud. The other people on the train, those who were within hearing range, paid close attention.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">A young White woman who had been pretending to read a book was now pretending to take a nap.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Mommy, which ones are the gangbangers?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The sheer velocity of the children's questions ruled out the possibility of stifling them.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The reddish glow on the parents cheeks spread to their suddenly moist foreheads. How long is it going to take for us to get to the Metro transfer point, f' Godsakes!?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yeh, Dad, where are the gangbangers?”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">And now we're at the Imperial station where all of the baggiest pants, the most bizarre har styles and the creme de la creme of gansta rap, Hip Hop fashion piles on, complete with a style of talking that was once considered low, even in the low places.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The two teenaged brothers, one cue balled, the other braided, carried on a conversation that they had started on the station platform.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"So, hey, I tol' the bitch she could suck my motherfuckin' dick, you know what I mean?!”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"You shoulda kicked that bitch's ass!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">A middle aged African American woman, with a look of intense sadness, leaned her grey head against the window. My sons...</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The White couple and their children stared at the mouths of the two young men talking, shocked speechless.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I did kick her fuckin' ass! but that was last week – this was about suckin' my dick, you know what I mean?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">An older African American man, with hard lines in his face, and tobacco stains on his teeth, leaned across the aisle and spoke to the White couple in a firm baritone.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"These are not niggers, spics or gangbangers. These are our children."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The gray haired sister turned in the direction of his voice and nodded in agreement.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Fuck you think she did?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">We Ain't All Mexican, Brothers...</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The chocolate brown face was as flexible as a dramatist's pen, but it only reflected distress. The distress was caused by the sounds that rippled all around him.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He glanced at the profile of the beige skinned woman sitting beside him, who was talking to her girlfriend across the aisle, and frowned.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">And the frown deepened as the conversations mostly in Spanish, bobbed and weaved around his ears. Clearly, this fifty year old African American man with the salt and pepper mustache and hair was annoyed.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He glanced with relief as the woman sitting beside him stood to exit the train. His glance of relief gave way to a smile of welcome as an African American man, perhaps ten years his junior, slid into the seat that the woman had vacated.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They nodded to each other as the brothers will do, when they are acknowledging each other's presence.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The rippling conversations in Spanish seemed to escalate at the Compton station. The older man began to do a solovoice grumble, tacitly assuming that the man sitting next to him was an ally, or at least neutral. The older man released his grousy commentary from the corner of his mouth, San Quentin prison style.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"That’s all I hear, day in ‘n day out, Spanoli, Spanoli, Spanoli, Spanoli ... It’s like this ain't even America no mo'. You don't even hear English, 'less you goin' to school or somethin'."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He paused to take a hard look at the profile of the man seated next to him, as though to measure the level of interest the man was showing. The man's mental expression was an incentive for him to continue his low level complaining.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"They takin' our jobs, O.K.? You hear what I'm saying, they takin' our jobs.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The younger man, a darker version of the man who was complaining, turned to look at his seatmate. It was the spur that the older man needed.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"That's right, they takin' our jobs. Pretty soon, the whole place will be Mexican. What about that?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The “question" was more an affirmation of the man’s question, than the quest for an answer.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Well, my friend, I don' know about that."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"And them that ain't takin' our jobs is on welfare, bleedin' us, the American taxpayer to death....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I don' theenk ..."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Too many babies, hell, just look around you, looks like most of these Mexican women is having three babies a year....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The older man overpowered the younger man’s attempt to speak.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Too many babies! You hear what I'm sayin'? Too many babies. Pretty soon the whole state ain't gon’ be nothin' but Mexicans."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Look, my friend, I don' agree with what you are sayin'."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The complainer stared at his seatmate.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Sounds like you got a lilt bit o' an accent yourself. Where you from?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Ha-bana."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Ha bana? Where's that?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Coo-ba," the man answered with a big smile.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The complainer turned to stare out at the cityscape flickering by and muttered, "Damn! You one of 'em too.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"We ain't all Mexican, brother", the man replied in his slightly accented English.</div><div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqF97ONYMr4HfCPgKqby2qrwwQxSPEB7HBTdtuxN5E5prs24R0juYWBkVKTuX9WMnPBmpMNzDi6C2Y8ez_PdQIrn1yHCpwGSFfZasqI10Tb1PfHzL6eKIaWmJMxXJLdvKiHdXR2FI-HuA/s1600/BloodZnCripZ.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqF97ONYMr4HfCPgKqby2qrwwQxSPEB7HBTdtuxN5E5prs24R0juYWBkVKTuX9WMnPBmpMNzDi6C2Y8ez_PdQIrn1yHCpwGSFfZasqI10Tb1PfHzL6eKIaWmJMxXJLdvKiHdXR2FI-HuA/s320/BloodZnCripZ.png" width="260" /></a></div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Gangbanger and the Fool, a Detour...</i></b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He stomped onto the train eating (curling his right forefinger into a can of crabmeat); that's a no no, punishable by a $250 fine. He was cussing some imaginary figure in his life. He may have been high from something or other, but maybe not; he was all of the negative stuff, that's what the vibes radiating from his hard shell told us.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">We tightened our emotional seat belts, we were going to be forced to go a few stations with a Nasty One.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Nasty One seems to be an "EL A" phenomenon, it may have something to do with the distances and the vibes that the neighborhoods cast off on the vehicles rolling through. It can get downright messy on the Western Avenue bus, going south or the Wilshire bus going east or west.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Nasty One (infrequently two) is not as often experienced on the Blue Line, the Metro cops sift out most of the rough riders, but occasionally a Nasty will slip through.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Medium tall, brown skinned man, about thirtyish needing a shave and a bath. There was nothing about him that was intimidating, other than the grating sound of his voice.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Collectively, the few Whites reddened, stared harder at their newspapers/books, and gave every sign of praying that the police would pop onto the train at the next station. The Brown people ignored him, just another Negro loco. The Black people were trying to wish him away. The wish was like a stiff breeze blowing through the train.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">No one wanted to tell him to shut up and sit down. No one cared enough about him to say anything to him, and it fed him jolts of insecurity.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"So, what did I say?! I said ‘fuck 'im.’ That what I said ‘fuck 'im.’”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">A clever attention seeking fool. He turned his rhetoric down to a whisper as the train paused to admit new passengers and discharged old ones, doing a quick scan to determine if there were undercover cops on the scene.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Satisfied that he wasn’t being spied on, he revved himself back up as soon as the doors closed and the train eased on down the track.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yeah! Fuck 'im and fuck yo' momma too. Yeahhh, that's what I said!”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Hey man, why don't you stop usin' all that bad language 'n shit around these women 'n children 'n shit 'n sit yo' ass down somewhere?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The voice was coming from the seat in front of me. It was a silky voice but strong and definite.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Nasty One paused in his parade through the aisle, blinking in surprise. We were all surprised. The surprise stemmed from the source of the voice.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">A young brother, his pants as low on his butt as they could possibly be without dropping to his knees, was the speaker.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“What?! What?! You talkin' to me young niggah?!”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The young man, muffled in his Mount Everest gansta rap jacket, twisted his eyes to make a peripheral glare. Seated behind him, I took note of the malevolence of his wall eyed threat.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He didn't move his head as he answered, "Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. I said ... why don't you sit yo' ass down somewhere?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Two young Black women, red nailed and stylishly coiffed, their waistlines and belly buttons fashionably bared, stared at the young man with the silky voice.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Nasty One immediately sat on the first seat he could find, the elderly handicapped seat beside the door blustering in a softer tone!</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Who the fuck you think you are?! How you gon' tell me what to do?”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The young man rose half way from his seat and made a waist band adjustment. It was impossible, from my angle to see what he was adjusting.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I just said you oughta stop usin' all that foul language ‘n shit! That's want I said. You wanna make something outta that?!”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Incredibly, a clean field between the two people opened like something had cleaved it. It was “Git down time" and the Nasty One instantly reverted to being the Fool, the Clown who didn't really mean anybody harm.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Awwww, hold on now, young brother ... looks like you wanna take this seriously. I mean, c’mon now, ain't no sense in takin' this too seriously. You know what I mean?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Now I know you a gangbanger ‘n all that but you don't have to take it out on me....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Fool (formerly a Nasty One) pushed his voice into the begging zone by elevating his tones to a higher level. The fear that drove him to cop a plea was almost comical, it showed in his rapidly blinking eyes.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"All I'm saying to you is this, shut the fuck up!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Hey, you got it, my brother ... whatever you say."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The train slid into the Florence station without another word being spoken, by anyone.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b>CHAPTER TWO</b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><i>Familiar Strangers</i></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">It's a sociological term, "familiar strangers," and maybe a concept too.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">Lots of familiar strangers ride the Blue Line every day. We see each other but we don't know each other.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">The El Salvadorians see the Mexicans, the Mexicans see the Koreans, the African-Americans see the Hondurans, the Whites see the Panamanians, but no one really knows anything about anybody else, unless they've taken the time to make the extraordinary effort to find out who the familiar strangers are.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">It was a gentlemanly thing to do when the books and papers slipped out of her hands and splashed at his feet, he bent down to gather up the spill.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">"Oh, thank you."</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">"No problem."</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">He made a neat package of the papers and handed it to her. The other passengers took not of his chivalry and smiled with approval.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">The young woman held the notebooks and papers in her lap, leaned her head against the window of the train and nodded off again. The young man seated next to her surreptitiously studied her profile.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">This is a fine sister here.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">Her full lips and long eyelashes held his attention longest, and the voluptuous, but shapely figure inside the nurse's white coat and pants.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">The books and papers slid from her lap again. Again, the gentleman bent: to pick them up.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">"0 thank you, I’m sorry...."</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">"Ain't no problem, no problem at all....”</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">He made an orderly job of it, pausing to make certain that he was placing things in the order she had dropped them in.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">“That’s O.K.," he answered and directed his attention to the passing scenes. Yeahh, this is a really fine sister here. What is she, a Mexican?</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">Two stations later she stood to exit, offering her tight white smile.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">“'Scuse me, this is my place.”</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">"This is where you get off, huh?"</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">"Yes."</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">"Awright, take it easy now and hold on tight to your books ‘n stuff.”</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">The sound of her clean belled laughter fluttered back to him as she made her exit.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">He waved to her as she walked past his window, she waved back, and made a little drama of clutching her books to her breasts.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">Herb slumped down into the worn interior of his mother's easy chair, indulgently remoting from one channel to another.</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: left;">“Stupid ass people putting all of their business in the streets. Wonder how much they get paid for spilling their guts like this?"</div><div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXGv7oP5Dt2ZPAawoPzdc6vfRYe3n8btgGtejU-mfyuLP5-fVLA-a5Ft07hjTS4HvUfrseElYFW5V8Jbxt9nRn27aFPzD3eiRXDMnrC2PCvEliWC3prtkGo_GCS3OHsumx9VL7N8KXg-8/s1600/pop+up.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXGv7oP5Dt2ZPAawoPzdc6vfRYe3n8btgGtejU-mfyuLP5-fVLA-a5Ft07hjTS4HvUfrseElYFW5V8Jbxt9nRn27aFPzD3eiRXDMnrC2PCvEliWC3prtkGo_GCS3OHsumx9VL7N8KXg-8/s320/pop+up.bmp" width="191" /></a></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“He knew I was a transsexual."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“How did he know?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"'Cause T told him!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Well, how did it go today?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Herb popped out of his slump.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Oh, hi, moms, you caught me checkin' the freakies out again.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yeah, you have to be careful of that stuff, it can become addicting. Put Oprah on. Well, how did it go?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Herb remoted Oprah Winfrey on and clicked the volume way down.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Not good, not bad. I went to a few places, filled out applications 'n stuff. This one place looks promising, I had a chance to talk with the manager and he didn't seem to be too upset about me havin' a record.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“You're a young man, he said, a young man will make mistakes. I was a young man once myself.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"That's what he said. It don't mean that he's gonna hire me but he sounded sympathetic anyway.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Well, that's better than nothin'. You eat yet?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Nawww, I was waitin' for you to come."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She patted him on the cheek and strolled to the kitchen.</div><div align="justify">"Turn Oprah up a bit while I'm in here. I'll fix us a couple of sandwiches."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Herb remoted the sound of Oprah Winfrey's show up and settled back, his mind miles away from the scene in front of him.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">That sure was a fine young lady on the train today, a fine young lady.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He gazed around the room. Mom's really likes to keep things neat.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Herb, you want lemonade or milk?”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Lemonade or milk? She must still think I'm ten years old. Forty ounces would be more my style.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Uhhh, lemonade is O.K., Moms."</div><div align="justify">He took a hard look at his mother as she re entered the room with a tray of sandwiches and two tall glasses of lemonade. She placed the tray on a cocktail table and sat on the sofa near her son.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She must've been a beautiful sister in her day, she's still a beautiful sister.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Herb?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yeah, Moms?'</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Listen to me close. I'm not gon’ repeat myself.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He remoted the sound down without taking his eyes from his mother's face.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"It's hard out there for a young Black man. We all know that. You just got out of jail which is gonna make things a little bit harder, but I don't want you to give up on yourself. O.K.?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"O.K. Moms ... with you in my corner I know everything is gon' be awright.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Good, now turn it up a little and let's hear what Oprah is talking about today."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They both reacted with pleased expressions to see each other on the Blue Line again.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Hey, how you doing?! You still stuff all over the place?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The bell toned laughter unsettled he was so close to it.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Ohhh noooo, I’m O.K. now. It's just that I was sooo sleepy that day. I had been studying for my exams and you know, with this other job, I was ... how you say .. exhaustedly."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">It was his turn to laugh. Exhaustedly. she means "exhausted." A cute lil' accent...</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"So what's up? I mean, you know what do you do?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Five minutes later, he felt "exhaustedly" from listening to her describe her six day grind of student nurse's aid studies part time waitress regime.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Wowww! You be doin' a lotta stuff, huh?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She nodded her head in agreement. This guy really understands what I'm going through.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They continued chatting, with long pause lines in between spurts of conversation.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"So, you say you from Nicaragua? That's near Brazil, right?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"0 no, eets en Central America.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Now I gotcha, its between North America and South America."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Well, almost like that, eets below Mexico.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Herb felt at ease talking to this young woman from Nicaragua. She's about taking care of business, I like that.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She nodded with her chin to the exit as the train slowed to her stop.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"This is my place.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"When will I see you again?,” he asked impulsively. She look stunned for a moment and then lowered her eyelashes as she answered.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I am riding the Blue Line about this time almost every day.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Well, I'll see you then....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She raised her eyelashes and gave him a curious look but she didn't say anything. Herb felt a moment of desperation as the train come to a stop.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Uhh, what's your name?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Blanca, Blanca Cruz Somoza."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I'm Herb Finley.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She barely touched his outstretched hand and fled to the exit. Passing his window on the station platform, she responded to his off eye wink with a shy sprinkling of her fingers.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">About this time... uhh huh.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Herb spent the rest of the week going from one job interview to another.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Now then, Mr. Finley, you state here on your application</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">that you are on parole?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I'm on parole, yes, but I didn't commit any crime, I was framed!”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Oh, I see....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">About this time almost every day....</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He raced from his last job interview to take the train he thought she would be on. He rode from one station to another, got off the train, rode back the other way for three station stops and repeated his actions.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">About this time almost every day, huh?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Herb, you got a call from this computer training center, man named Steiner, wants you Lo call him back."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Heyyy, that’s the one I told you about, remember, who said young men make mistakes...."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I got my fingers crossed and I'm goin' to say a prayer or two for you.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Thanks, Moms, I need all the help I can get."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Two weeks later Herb Finley was a member of Class Two Thousand, a test group of young people of several ethnic backgrounds who had been chosen to participate in a pilot work study program.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Mom, it's the Bomb! You hear me, it's the Bomb!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I knew you could do it, Herby, I knew you could do it!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He saw the reflection of her face in the train window as she sat beside him, loaded with notebooks and folders.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Hey, Blancha ..."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"No, eets Blanca".</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"That's what I mean, how you been? I thought I had missed you."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I've seen you two, three times but you were that and I was here and the train was going, you know."</div><div align="justify">"So, how you been? I just got a gig in a program. Things is looking good for me. Real good ..."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She looked at him with real interest for the first time.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Nice guy, he's so enthusiastic about life.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Blancha. 0 sorry, Blanca, I'm just runnin' off at the mouth. I haven't given you a chance to say nothin'.... That Mexican couple there, why are they giving us the stink eye?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I have nothing to say....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They look out of the window at the familiar scenery for a few beats, before Herb could jack up the courage to speak again. He spoke in a low voice, almost as though he were doing a monologue.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Look, I know I'm a stranger and all that, but I'm a nice guy, I got friends who'll testify to that.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“I'm not the kind of dude who chases after girls all the time and stuff like that. As a matter of fact, I don’t even have a girlfriend.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I don't know what your situation is 'cause I didn’t want to got into your business ‘n stuff...."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Blanca nodded quietly, to indicate that she too was unattached.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Actually, all I'm saying is that it would be nice to have a real conversation with you, you know when we’re not on the train. Maybe we could... uhh ... stop off and get a hamburger and a coke or something....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She took careful note of the small beads of sweat that ringed Herb’s forehead, and clinically recorded the phenomenon as a result of nervous agitation. Her station was next.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yes, maybe we could have a conversation</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">This is America and I’m twenty three years old. I shouldn't have to have Mama and Papa approve of every action I make. What did they say when Roberto came home with the Jewish girl? Nada. They looked at each other, but no one said anything.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The train was sliding to a stop.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Well, uhh, when? I mean, you got a number? I can call you."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She stood at the edge of the seat, lurching a bit as the train ground to a stop.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I'm riding the Blue Line about this time almost every day."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The big smile she gave him destroyed his developing protests.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I'm looking forward to seeing you, O.K.?'</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yes, I also," she answered boldly, surprising both of them.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Herb was tempted to escort her to the exit, but held himself in check. That wouldn't be cool. No that wouldn't be cool at all.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">On the platform she turned to pantomime -- see you -- and blew a very shy kiss to him from the tips of her fingers.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Herb stared at the gesture, his lower jaw open with delight and surprise. “Wowww!”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He made careful note of the time frame and the station. I'm gon’ really surprise her tomorrow. Think I better hit the geography book tonight and find out where Nicaragua is.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b>CHAPTER THREE</b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Donna took the last sip of her espresso, glanced at the mounted on the obelisk in front of the Long Beach City tossed her empty cup into the trash bin on the station platform and stepped into the Los Angeles bound Blue Line train.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">It took her a moment to decide where to sit. She made several considerations: It's two o'clock, the sun won't be too hot if I sit on the west side of the train and it won't get crowded until we get to Compton.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She stayed out of the train window, thinking with Katie.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“0, you didn't drive? I'll take you home.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"No problem, the Blue Line is cool, it gives me a chance to mingle with the people.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I guess that’s the social activist in you. I try to avoid ‘the people’ as much as I can, especially these days."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Why?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"They're dangerous, haven't you heard?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She smiled, thinking back to her "Let's do lunch Thursday” – with her sorority sister, Kate Adams Johnson.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“I’ve thought about asking Frank to change his name a half dozen times. What could sound more common than Adams Johnson?”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Kate was always fun to share a few hours with, take in a show, have lunch at one of the upscale places on 3rd and Pine, drink a couple glasses of wine, discuss their lives.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"So how does it feel to be past the change?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"You tell me, sister you went first.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They could joke with each other like sisters, share memories from their college days and beyond.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Donna, if anyone had ever tried to force me to believe that you and Fred would ever divorce...”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I know, it seems unreal to me too, but you know how it is with a lot of men when they start feeling old. They'll do anything to fight off the inevitable. I think, for most of them, that they see a younger woman as a testimonial of their youth or something.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Well, I'm not having any of that out of Mr. Johnson, I've served firm notice."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She closed her eyes and tilted her face slightly to catch the sun.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Girlfriends. There used to be six of us, now there's only two of us, a little older, a little wiser, a little heavier. She and Kate took pride in being "fifty some years old" with firm waistlines and no double chins.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I think it's stupid to be running around with your thighs rubbing together, don't you?"</div><div align="justify">Donna Hightower opened her eyes as the train lurched into motion and looked at her reflection in the window. You're right, Kate, you're right.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Riding the Blue Line was a bit like sight seeing for her.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She never felt bored by the trip from Long Beach to Slauson, always something to see, a story to watch.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Donna, you ought to be a writer, you know that. You see stories everywhere you go." That's what her ex husband used to tell her.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She studied the faces and postures of the people who got on and off the train. God, some of the ugliest people are making some of the most beautiful babies. Beautiful babies.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Uncouth teenagers who talk as though their mouths were sewers and prop their feet in the seats.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Well, how can you blame them for the way they act, no home training. My parents would have killed me would allow me to behave like that.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Hmmmmm ... not as many crazies as they have on the busses.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">It goes to show you what can be done by adding a few policemen making some serious rules.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Her heart swelled into her throat when the man stepped into the train. He strolled up the aisle and sat in a seat on the opposite side of the aisle, diagonally from hers.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She made an oblique study of his profile, feeling a quick rush of heat dampen her temples. Am I having hot flashed, or is it him?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Jim Brown, the man who "made the earth move" for her, twenty five short years ago.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He looks good, just about the way I would expect him to look today. She took careful note of the trim waistline.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Don't you just hate these middle aged men who look like they're pregnant?!”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Now be nicer Kate, we have a lot of women running around here, looking like they're pregnant too."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yeahhh, but they have a right to look that way they have been pregnant.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The firm chin, that gray at the temples, the serious expression I always loved. Did I love him."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The man in the seat next to her stood up to exit. Donna leaned across the aisle to tap Jim Brown on the shoulder, panicking for a moment at the idea that she might be mistaken.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">There's a vacancy here, mister," she said with a seductive smile. She took the turn he made toward her, and the joy of his expression in slow motion.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Donna!! Donna!! I don't believe this!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The people who turned to stare at the returned to reading their books, newspapers and staring out of the window when they realized that they were not witnessing a fight.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He held her at arm's length after a long, fervent hug and an ardent kiss that landed dangerously close to her mouth.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"This is unbelievable! I was just thinking about you yesterday, as a matter of fact.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"And what, pray tell? were you thinking?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He squeezed her hand "same ol' Donna, right on the point. You haven't changed at all.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Are you serious?" Are you saying you don't think I've changed since you left me to go do your thing in Washington, D.C.?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I didn’t leave you, Donna. I hate to hear you put it like that.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"How would you put it?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The euphoric bounce of their meeting again on the Blue Line in Los Angeles after twenty five years, suddenly did a spiral. She could feel it.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I think it was a matter of misplaced priorities, now that I look back at it. I thought the position I was going to take in Washington, D.C. was going to be more important then....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"More important than me?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The train slid to a stop, disgorged passengers and sucked other in before he answered!</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yes, to be honest about it. But you have to remember that you had told me a half dozen times that you weren't ready for a full fledged commitment. Remember?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The train was a little more crowded, a few more stroller clogged the entrance/exit. Three more stations.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"And so, you got married too."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I needed someone."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He said the words with so much feeling she wanted to put her arms around him and tell him... yes, I understand.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"And you got married too."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She nodded yes.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"And I've been divorced for five years now. And you?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"She died two years ago, lung Cancer. She just couldn't stop puffing.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The train seemed to be flying through space for a few moments. They were engulfed by silence, despite the fact that they were surrounded by people making all kinds of noises.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Sorry to hear about that ... her. I really am. Well, this is my stop coming up.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He stood to exit with her, brushing past the people boarding the train.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"You transferring here too?”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"No, I'm getting off to talk to you.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They stood on the high platform at Slauson, staring into each other's faces as though they had experienced a miracle.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"You know I never expected to see you again. Am I making you late for something?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"No, well, I've got an appointment downtown and I'll be late, but it doesn't matter, they can't do it 'til I get there.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They exchanged understanding smiles. Still in control, huh></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Can I call you? Maybe we could have dinner together? Maybe this evening?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She broadened her smile. Same ol' Jim, always ready for action.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Are you sure you want to see me again? Remember, I'm the same ol' Donna, I haven't changed....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I hope so".</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He opened his arms to embrace her as the horn sounded, announcing that his train had arrived.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b>CHAPTER FOUR</b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Siren on the Metro (Transfer)...</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Even on a crowded bus in would've been very hard to ignore Darrilyn. It had something to do with the warm aura that seemed to halo her graceful movements.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She was not tall but she seemed to be. She was not classically beautiful by anybody's standard, but she was gorgeously seductive. Her appeal was inter denominational, international, wholistic.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Asians saw her as an Asian, the African Americans saw her as Black, the Latinos saw her as one of them and the Whites took her at face value. Her basic appeal was to men, but there were also a number of women who found themselves orbiting in her atmosphere.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Darrilyn rode the Wilshire Blvd. bus, east and west, at least twice a day, a complete boomerang.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Perhaps she was going somewhere or maybe she wasn't. She was definitely leaving a string of illusioned men (and women) in her wake.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She had an artless technique that was constructed by having eye to eye contact with the one she had chosen. But she could also carry off the same business with a swanish turn of her head, or by channeling charged emotions into the languid movement of a flexible wrist or into a heaven blessed smile.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She carried business cards that identified her as a professional astrologer -- “See the stars with Darrilyn." And from time to time she placed one of her cards in the hands of a prospective "client." A number of men were pleasantly surprised by her card, a few were honestly bewildered, but no one was ever known to refuse to accept her offering.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">This was taking place within the Los Angeles bus system. The Metropolitan Transportation Authority, a gulag that closely resembled all of tbe other large city bus-gulag-systems, reflecting the fast forward insanity of large city living on wheels.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Cliques of criminally insane people ride the bus, grinding their mad teeth, slobbering, arguing with invisible foes, threatening to blow themselves up and everything around them, dynamite heads.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Molesters of all types; child, animal, plant, environment.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Crazy people with no criminal intentions whatsoever, bring their lice spliced blankets, their unwashed bodies and their ragged, greasy slimy clothes on board.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They also talk to invisible beings. Men step on dressed as women, women as men, in between types cross dress.</div><div align="justify">People sit in configured seats, nursing grudges from past centuries. People sit next to each other, weeping from internal pains that have become exquisite.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Old people think thoughts of times and places that are as distant and foreign as the moon. Young people speak and act in ways that are so incomprehensible to the old people that they blot them out of their conscious minds.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Foreigners, all are foreigners, speak about life on the bus, on Earth in America, as though it were unlike anything they've ever known. They can't believe that so many bad spirited people could be in one place at the same time.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">No doubt about it, the bus functions as a space ship on ground, filled with spaced out Earthlings, Darrilyn is just one of them.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Uhhh, excuse me please, is this seat taken?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The tall Mexican man with the Pedro Armendanz eyes and mustache, who gave every sign to indicate that he thought of himself as a "ladies man," stared at the voluptuous creature leaning toward him.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The bus is half empty and she wants to sit next to me,this beautiful woman. I am truly blessed today.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He managed to perform a gracious media Veronica whileseated. Darrilyn slid into the vacant seat, trailing diaphanous scarves and Chanel No. 5.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The bus, staggering from stop to stop, had become a sports car, flitting from block to block. The man felt heat rush from the follicles in his scalp down to the bottle neck in his bikini briefs. “Ahhhh, this one, what can I say to her?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I must introduce myself, I am Juan Carlos Fuerte."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"And I am Darrilyn."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She placed her hand in his and caressed it with a shake. Juan Carlos Fuerte burned a hole in her face with his eyes. This is the woman of my dreams.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She looks Spanish, not Mexican, Spanish. Or maybe Argentine. Does she speak Spanish?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Do you speak Spanish?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Only enough to get me in trouble.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Their faces glowed with smiles for each other. The man was certain that he had fallen in love with the woman. And vice versa. It was there for all to see.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Then, we will have to say what has to be said in Ingles," he said in a passion driven, husky whisper.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yes, I suppose so", she replied, lowering her voice to match his. And folded her hands between her things as though she were in church. The graceful folding of her hands and the placement almost caused Juan Carlos Fuerte to speak Spanish.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“You know you are a very beautiful woman."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He felt her melt into the seat beside him, his words had done it. He felt the urge to use many, many words, to overwhelm this gorgeous creature with words and then jump off of the bus, transfer and go to this nice little room his friend had in East Los Angeles.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Everything about you excites me, your perfume, your clothes, the way you are, everything....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Juan, you say the most beautiful things to me, I've never heard anyone talk like this before.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He stroked his mustache and gently reached between her thighs to grasp both of her hands in his hands.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Maybe you have never heard these things before because we have never met before. Darrrilina...”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Darrilyn, my name is Darrilyn."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Ah, yes, Darrilyn, the woman who has come to me out of a dream...."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He slipped his arm to the cusp of her shoulders and immediately withdrew it. I mustn't let one of Maria’s nosy friends catch me. Darrilyn gave him an oblique, coy look.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Darrilyn, listen, I have a wonderful idea."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yes?”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She seemed so eager to share his feelings, so reasonable, so honest, so ... sexy.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Why don't we go somewhere together, me, you, just the two of us?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She answered him with the same sense of urgency in her voice.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Where? Where would you like to go with me, Juan?”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She's a woman, she's not a girl. She doesn't act like a girl, but she doesn't really make me feel like she's a loose thing either. I'll take a chance, I'll speak my mind.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Uhhh, I was thinking we could go to this place, it's like a friend's house, you know? It's not too far from here.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">There were no other passengers on the bus now. They had all been bubbled out, forgotten, dismissed.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The speeding sports car had jetted to a halt, waiting for the green light words to speed it off again. Darrilyn gently pulled her hands out of Juan's smoky clutches.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Juan, as much as I would like to, I can't go with you....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He held himself in check for a full beat, listening for “because." It never came. She simply stopped at "I can't go with you....”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"May I ask why?” he asked, and wedged himself closer to her. She turned toward him with a bright, feverish look in her eyes.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I'm a professional astrologer.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_Hc0hw3yln5bX8drjBh5VJRdWrrs8Ya_h7ZR2Z0bbXaMtMB5GtQ6Qm362tgTTmq0jnZV5r6PT1Cxkyq8xl9eWx_rQC8_s3kM6fsoJLyP3iJ5LqVTZVoYq0fBWvHLa0jhS7GrJ-Dww6M/s1600/tarot-card-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_Hc0hw3yln5bX8drjBh5VJRdWrrs8Ya_h7ZR2Z0bbXaMtMB5GtQ6Qm362tgTTmq0jnZV5r6PT1Cxkyq8xl9eWx_rQC8_s3kM6fsoJLyP3iJ5LqVTZVoYq0fBWvHLa0jhS7GrJ-Dww6M/s1600/tarot-card-1.jpg" /></a></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Juan cocked his head to one side, deeply interested in whatever this fascinating woman had to say. But what did astrology have to do with what he was suggesting? "A professional astrologer, huh?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Yes.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Fifteen minutes later he felt that he had some idea what a professional astrologer was, and what they were responsible for doing.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"So you see, that's why I can't go with you. Here is my card. Please call me, I may have some important information for you."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Darrilyn stood quickly. Sprinkled a little wave goodbye and popped out of the exit doors like an exploding Jack in the Box.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Juan Carlos Fuerte, frustrated Lothario, stared at the plain white card. The name Darrilyn was printed in bold black face, her title "professional astrologer" and a telephone number.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He looked out of the window to catch a last glimpse of the enchanting creature he had just met, but she was no where to be seen.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">*</div><div align="justify">The man could have been any one of the thousands of grey headed, grey bearded, middle aged African American men who were forced to take the bus to wherever they were going that morning.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">It was more than obvious, from the subconsciously developed frown on his nutbrown face that he was pissed off: he was pissed at his prostate, the amount of sleep he was losing every night being forced to piss. He was pissed with his colon, and the need to have it examined once a year.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He was pissed at the idea of needing glasses to read the small print, at the heartburn he suffered from, at the stiffness in his joints and the consortium of pills he had to take for regular ailments. But above all, he was pissed because he couldn't flirt with young women any more.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They seemed to be amused, rather than attracted, to his eye winks, his macho posturing and his baritone inquiries. And when the young ladies that he had an eye for we-re not amused they seemed to be terrified. He had come to the conclusion that most of the women who rode the bus, under thirty had probably been molested by an older man.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He was pissed off about that, about the lousy vibe these other dirty old men had released in generations of nubile females.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He had some of these things on his mind, including concerns about his bills, when Darrilyn winked at him from across the aisle.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Maybe there's something in her eye. No, that's not it, she's winking at me. Myron Smith took a deep breath and turned to see if he could catch the reflection in the bus window of the young woman who looked at him.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Yes, he could see her in the mirror-window. He studied the reflection for a few beats. Fine young woman. One of those multicolored women, and she's definitely checking me out.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The large woman sharing Darrilyn's</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Myron hesitated for a beat or two before he slid into the empty seat beside Darrilyn.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They exchanged warm, opaque smiles. Darrilyn turned to stare out of the window, Myron Smith stared at her profile.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">So nice when you have people who don't act like they're scared to death of other people.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Beautiful day, isn't it?" he asked, allowing the words to flow like baritoned honey. He liked the sound of his voice and knew how to use it.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Ohhh, it's just gorgeous!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He was pleasantly stunned by Darrilyn's ebullience.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Uhhh, yeahhh, you're right, it really is."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They both stared out of the window as though they were looking at a picture, glittering in the smog of mid day Los Angeles. Myron felt the blood rush to his head. He couldn't tell if it was from the excitement of chatting with an attractive young woman or if his high blood pressure was acting up.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Damn, did I take my pills?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He fumbled into the pocket of his cotton windbreaker for his high blood pressure pills, unscrewed the top and dry swallowed a pill.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"You O.K.?," she asked, taking note of his actions.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Awwww, I’m O.K., just some ol' pills I have to take every now and then.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Her smile was so warm, so concerned, so sweet.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Isn't that wonderful that all we have to do is take a pill every now and then to stay well? 0, incidentally, I'm Darrilyn."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He was pleased with the firm grip of her handshake. He hated to shake hands with women, especially the ones who touched hands as though they were handling five day old fish.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"And I'm Myron smith. So, where you going on this gorgeous day?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Where? O, just anywhere. I just want to drift! To go with the flow!"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“Why don’t you have a cup of coff..., uhh, espresso with me?”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I'd love to."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Myron felt like hugging Darrilyn, but resisted the urge.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She'll think I'm just another dirty ol' man. And the V.A. appointment? What the hell, I'll reschedule. Ain't nothing for me to do but stay Black ‘n die, may as well have a lil' fun in my life before I go out.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The Gourmet Coffee House was a place that he would never have gone to by himself.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">A student hang out, south of the University, filled with students pontificating, staring at their lap tops, acting romantic, being young.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"How did you know about this place?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"0, I come here all the time."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He swallowed hard, checking out the coffee prices. Damn! What the hell do they put in this stuff anyway? 0 well, there goes my beer money for this month.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Myron, you know we can go Dutch on this."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Darrilyn, I invited you for coffee. This is my treat, now. Order what you like."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He thought he detected snide looks peeking out at them from behind a couple of the bearded faces. Probably think I'm a sugar daddy, huh?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He smiled at the idea. What kind of sugar could this daddy come up with, on a fixed income?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">They ordered, espresso double for him, café late for her, and began to talk as though they were old friends who happened to run into each other on the bus.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Myron Smith stared at Darrilyn as she spoke, focusing on the ideas that she spilled out to him.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"I'm a professional astrologer."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Oh, you spend a lot of time star gazing, huh?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">“No, that's an astronomer. I'm an astrologer."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"0, I see said the blind man...” He loved the expression that brightened her face as she quickly realized what he had said.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"That's pretty witty, Mr. Smith, preeety witty."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Please, call me Myron.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">She squeezed his forearm with real affection boosting his ego yea high. He couldn't think of anything else to say to her. What words could he use to tell her that he loved her? That he had felt love for her the moment he saw her? How to say...?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Please, Myron, don't say anything.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He was startled by her intuitive reading. Yes, this is that special one I've been looking for, since Mabel’s death.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Darrilyn stood, and indicated with gestures that she was off to the ladies room. He nodded pleasantly and watched her stride away from their table.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Mmmmmmm ... that's a tine woman there, a real fine woman.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He sipped his espresso and smiled to himself ... you ol' rogue, you. Here you are, three years older ‘n black pepper and got the nerve to be seducing pretty young things off the bus. What's gonna become of you?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He crossed his legs at the knee and began to try to put together "a program." I'll invite her over for dinner tomorrow evening. Bet that would ring her bell. Ain't too many young men who know how to cook these days and most of the young women can't even boil water.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">I wonder if she can cook? Well, we don't have to worry about that. I can cook.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">A blurred succession of image/thoughts slipped through his mind; Darrilyn and Myron at the movies, taking a long walk on a moon blanched beach, sharing laughs, making love. He glanced around him, checking people out, as though someone might have read his thoughts.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Making love. He uncrossed his knees and sprawled back in his seat. Making love. I haven't made love to a woman in two years, since Mabel died. Making love. Well, I really can’t count Ernestine. She was just doing what she thought old friends should do. Helping me to get past my grief, I guess you could say.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He did a surreptitious tummy tuck with his left hand. She doesn't seem to mind this age thing. Some women are like that, they're able to see past the superficial stuff. What's age got to do with emotional involvement anyway?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Are you Smith?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Huhh?</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Are you named Smith?"</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He felt a bit awkward about being caught daydreaming by their waitress. She'll probably think I'm senile or something.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Yeah, yeah, I’m Smith.”</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">The waitress handed him a small square sheet of paper, folded neatly in half, and strolled off to attend another table.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"Dear Myron, it's been truly wonderful, but I had to continue with the flow. Please call me sometime. Universely yours, Darrilyn."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He turned the piece of paper over frantically, looking for a telephone number. She hadn't written one. Myron Smith settled back in his seat and stared at the people rushing past the picture window of the Gourmet Coffee House, trying to center his shattered feelings. A few moments later, after putting it all into a perspective that he felt comfortable with, he signaled to the waitress for the check.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">"The bill has already been paid, sir."</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">He stood and shook the kink out of his left leg, a big smile on his face, and slowly walked out of the coffee house.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Well, what the hell, you win some, you lose some. Better to have a few of these kinds of times than not have any at all. Maybe I'll run into her again.</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBx-yVWOVEZ47iCAiVcb60AcqjAmBmJxIQrVBgQnAPAsdcH64vo9uQtMugNPyKZ68MvoL_OXPfe8G1J9YRJkBFBObBDQg_l4mo-K7Ir6wBcFepOzWywwUl-VPEBRipA6wHGTcBTl8Iq5o/s1600/4753ebad17128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBx-yVWOVEZ47iCAiVcb60AcqjAmBmJxIQrVBgQnAPAsdcH64vo9uQtMugNPyKZ68MvoL_OXPfe8G1J9YRJkBFBObBDQg_l4mo-K7Ir6wBcFepOzWywwUl-VPEBRipA6wHGTcBTl8Iq5o/s1600/4753ebad17128.jpg" /></a></div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"> <b> </b></div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b>Tune in next week for the second installment of Black and Brown on the Blue Line</b></div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b>Ashe</b></div><div align="justify" style="text-align: center;"><b>Odie </b></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify"><br />
</div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-76515837087380189822010-12-31T10:38:00.000-08:002010-12-31T10:38:29.873-08:00Happy New Year!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2wvJzYeP4H9F2GXGDqEicqCwRyeDJejKcq8UEo-PBFxpg8peZzZUxGnogu8ImxkJzLVs6VAxCzpzh_6GrV4-KWZjwmmRwb1R55RXrVg0Gx_ahfsK_HOzhcqe_efSVgh1Os8LrSsRqhc/s1600/iemanja1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2wvJzYeP4H9F2GXGDqEicqCwRyeDJejKcq8UEo-PBFxpg8peZzZUxGnogu8ImxkJzLVs6VAxCzpzh_6GrV4-KWZjwmmRwb1R55RXrVg0Gx_ahfsK_HOzhcqe_efSVgh1Os8LrSsRqhc/s320/iemanja1.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-19642348681977771222010-11-10T11:14:00.000-08:002011-02-22T12:16:52.720-08:0011-11-10 Black and Brown on the Blue Line<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDx4Q55jW1ld2toZM_nZncTtMj81nwth0uBcuzYktLJ4sRmbWgd2otuMYuYyqN3Yxy6mnxQZY2hQK_OEqxo58UEFQaOJ176UeM6hqppFzCrlVERo6_475ZDbgpf-F1ny4uSMSxtTDCaB8/s1600/117.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538001808267146162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDx4Q55jW1ld2toZM_nZncTtMj81nwth0uBcuzYktLJ4sRmbWgd2otuMYuYyqN3Yxy6mnxQZY2hQK_OEqxo58UEFQaOJ176UeM6hqppFzCrlVERo6_475ZDbgpf-F1ny4uSMSxtTDCaB8/s320/117.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><strong> World Premiere! World Wide Exclusive! World Premiere! World Wide Exclusive!</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>From the Author that brought you the Novels "Ghetto Sketches" "The Life and Times of Chester L. Sinmmons" "Conspiracy" "Midnight" "Shackles Across Time" "The Curse" "The Great Lawd Buddha" now presents an <strong>"ALL NEW"</strong> Story</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 180%;"><em>"Black and Brown on the Blue Line"</em></span></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 180%;"><em></em></span></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 180%;"><em>World Premiere! All New World Wide Exclusive!</em></span></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 180%;"><em></em></span></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 180%;"><em>Damn It! It's All New! </em></span></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 180%;"></span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 180%;">11-11-10</span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 180%;"></span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 180%;">Published only at <a href="http://www.odiehawkins.blogspot.com/">http://www.odiehawkins.blogspot.com/</a></span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-34832940505333437052010-11-10T09:53:00.000-08:002010-11-10T11:10:36.826-08:00Ummmm hummmm That Odie Hawkins!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJewNidK2LTm65-1zN8VWYSkvEW-qHF5xXmB7bIM8pIwhOS_MGc-wQz5_5sNvbrijzrWzLpWnRBdFOZjtzRYY5BdT6FKiWyR7tAJLb7_d4-HjPSfCvLBZxoHeQFtWeMSWVGchPEVoBpfQ/s1600/sessilee-lopez-vogue-3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537981253487058642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJewNidK2LTm65-1zN8VWYSkvEW-qHF5xXmB7bIM8pIwhOS_MGc-wQz5_5sNvbrijzrWzLpWnRBdFOZjtzRYY5BdT6FKiWyR7tAJLb7_d4-HjPSfCvLBZxoHeQFtWeMSWVGchPEVoBpfQ/s320/sessilee-lopez-vogue-3.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><strong>ATTENTION! Odie Hawkins Black and Brown on the Blue Line availiable tommorrow! </strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>ATTENTION! Big Lucious Boobs....are great just like Black and Brown on the Blue Line!</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>ATTENTION! THERE IS NOTHING ON CABLE! Read Black and Brown on the Blue Line! </strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>11-11-10 11-11-10 11-11-10<br /></strong></span></div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-34484956945523271892010-09-23T13:05:00.000-07:002010-09-23T13:05:52.119-07:00Things I learned in Odie Hawkin's Writing Workshop!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGkvVNDxD0ELeI_eH9VfOeRI6-Adfej0el3NzGnDlV45fL4_VccRnsN-PApJB8d7hUs4NEpqOICzAJ6KTVYn_t393rVuHuugodABffeZeZiR43mjNOlJ1o3sSt-AnfqIxmpqmVuXpSrA/s1600/Undercovers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGkvVNDxD0ELeI_eH9VfOeRI6-Adfej0el3NzGnDlV45fL4_VccRnsN-PApJB8d7hUs4NEpqOICzAJ6KTVYn_t393rVuHuugodABffeZeZiR43mjNOlJ1o3sSt-AnfqIxmpqmVuXpSrA/s400/Undercovers.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="font-size: small;">The Stars of Undercovers Boris Kodjoe and Gugu Mbatha-Raw</span></em></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table><em>Guest Blogger:</em> <strong>Mista Jaycee A Choice of Weapons</strong> <a href="http://www.achoiceofweapons.blogspot.com/">http://www.achoiceofweapons.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
I wrote a review of <strong><em>NBC's "Undercovers"</em></strong> starring <strong>Boris Kodjoe and Gugu Mbatha-Raw.</strong> I like the idea of two Black Secret Agents out saving the world. Shows like <strong>24</strong> and the James Bond films are really cool. This one was not! I'll explain. I'm a writer so there are some things I can not let slide or overlook. <br />
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Years ago, I subscribed to a writing course taught by <strong>Novelist Odie Hawkins.</strong> <strong>The Long Beach Pan Afrikan Writers Workshop</strong> was founded by the students who took the course. <br />
<br />
The Characters in <em><strong>"Undercovers"</strong></em> were wooden, cardboard characters. The plot development was sub par, as well.<br />
<br />
<strong>The Plot:</strong> <strong>Boris Kodjoe, and his wife Gugu Raw play retired CIA field agents who have gotten married and have now been re-activated for one mission. </strong><br />
<br />
Now, that sounds <em>interesting,</em> kinda like <strong><em>Mr. and Mrs. Smith.</em></strong> The problem is with the character development. <br />
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<strong>Lesson 1:</strong> In order to write well rounded, three dimensional characters. A writer should create<strong> Character</strong> <strong>Sketches</strong> for <strong>EACH </strong>Major Character. This helps you to develop the back story of each character. Characters that will only say one word or line in the story don't need a Character Sketch. They are like extras in a film, they provide scenery. <br />
<br />
<strong>A Character Sketch</strong> needs to detail the <strong>PHYSICAL, MENTAL and SOCIAL</strong> aspects of each character. <br />
<br />
How tall, what type of physique does the character have? Example: Your character is a video vixen. What's her whole name? What's her stage name? What's her Mama's Full name? Where did she go to Junior High? Was her Father an Alcoholic? Was she a math nerd, who was dateless in high school? Was she fat or underdeveloped? How would this affect her now? Is it because she had a strict Baptist Minister Father, was a math nerd, who had no body and no dates that motivates her to be an exhibitionist? Did she have a boob job? Does she feel liberated or perhaps she's just a lil girl crying out for help. Boo Effin hoo! Was her Mother built like Dianne Carroll, who lorded her beauty over her?<br />
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The more details you write the more "Real" your characters become. <br />
<br />
Now back to <em><strong>"Undercovers"</strong></em> <em>Black </em><strong>CIA operatives?</strong> What physical demands would a job like that require? <strong>Boris Kodjoe and Gugu Raw</strong> are both <em>extremely </em>attractive. What would be thier backgrounds that would lead them to be field agents? Neither one can just blend in to a crowd. I'm sorry if <strong>Niomi</strong> <strong>Campbell</strong> walks into a crowd wearing a shades, a hat, jeans with a hoodie sweat shirt she's gonna get noticed. Why? <strong>She's very dark complexed, shapely and well over 6 feet!</strong> Same with <strong>Kimora Lee</strong> <strong>Simmons!</strong> Details like that tend to get you noticed. Is your character a super model who works undercover? This is an asset to her "cover". Was she an athlete? What kind? The female leads characters knew martial arts? Was she in the army? Was she a former police officer? What? These details make your character believable. <br />
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<em>That's right the DEVIL is in the details.</em> What type of Moral center, or lack of one, could make someone a contract killer? Dig, Cousin John has changed his name to Akbar Muhammed and is now a member of the United Islamic Terrorist Front. He's American, A Muslim Convert who's Imam is a former 60's era radical who wants to start an ethnic cleansing campaign. Cousin John was radicalized after watching two police officers murder a Black Activist and the killing ruled justified. How is <strong>Jewella Bond</strong>, a CIA operative, gonna get in with her Cousin's group to neutralized the Imam? <br />
<br />
Would Akbar know that his cousin is a former Police Officer? Most likely! Maybe she is a card carrying Republican who voted for Reagan. They Family but that don't mean he would trust HER! Background is important! How many times had John/Akbar told his Cousin that she's a sell out Uncle Sambo Nigga for her politics and occupation? It happens in Families all the time. What kind of lies, lack of moral center, skills would Jewella Bond need to convince Akbar? <br />
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The devil is in the details. Now, last nights character had none of those details. None of that back story. The characters seemed to be learning very intimate details about each other. I've seen you in your birthday suit.<br />
Now, think. Your BF/GF has a sex tape. On it you see that she does flips, anal and oral in ways on someone skilled could do. Now, get over the shock and have many questions would you have for them? Remember...they are just your <strong>GF/BF </strong>NOT your <strong>SPOUSE! </strong>It would be alot different if they were your SPOUSE right? <br />
<br />
What if you find that your Husband once had a long term Homosexual love affair with one man that lasted all four years of undergrad to the second year of law School and HE didn't let you know this? Back Story! So that's all for now. I'm sure Odie will provide more lessons here in this blog. The lessons are awesome and really affordable. By the way Odie, I'm working on <em>MY</em> character sketches! Really? (Laughter) <br />
<br />
Now look at your stories or poems and see if you can tell what I mean. For more information on the Pan Afrikan Writing Course contact Odie <a href="mailto:Hawkins@www.odiehawkins.com">Hawkins@www.odiehawkins.com</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
Get to work! Ase <br />
Mista Jaycee Guest Bloggerachoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-3371841373043553412010-09-14T07:29:00.000-07:002011-02-22T12:19:30.338-08:00Kongo Square Chat With Odie Hawkins! Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUIxWNY2ss7OTCeJQbinrD5NgSI0AqM_AOL7XUSZV_eO6W1vzOJZk8fHZtBMtEPeY2OysYNqJDQrKKHkwjGiO95gWA9gBSDebZHAydJelpbnZvh2rgsZMkIGZR4lf_jb-pZ8B8K0q9as/s1600/Odie_Lrg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUIxWNY2ss7OTCeJQbinrD5NgSI0AqM_AOL7XUSZV_eO6W1vzOJZk8fHZtBMtEPeY2OysYNqJDQrKKHkwjGiO95gWA9gBSDebZHAydJelpbnZvh2rgsZMkIGZR4lf_jb-pZ8B8K0q9as/s400/Odie_Lrg.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><em>This interview was previously published in A Choice of Weapons Kongo Square Chat</em></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hello, it is indeed a pleasure to interview <strong>Author, Journalist, Screenwriter, Poet, and dramatist Odie Hawkins. Welcome to A Choice of Weapons.</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Thank you and hello all.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> This is going to be a good interview, covering a lot of stuff but I gonna publish our chat in two sections just for length.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Cool anything you feel is necessary.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Odie over the course of your career you've had over twenty five novels published. That's amazing! Well let's get into all of it. I want to talk with you about <strong>Chicago, The Watts Writers workshop, Holloway House, Iceberg Slim, Ghana, and the genre you've created since called Pan Afrikan Occult literature. Is that cool?</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Excellent! Real cool.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Well alright then. Here we go. Odie, you're from the Midwest right, by way of the continent, of course?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Yeah, the south side of Chicago to be exact.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Odie, what's the first story you ever wrote? Do you remember it?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> No, not really. I do remember how it came about. I was sitting around the table with my three uncles from Mississippi. They were great storytellers. I think that's where I picked it up from because they added color to it. One of my uncles, I won't mention his name, but I don't think he could read or write but he knew how to describe and use what I'd like to call picture words. He was a wonderful storyteller. My uncles told stories; My Father was a big liar! (laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> How did you choose writing as a profession?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> It chose me. There is no other way I can answer that. I would have been a storyteller. A verbal storyteller, but well, I was in high school and <strong>Dr. Margaret Burroughs</strong>, one of my high school teachers, who by the way founded the <strong>first Afrikan American Museum, The Du Sable Museum of Afrikan American</strong> History in this country, persuaded me to stop stealing and gave me a ream of paper and encouraged me to start writing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She was a wonderful, stern, powerful lady who took our people back to the continent. When I was Ghana in the 1992, she was leading a tour group. She was eighty at the time. She was full of energy. The group she was leading tongues were hanging out trying to keep up with her. (laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She literally put the pen in my hand. She also taught at the county jails and different places you know....I believe she was in the Chicago public school system for like 30 years. She just believed in giving people a chance you know.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Did you take alot of creative writing classes in school? Did they have those then? Were they available? Nowadays we have writer’s colonies?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> There was a creative writing class at my high school and I took that and well, <strong>Dr. Burroughs,</strong> encouraged me to enroll in another creative writing class as well led by a girlfriend of hers named <strong>Margeret Peterson.</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ummmm! I flunked out! You know how it is. The people in the class were so sophisticated. They smoked and they drank martinis after class. I mean what does a fourteen year have to talk about? I was writing stories about tigers giving birth an sh*t!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The word shit was a big word for me at that time and these grown ups were writing and "then I said to this <em>motherfu*ker, fu*k you!"</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was embarrassed! I hadn't been around so called intellectuals who cursed. I thought they talked intellectually. (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They would be like "Odie would you like to come to a party"? "Have you been with a girl yet?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was just embarrassed like a fish out of water. Now sex didn't intimidate me. I was born in a whorehouse on the south side of Chicago. I knew sex but this was well different. (laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> It sounds just <em>ribald!</em> (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> So, well I flunked out! (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But now concerning workshops one of things this class did for me opened me up to books about writing. I went and got everything about writing I could get my hands on. I began to read about four books a week. I still do.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Yeah, I read a book by <strong>Stephen King</strong> on writing and he stated that if you don't have time to read then you definitely don't have time to write.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Yeah, you must read. That is essential to being a writer and especially to become a great writer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> So who are your favorite writers?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Oh! There are just too many but I believe the best writers you could read are the Afrikan writers, <strong>Chinua Achebe, Senghor, Oyono</strong>, The Russians, <strong>Doskefski, Pushkin, Turgennev, Gogol, Tolstoy</strong>, The Japanese, <strong>Tanazaki, Oshima, The Afrikan Creole,</strong> (Afrikan American) <strong>James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, Richard Wright and the Jewish writer Issac Bashavis Singer.</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I go from the old to the new. I read everybody! One of my favorites <strong>Nikos Kazantzakis</strong> (forgive the spelling) (Zorba the Greek) he has a book called <em>"<strong>Report to Greco</strong>"</em> and of course, <strong>Nabokov</strong> who wrote <em><strong>"Lolita"</strong></em> and of course<em>.....Speak Memory!</em> About a dude who asks his memory to speak to him.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You know years ago a brotha asked me that same question and he was disappointed that I hadn't basically named a Black reading chart. I read whatever interests me, whatever speaks to my experience. It's like a rapper who only knows rap! No Indian music, no jazz! <em>No Afro Cuban music!</em> No Afrikan music! That rapper may be great but if he doesn't allow any other music into his vocabulary then all he knows will be limited.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Do you remember the book that turned you on? For me, it was <strong>S.E Hinton's The Outsiders!</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Well... (Laughter) The book that did it for me was the <em>Kama Sutra</em>. It made my <em>d*ck hard!</em> And the <strong>Ananga Ranga</strong> and also <strong>Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer Page 9</strong> (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> When you first went out on your own, did you write from a gut level experience, or did you just absorb the rhythms around you? Langston Hughes spoke of that. He absorbed the energy of Harlem. The sights and sounds, the rhythms of Jazz music.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Well, growing up on South side of Chicago, I soaked up everything. I'm a <strong>Langston Hughes</strong> disciple. I think that it's natural to soak up everything around you and then write from that gut level experience.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> What was your first published story?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> There were some before this, but the one I can remember was for a French art magazine started by <strong><em>Leopold Senghor called Presence African, called The Great Lawd Buddha</em></strong>. That story has metamorphosed into three or four different stories including a novel but the character has made appearances in several of my novels.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> I know that you are a follower of <strong>Chester Himes</strong>. What is it about his writing that influenced you so....I remember hearing you speak about how you traveled Spain attempting to follow the same route that he took? Kinda like a pilgrimage.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> I know that this may sound like blasphemy but I was always more impressed by <strong>Chester Himes</strong> autobiography <strong><em>"The Quality of Hurt"</em></strong> than any of his short stories or novels. I never was impressed by <em>Cotton comes to Harlem</em> or the <em>Cotton Ed or Gravedigger Jones</em> stories. I'm not saying he wasn't a good writer, who am I to say that?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Chester's autobiography was just so powerful. He fell down an elevator shaft and ....his real life was just more raw and real than his fiction. Anyway, I was always more drawn to<strong> Richard Wright</strong>. I mean I know there are people who would mention <strong>Toni Morrison and Alice Walker</strong> and that's cool let them be given all the accolade's there are and make the money. Some of their stuff though is just unreadable to me. (Laughter) I'm not saying its unreadable or anything like that just some of their stuff to is to me. (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I did travel Spain following the landmarks Chester wrote about but when I was there no one remembered him. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Odie, How long had you been at writing by the time you got published?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> About 20 years. I started writing when I was eight. I don't mean to sound flippant or anything. I was published in my high school newspaper constantly but I didn't start getting paid for it until my thirties. I didn't know writers were supposed to get paid. I just sent things, wrote articles about anything I was interested in. Even now, I sent a story to Latin Beat magazine about <strong>Chanzo Pozo and Dizzy Gillespie</strong> how they started <strong><em>Cu bop!</em></strong> (Afro Cuban Jazz)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was a late bloomer. No one told me that writers could get paid for things like magazine articles, short stories, proposals, letters, and such.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> What got you out of Chicago? The Army or a dude chasing you? (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">Watts, California</span></strong> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibtnpacRlVQJmuQszA50cTBIq4XhTSxbJoJ1E94XOe1yQjDkk1ukV0rasA6qNf_B392R6ZmGb8tCYFH6ydR7UyXqS6D5f308v5IQ5ztem734bAadj5kjuO99OEARN2K-t5WN6G2-lHY_E/s1600/Watts-Towers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibtnpacRlVQJmuQszA50cTBIq4XhTSxbJoJ1E94XOe1yQjDkk1ukV0rasA6qNf_B392R6ZmGb8tCYFH6ydR7UyXqS6D5f308v5IQ5ztem734bAadj5kjuO99OEARN2K-t5WN6G2-lHY_E/s400/Watts-Towers.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Simon Rodia's Watts Towers</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em><strong><span style="color: red;">"In 65 they burned the city down! I felt like "Hey, that city is about to be happenin!"</span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> (Laughter) A dude chasing me...(Laughter) Well, you're not that far off but it was the Army! I got drafted and was in boot camp in Fort Ord, California in 1962. I got out in 1964 and got married to a Sistah with two girls. I had one from my first marriage. We formed a family and we decided to move to where we wouldn't have to buy any winter clothes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>The Watts Revolt</strong> happened in <strong>1965 </strong>and Black folks burned the city down! I felt that<em> "Hey that place is</em> <em>about to be happening!"</em> I was just reading the signs ya know. There was about to be some money there. We moved out here in 1966. In 1966, I came to Watts and promptly joined the <strong>Watts Writers Workshop</strong> and that's where it happened for me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have to mention my teachers at the workshop. <strong>Dr. Louise Merriweather, Harlan Ellison</strong>, and my personal mentor <strong>John W. Bloch</strong>. Bloch had me rewrite the <em><strong>"Ghetto Sketches"</strong></em> for like two years, parts of it. He would say that "Hey! You got a dog in the story, what is the dogs’ point of view? (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This taught me how to write a three dimensional story. Around 1967, he, (<strong>John Bloch</strong>) took me to see his agent who became my agent. The agent,<strong> Stew Robinson of Robinson and Weintraub</strong> got me into screenplays and radio scripts. He wasn't into novels and such; he was into screenplays and radio scripts, that kinda thing. He got me some television work. Sanford and Son and some others that I wrote scripts for that were never shown.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">The Watts Writers Workshop</span></strong> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Now after the Watts Revolt, <strong>Budd Shulberg</strong> received a grant from the government and started the workshop to mentor writers from the inner city.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> I joined the workshop when it opened its doors in 1966. I was a real carpetbagger but I was in there before alot of other people who came later. Some folks referred to the workshop as the Shulberg Plantation but I came and tried to learn whatever I could get from it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Odie, I've always wanted to know how the Watts Writers felt about Shulberg? In the fifties he named names in the <strong>House of Un-American Activities Committee</strong>. What did y'all think of that?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Ok, I can't speak for everybody but for the people I know we were so politically unsophisticated it didn't matter to us. I definitely want to stress that point. At the time the artists they showed us were banned, the Hollywood Ten, when I was a member of the writers union and they tried to get us to join this protest or sign this petition.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But Black writers were always banned! Can you name any Black writer that Hollywood banned? They weren't even interrogated! They weren't even known!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I mean they banned<strong> Paul Robeson</strong> but you know <em>Shulberg</em> may have been doing something political but for us it was a chance to learn how to write a screenplay. His politics were irrelevant. Years later by the time we found out about <strong>Kazan and Shulberg</strong> it was just excess news. Black folks were always called <em>communist.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you were protesting and fighting socially, economically, intellectually even religiously the government called you a communist! If you wanted to be free, you were communist. Russia was telling us what to do! Why did we need Russia to tell us that we wanted to vote?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> What writers were there from the beginning that didn't get known but are still waiting for their time?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> <strong>James Thomas Jackson, Sonora Mckellar, Dean Jackson</strong>, so many little people that you only heard their name once or twice. <strong>Occye Slaughter</strong>, people like that. They might stand up in the workshop. <strong>Dee Dee McNeil,</strong> who was original members of the <strong>Watts Prophets</strong>, she's still out there doing it. Singing from San Diego to San Francisco and beyond. There were writers like <strong>Ojenke </strong>and <strong>Eric Priestley</strong> who just were not interested in mass acceptance. They never got famous beyond where they were. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em><strong><span style="color: red;">"Hey! Lets burn this muthafuck*r down!" "Lets kill Whitey</span></strong></em><span style="color: red;">!"</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em><strong><span style="font-size: large;">The Writers Guild</span></strong> </em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Tell me about the Writers Guild. What was that about?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> <strong>The Watts Writers Workshop</strong> by 1967-68 was in decline. It was targeted by<strong> J. Edgar Hoover's</strong> <strong>FBI.</strong> Some of the artists were targeted as well. The workshop was infiltrated with spies and agent provocateurs. I remember, there was this one dude who always seemed to suggest <em>"Hey! Let's burn this thing</em> <em>down! Let's kill whitey!"</em> I don't know what happened to <strong>Shulberg</strong> at that time. It was hard to be called a <em>communist!</em> How could you be <strong>Black </strong>and Red?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The left wing members of the screen writers guild, people like <strong>Harlan Ellison and John W. Bloch</strong> let Black writers in through the <strong>Open Door Program</strong>. They were just people who knew that it was wrong to call themselves the <strong>Writers Guild</strong> and then deny Black writers the chance to write screenplays. I always felt they were just trying to do the right thing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> What Black writers were a part of the <strong>Writers Guild?</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> I had a girlfriend at the time <strong>Andi Richardson Reese</strong>; she's living in Australia now for the last twenty years. She worked on <strong>Star Trek!</strong> She walked into <strong>Gene Roddenberry’s</strong> office and said they "Hey! We got alot of Black Trekkies and you got an all White office"! I need to be in here!" They gave her a job. (Laughter) <strong>Iceberg Slim </strong>was in the Open Door program. He came out of it, well I don't know if he ever came out of it but he was there! This was definitely before "<strong><em>Pimp" </em></strong>hit! Hey! Maybe he learned something. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="color: red;">"Hey! We got alot of Black Trekkies and you got an all White office! I need to be in here!"</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">The Open Door Program</span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> So where did that take you? <strong>The Open Door Program?</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> The Open Door program hit the screenplays and the technical aspects of writing a screenplay and television show. People like <strong>Al Jenner, Harlan Ellison</strong>. <em>The Open Door</em> program was much more structured they weren't like the WWW. They weren't interested in your experiences, the short stories and the like. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> I know that<strong> Iceberg Slim</strong> went to <strong>Holloway House</strong> did that take you there as well?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Like most people I was doing four or five things at the same time. I was doing plays at the <strong>PERFORMING ARTS SOCIETY OF LOS ANGELES</strong> on 89th and Vermont. Community Theatre. I was starting to write novels and Holloway House was the only, the only easy way out at the time. They wanted Black Authors and I wanted them. I had also started writing screenplays for one after another <strong>MGM,</strong> <strong>Warner Bros, Universal, 20th Century Fox, Paramount, American International (AIP).</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The screenplay they released was the exact opposite of what I'd written. I wrote something positive and redeeming and they turned it into this Nigga, Yak, Yak film. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>"Monkey Hustle"</strong></em></span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The thing for them at the time for the studio since they saw money in the Blaxpoltation era was to buy up Black material and bring it out whenever they wanted to. I got lucky and I wasn't included in the mix. Only one screenplay that I wrote got to the screen. It was called <strong>The Monkey Hustle</strong>. The screenplay they released was the exact opposite of what I'd written. I wrote something positive and redeeming and they turned it into this Nigga, Yak, Yak film. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDY5fylNJW7Ubk8oxZzKvC-aTUkQR3r11F7zgGCxNrS-00N0J05-LYtqqsYGtmlPwhlUsTo1Y513hA4p5K9H-43Rm7EK0lmLKdYQP5pWNN332z-VZjYWZqZEbKfRWIHJCO6k497nFOb_o/s1600/MonkeyHustle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDY5fylNJW7Ubk8oxZzKvC-aTUkQR3r11F7zgGCxNrS-00N0J05-LYtqqsYGtmlPwhlUsTo1Y513hA4p5K9H-43Rm7EK0lmLKdYQP5pWNN332z-VZjYWZqZEbKfRWIHJCO6k497nFOb_o/s400/MonkeyHustle.jpg" width="272" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Hey now! I loved that film and so does my wife. I am grateful to you for it anyway.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> I still get fifty or sixty dollars from the foreign distribution. The Europeans like it. Maybe I'm too close to the thing. (Laughter) </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Where was the Open Door Program meetings held?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> They were held all over but mostly at <strong>Nick Stewart's Theatre</strong> on Washington Blvd. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> <strong>Nick Stewart</strong>, he played<em> "Lightnin"</em> on the old <strong>Amos and Andy</strong> television program did he?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Yeah, he did. He took his earnings and started a theatre group, putting on plays and training actors. I want to emphasize that it was the left wing writers who facilitated the <strong>Open Door program</strong>. The right wing writers felt everything was okay they felt it was okay to have basically an all white union. Could you imagine one group writing for all of America? That would be like having Oliver North speak for you? (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> Did the <strong>Watts Writers Workshop or the Writers Guild</strong> teach the writers about publishing and royalties? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> No, the <strong>Watts Writers Workshop</strong> didn't but <strong>The Writers Guild</strong> did a little bit. <strong>Al Jenner</strong> who was a teacher had his mind blown because we didn't know about structure they way television wanted it. We learned about the long form, the short form. There was a woman who a member and she threw some idea out there and it ended up being on the <strong>Twilight Zone</strong>. You see some of the established writers stole ideas from us. We just wanted to get our stories out. They didn't teach us about the business. You had to learn on your own. They, the White writers were about the business and we, the Black writers were just about the art. We were far behind. What makes a good agent? What makes a bad agent? That's what we had to learn the hard way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> What Black publishing companies were there at the time? Were there any? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Good question. Other than Ebony who was busy showing how good the middle class was doing, I don't know. I could remember broadsides and poetry journals here and there. Mostly local. Essence was starting up but it was just poetry, not novels or short stories. Third World Press, Haki Madibuthi hadn't come on the scene yet. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>Journalistic Apartheid!</strong></em></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I once submitted a piece to the<strong> LA Weekly</strong> on journalistic apartheid and they rejected it. But the strange thing was they told me why they rejected it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> What's strange about that? I mean what's so unusual about that?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> That's unusual. Most publishers just send a form letter rejection letter. They don't usually take the time to tell you why they are not going to publish a piece. But in their letter they suggested it was <em>"Racist"!</em> They wrote "we (<strong>the Los Angeles Weekly</strong>) feel that we are a really liberal paper."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Liberal though they may be they don't seem to notice that there is not one Black jazz critic writing for the paper. We don't have one Jazz critic or one Black restaurant critic. The Weekly does have one film critic in the great Elvis Mitchell.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> But what does it matter the color of a critic's skin? They're still critics right? (Laughter)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> In a city this size? How could you not have a resturant critic that's Black? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> To be fair Odie, most papers are downsizing entire sections of the paper including staff so isn't understandable that a newspaper, even the LA Weekly might now have but one critic at the entire paper covering the city?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> It's not just a numbers game I'm talking about here. I'm really talking about the scope of the coverage. Black folks eat Thai Food! We eat Ethiopian food! Where are the reviewers of those resturants. It speaks to taste. A Black food critic could share a different insight on a recipe highlighting a different palate. A different range of flavors and the way they are discribed. I mean even our own <strong>LA Sentinel</strong>; you only see a review of <strong>Aunt Kizzies Back Porch.</strong> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Black folks go to plays and films beyond what would be considered the stereotypical Black fare. Why not have someone Black to review it? Black folks go to art house films but what insights would a mass audience enjoy from reading a Black reviewers perspective? What jewels are out there that the masses will never know or what's considered great because it hasn't been compared to anything beyond the accepted perameters? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">J<strong>aycee: </strong>Well, we can always review and write it ourselves. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> Well, I've never looked to the White establishment to make a way. Music, Food, Plays. You got Black plays coming out with no Black reviewers to review it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Jaycee:</strong> I wanted to know do you remember if there were any Black publishing company that went out of business because the white publishers were outbidding the talent once the Black Arts Movement became en vogue?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Odie:</strong> This is how I ended up at Holloway House. They certainly were not the high end but they were out there. The Watts Writers Workshop alot of them were poets so they had a much better time getting published. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Stay tuned!</em> Odie and I vibe on<strong> Donald Goines, Black Street fiction, Iceberg Slim, the Rise and Fall of Holloway House Publishing, What's a Kosmic Muffin? and The birth of Pan Afrikan Occult Fiction! Listen for the drums and tune in for part two of Kongo Square Chat with Odie Hawkins.</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">BE Mindful! BE Prayerful! BE Careful! </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Jaycee</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>The opinions and views expressed are the views and opinions of the author and interviewee. They are not neccessary the opinions of anyone associated with Mista Jaycee or A Choice of Weapons, Kongo Square Chat or Odie Hawkins. This interview is the property of the J.C.Williams and may only be reproduced with his written permission. All Rights Reserved. </strong></div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194198867615462049.post-637100659791639362010-09-13T13:20:00.000-07:002010-09-14T07:27:53.504-07:00Who in the hell is Odie Hawkins?!!!!<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0x52uj4n2w8xhtKUmhlxuTD_QW88lpD1HQk2vIlz9ENCrGUp_3ZaVXuzRj61J_pEGogtG3MbBe2j7J9GWzy8ouknCcoJT8hf19OoW3yEePfcXWknbL6bXkC6et42DANG7E9q4lySUNGg/s1600/sesa_tjpbevel_lg.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0x52uj4n2w8xhtKUmhlxuTD_QW88lpD1HQk2vIlz9ENCrGUp_3ZaVXuzRj61J_pEGogtG3MbBe2j7J9GWzy8ouknCcoJT8hf19OoW3yEePfcXWknbL6bXkC6et42DANG7E9q4lySUNGg/s320/sesa_tjpbevel_lg.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<strong>Welcome to Odie Hawkins Unlimited! I've known Odie for several years and feel that Odie works have not been given the status and appreciation that they deserve. </strong></div><br />
<div></div>How so Mista Jaycee? <br />
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<div></div>He's published over<strong> 30 Novels!</strong> <em><strong>"Monkey Hustle"</strong></em> A Black Cinema <em>classic </em>is based on one of his short stories! He's a Charter Member of the<strong> Watts Writers Workshop</strong>! He's the last of the <em>Core Four</em> <strong>Holloway House Black Experience Genre Writers</strong> that includes <strong>Self Proclaimed Pimp/ Ice Berg Slim,</strong> <strong>Donald Goines and Joe Nazel.</strong> His <strong>Holloway House</strong> Novel <em><strong>"Ghetto Sketches</strong></em> still sells today! He created a detective show in Ghana that still is a well remembered, well respected part of Afrikan Cinema. <strong>"Inspector Bediako" </strong>He is the originated the <strong>Pan Afrikan Occult Genre </strong>when he wrote the Novel<strong> "The Snake"! </strong><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qgNUd2Wld3EAOmC1peJ1MI1PHqwfGUmgMN2HYNBTsmEU44b5qWUp8zwRenr3A8FVm4He1-9b9zE_zjFl1B-T8fT7YXQ4Zlp5ZhHWoXcLbk58NlaXQF-Fp5Z6ToCLybK1mdwQpTLzhzw/s1600/TheSnake1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qgNUd2Wld3EAOmC1peJ1MI1PHqwfGUmgMN2HYNBTsmEU44b5qWUp8zwRenr3A8FVm4He1-9b9zE_zjFl1B-T8fT7YXQ4Zlp5ZhHWoXcLbk58NlaXQF-Fp5Z6ToCLybK1mdwQpTLzhzw/s400/TheSnake1.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><strong><em>The First Pan Afrikan Occult Novel</em></strong></span> </td></tr>
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<div>His poem<strong> Black, Pussy"</strong> serves as the lead sample of <strong>Compton Rap Pioneer DJ Quik's</strong> first album "<strong>Quik's the Name!"</strong> </div><div><strong>Gangsta Rap Pioneer Ice T searched</strong> out Odie to research <strong>Ice Berg Slim! </strong>Why? Because Odie is one the few left that can give<em> legitimate</em> details! Imagine, spending a lifetime not just opening the doors for young writers, but in some cases, literally having to create those worlds out of nothing and now your literary children enjoy the benefits but don't know your name?<br />
</div><div>Truly, anyone, who has read a <strong>Walter Mosely </strong>novel or reads <strong>A Teri Woods Fable</strong> such as <strong>"True to the</strong> <strong>Game!"</strong> Should know <strong>Odie Hawkins</strong> name! It is because of writers like Odie and others like Wanda Coleman and Roland Jefferson that there is a playing field for all of these young writer/publishers who's work stocks today's bookstore shelves. Any writer who rails against being type casted and chooses to write whatever he chooses and not just what is easy and profitable owes Odie! </div><br />
<div>Its' criminal that he paved or helped to pave all this fertile ground that we benefit from yet he is relatively unknown by the masses. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjik2xsivrVQUana2tQ7Y9cBmC-JC1RXmNM6gq9QTPMaT1wKcqcjiP5sMwHJuX4JqlpI0QMiYMgPy2upE4KqNw6ozZ1upPBj0ibqsHbHotW1V80Mzv1mTGBReLAVH99wyMPWTzPMzvDowM/s1600/GhettoCover_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjik2xsivrVQUana2tQ7Y9cBmC-JC1RXmNM6gq9QTPMaT1wKcqcjiP5sMwHJuX4JqlpI0QMiYMgPy2upE4KqNw6ozZ1upPBj0ibqsHbHotW1V80Mzv1mTGBReLAVH99wyMPWTzPMzvDowM/s400/GhettoCover_small.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em><span style="font-size: small;">Copy of Ultra Rare Printing of Ghetto Sketches Republished by Oaktree Press</span></em></strong></td></tr>
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<div>Why is his obscurity criminal? Because there are book clubs all over the world where a copy of "<strong>Ghetto</strong> <strong>Sketches"</strong> sells for $500 to $5000 dollars among collectors all over the world yet these books are either out of print or sell for a little as $5.00 in paperback in Afrikan American bookstores because while the rest of the world treasures Odie Hawkins, countless others have yet to even be introduced to his work. Why is he criminally underappreciated? His first novel <strong><em>"Ghetto Sketches"</em></strong> is on the required reading list at the <strong>University of Nevada! </strong>How many authors can say that their <strong>FIRST</strong> novel is <strong>REQUIRED</strong> reading that are not <em>super appreciated</em> and/or <strong>SUPER WEALTHY?</strong> Hummmm! <br />
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Well it stops now! This is your opportunity to read and enjoy one of our greatest writers. <strong>Odie Hawkins's</strong> <strong>Unlimited</strong> allows you to connect with Odie by giving you the chance to read his previously published work but also his current and unpublished work. More importantly it allows you to <strong>PURCHASE</strong> his Work! <br />
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Welcome to <strong>Odie Hawkins Unlimited!</strong></div>achoiceofweaponshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14742415077326783252noreply@blogger.com3