We are coming up on the two-year mark since the Katrina debacle in Louisiana and Mississippi. I hesitate to call this date an anniversary because the word implies, in some way, a celebration, a birth. What we are scratching on the calendar is more like a notch on a raw gravestone, a count of the days and years that have passed without a reckoning for those who died, those who lost loved ones and for a city that is still in critical condition.

Not only did our government fail to answer the call of its most vulnerable citizens during that fateful period; it still fails each and every day to rebuild, redeem and rescue those who are ignored because of their poverty, their race, their passage into old age.

The disaster named after the hurricane is not confined to the areas affected. Every emergency room, empty bank account and outsourced life's work could be named. We live in a country rife with ignored and condemned poverty. The rich, high on their great corporate steeds, ride over us believing that they are out of the reach of global warming and its symptoms, of terrorism and dwindling natural resources. When government officials tell them to evacuate, they drive their cars, board their corporate jets or simply climb to higher ground with ease. At this very moment they are looking down on Baghdad and New Orleans, Pakistan and Sudan, you and me. The feeling of invulnerability that these people have is unfounded, but nonetheless it makes them reckless. They take chances and cut corners believing that everything will come out all right. Their delusions of grandeur and ultimate power put us in ever more dire straits.

If we call ourselves Americans (and mean it), then we are all victims of Katrina. If we breathe the air or eat fresh fruit, if we call on our cellphones, drink water from a plastic bottle or just nibble on a chocolate bar, then we are Katrina; we are the rising waters around the ankles of this world.

When the day comes to mark off the two-year point since the deluge descended on the Gulf of Mexico, we should take care not to make too much noise. We shouldn't march in that shadow of time or even protest. Rather, we should sit alone in a room with our imaginations open to feel what they experienced on that day: the waters rising, rising and us climbing stairs and ladders, chairs and fire escapes; sitting on rooftops while bodies float by; calling out to passing boats and helicopters that go by in mute witness; being pressed to the roof by the rising tide and being engulfed shouting, shouting out for the ones we love underwater, unheard; the darkness swirling around us as we die with no one coming to save us, or themselves.

Two years have passed and Americans are still displaced, waters are still rising. Wars are raging and we are waiting for a day to vote for a man or a woman who works, not even in secret, for the rich. We wait for this man or woman to lead us out from the disaster like chattel. We feel sorry for the victims as so many felt sorry for Rodney King, not realizing that his defeat was our loss; the blows that rained down on him were also aimed at our freedom, our ability and feeling of responsibility to fight back. Two years have passed and the dead are still dead and the dying are still dying. The clouds gather like angry anthropomorphic gods, and we stumble and fall unable to make a stand or lend a hand or protest all the victims in ghettos, retirement homes, prison wards and dark skins.

Two years have passed and we are still exporting democracy while we continue living under the semibenevolent oligarchy of international corporations and their candidates. This two-year point measures how far we have sunk under the weight of the rich and their political flunkies--while so many of us still celebrate them as if they were pop stars. We experience the silence of drowning men and women. We call out and are not heard. We believe in systems and people who have no faith in us. We perpetuate the rising temperatures and waters and hatred and feelings of hopelessness. New Orleans's defeat is also our defeat. Its closed schools are a metaphor for our minds and our futures. We see the storm's passage but we don't see it coming. But it is coming. And there are no leaders, no corporations, no benevolent billionaires who are going to save our grandmothers and our babies. We must unite outside of the systems that lie like fast food heaped on golden platters at our feet. We must organize at the ground level, where the water has already begun to rise.

A couple of months ago I went out for a few drinks with my uncle. At one point he asked how I felt about my mom being in rehab and my father in and out of prison. I told him I was used to it… at 26 years-old the damage has been done. I must admit though, there have been times when I wished my dad was there to put me up on game.

Last week I was giving my son a haircut, and I recalled the scene in “Boyz n the Hood” where Laurence Fishburne’s character is cutting his son’s hair. It was one of those candid moments in time that not even Gordon Parks could capture. A moment in time I’ll never forget. A moment I thought about just how much I missed out on because my father wasn’t around.

To this day I have romanticized thoughts of getting schooled by an old black man with salt and pepper colored hair in a rocking chair. I don’t have too many elders in my life, and the ones I do have are women. There’s been times in my life where I could have benefited from having a man there to say “slow down,” “hold ya head,” “it’s not that serious” or simply “How you doing?” All of my male influences have come from my peers and/in rap music. The times I felt like nobody around me could relate, there was always a rapper that did. The times I was caught in the hustle and bustle of the 9 to 5, night classes and raising my child, a rap lyric was the only thing that validated my feelings and reaffirmed the lessons learned through my experience. It may sound a little romantic… but I guess that explains why I’m in love with it.

The first rapper to ever sit down and speak to me was Tupac:

“With all this extra stressing/ The question I wonder is after death, after my last breath/ When will I finally get to rest through this suppression/They punish the people that's askin’ questions/And those that possess steal from the ones without possessions/The message I stress/To make it stop study your lessons/Don't settle for less/Even the genius asks questions.”

I had to be about 15 years-old. In addition to the teenage angst, I was beefing with my grandmother about not wanting to practice being a Jehovah’s Witness. I felt guilty and doubted myself for not wanting to. It was the anger, depression, and rebellion in Tupac’s voice that spoke to me. For a while all I listened to was Tupac. I believed he had the key and to some point, I still do. If Tupac was alive today the only thing I would say is “Can you elaborate?”

After Tupac it was Dre, aka Andre 3000 bka Andre Benjamin. I was almost 18 years-old, had gotten my high school girlfriend pregnant and was about to get kicked out of church for fornication. While our families were bugging out because my girlfriend and I were being excommunicated from the church, Dre was the only person to tell me everything would be okay.

“Sin all depend on what you believing in/ Faith is what you make it/ That’s the hardest shit since MC Ren.”

At 18, I was ready and determined to be the father I never had, but was ostracized by the elders of a religion that had been spoon fed to me since a childhood. At that moment in time, Dre was the closest thing I had to an elder. The closest thing to someone telling me although I may have fucked up, everything would be alright.

Last night I was sitting at home trying to fight the urge to drink. There’s a thin line between having a beer after a hard days work and getting plastered. I tend to keep a foot on both sides. I’m in between semesters right now and I’m low on funds so there’s not much to do but watch television and drink beer. Last night I felt like if I was going to get drunk, I was going to be productive while I did it. So I decided to clean. Before I drowned my sorrows in Ajax and a case of Pacifico, I needed a soundtrack. I looked through the music folder on my computer and, Scarface’s “The Fix” caught my attention. It’d been awhile since I listened to it, but I remembered loving it. Before I knew it, in between sips of the bottle I was scrubbing away at my bathtub, hypnotized by an early Kanye West beat in the song “Guess Who’s Back.” The next song on the album, “On My Block” (another West production), sunk me deeper, making me take bigger sips and nod harder. By the time I got to “In Between Us,” Scarface had gained my trust and become that old man that I romanticize.

“You only as good as what you come up against/ Nigga you get what you get/ Sure the grass is greener on the other side of the fence...”

Not too profound, but it was what I needed to hear, from someone I respected. In the same song Nas joined in on the conversation:

“I was thirteen/ I was nursing a knot on my face/But chose another time and a place/That I would avenge my last fight/ Cuz the same shit ain’t gon’ happen that just happened last night/Knuckle-game changed quicker than lighting…”

The song- the whole album lift my spirit. It was a fix.

For me rap music fills a void. There have been times in my life when a rapper was the only one saying anything I could relate to. The times I experienced what Chris Gardner calls the “no daddy blues” in his book the “Pursuit of Happyness,” a rap record was all that validated and inspired me.

• In May 2006, the median-priced single family home in LA sold for about $502,727. This is more than an 18% price increase from May 2005.

• The monthly mortgage payment (including taxes and insurance) needed to buy the median-priced Los Angeles home (assuming an interest rate of 7%, a 10% down payment, and a loan period of 30 years) is $4,043/month. A family would need to earn about $147,018/year to support this mortgage, assuming they spend no more than 33% of the family's income.

As a result, homeownership is out of reach for most people holding the following jobs (with typical incomes in parenthesis):
High school teachers ($60,537/year)
Fire fighters ($66,307/year)
Patrol officers ($67,693/year)
Registered nurses ($67,755/year)
Physics professors ($70,372/year)
Electrical engineers ($81,108/year)
Pharmacists ($95,280/year)
Judges ($113,682/year)
Lawyers ($136,460/year)
Dentists ($140,572/year)

In Los Angeles County, the Fair Market Rent (FMR) for a two-bedroom apartment is $1,269. In order to afford this level of rent and utilities, without paying more than 30% of income on housing, a household must earn $50,760 annually. Assuming a 40-hour work week, 52 weeks per year, this level of income translates into a Housing Wage of $24.60.

The state minimum wage worker earns an hourly wage of $6.75. In order to afford the FMR for a two-bedroom apartment, a minimum wage earner must work 145 hours per week, 52 weeks per year.

Or look at it another way: In Los Angeles County, the average renter earns about $15.33 an hour. In order to afford the FMR for a two-bedroom apartment at this wage, a renter must work 64 hours per week, 52 weeks per year. More than half (53%) of renters in L.A. County spend more than 30% of their income on rent, a percentage that is higher than the state (47%), and the nation (41%).

As a result, rents in Los Angeles are out of reach for:
Waiters ($17,216/year)
Sewing machine operators ($18,151/year)
Food preparation workers ($18,750/year)
Maids ($19,308/year)
Childcare workers ($21,368/year)
Janitors ($22,535/year)
Security guards ($22,736/year)
Receptionists ($24,751/year)
Retail salespersons ($25,756/year)
Office clerks ( $26,311/year)
Secretaries ($32,337/year)
Truck drivers ($35,937/year)
Social workers ($39,346/year)
Retail managers ($39,514/year)
Licensed vocational nurses ($41,111/year)
Computer support staff ($44,917/year)
Electricians ($49,829/year)
Paralegals ($51,429/year)
Clergy ($52,237/year)

I woke up this morning feeling like shit. I wasn’t surprised because I wasn’t feeling too great when I went to sleep last night. My bed is pushed into a corner so I get up on the right side of the bed every morning. I’m thinking of pulling the bed out the corner so I can get out on the other, cause the right side just isn’t doing it.

I’ve only been out of school for 11 days, yet I’m ready to go back. A week ago I was looking forward to my 51 day break, but I’m broke. And everyday that fact becomes more and more clear. With no money you can’t do shit but sit at home. No Hooters, no shopping, can’t cop any music... And because I can’t cop any music I download at work. I haven’t downloaded so much since I first discovered Napster. Even more wack: because I don’t have an internet connection at home, all I do is watch TV. I could give a fuck about a book right now. The only book I’ve picked up since the semester ended is the Antioch University catalog. For the last couple of weeks my reading has consisted of class descriptions. I read them over and over again.

For some reason, I thought I'd actually have the funds to take my son to Disneyland or to San Diego for a weekend this summer. I'm struggling to take him to the movies. I'm struggling to take myself to the movies. Shit is a fucking investment. I don't understand how people with multiple kids do this shit. How the fuck do you take a family of four to Disneyland when tickets are 60 bucks a pop. That's $240, plus what $20 for parking- that's almost $300 bucks before you even walk through the gate. Fuck that!

I'm so ready to go back to school, not because I’m rested, reenergized, and I just can’t wait… well that’s not entirely true, I am looking forward to starting at Antioch. But the summer semester kicked my ass,and I've yet to exhale. I finally got my AA after 8 years! I was ready to celebrate for a minute, but I can’t do shit. I feel like a mufucker that just got out of jail with no money and no place to go. “Let me back in!” When I’m in school I’m just as broke, but I’m too busy to concentrate on it. Right now all I can think about is what I want and can't do.

The last 24 hours I’ve asked the same question… is it possible to work your ass off your whole life and never see a return? I ask myself that question knowing damn well the answer is yes. That shit happens everyday. Here in the US it maybe a little hard to see, but I know it happens/is happening. I tend to think of myself as poorer than the average man, but more blessed than the homeless. I think that’s the way a lot of Americans think. For a while, I thought it was just me that lived paycheck to paycheck, but I’m starting to realize for a lot of people (maybe even the majority) that’s just life. I just read this interesting article by Barbara Ehrenreich. In “Smashing Capitalism”, Ehrenreich talks about how the current home foreclosures and decline in the sales of retailers are a result of people simply being out of money. Whether it be home loans, credit cards, or payday loans, creditors were luring poor people into loans that they wouldn’t be able to pay back. So when people that didn't have money in the first place found out banks were actually giving loans to people who didn't have any money, took the plunged... they bit and got hooked. Now the beast is biting back. However, the bite isn’t voluntary, it's more a result of being backed into a corner. People just don’t have any money left.

This time last year I felt like I’d be okay within a year. Compared to last year lets see what's changed: they just raised my rent, and my raise at work is barely enough to cover it... ain’t a damn thang changed.

This time around, instead of thinking shit will be okay, I'm preparing for the worse, I’m tightening ship and buckling up for the ride. I’ll keep downloading my shit, passing on the trips to Hooters and I’ll do a little closet digging for new clothes. At this point I really have no choice.

also posted @ real talk LA


Last week I hooked up with a friend of mine for another session at the Hooters in Pasadena.

As soon as we were seated, a familiar face in orange and white approached with a smile that was more ‘In-n-out drive-thru” than ‘do you want a lap dance. ‘This 18 year-old has taken a liking to us over the course of the last couple sessions. Perhaps it’s because we’re satisfied with slick peeks and just the numbers on the receipt, but she’s felt comfortable enough to open up. She’s interrupted heavy conversations about balancing fatherhood, our wifeys and the grind for our dreams. The interruptions are welcomed. To get a glimpse inside the mind of a Hooters girl in addition to some cleavage compliments the chicken and beer.

We cracked up when she talked about how in the beginning the customers flattered her with their advances, before she realized “ain’t nobody that cute!” She went from side talking about co-workers to how her parents, who conceived her when they were barely 18, talk to their teenage daughter (who is so well endowed she probably didn’t have to fill out a job application) about safe sex and birth control. As a 26 year-old with an eight year-old, it was a scary glimpse at the future. She showed us pictures from her prom night where she stood alongside a young buck wearing a bright ‘Piru red’ (that’s what she called it) zoot suit. She liked his suit, and I told her it was okay, she didn’t know any better. After all she revealed, the thing that stood out the most was her youth.

While my friend and I discussed the upcoming Rock the Bells concert, we soon found ourselves in a quicksand of a discussion about the current state of hip-hop music and pop music in general. We asked our young friend if she knew about the concert. I don’t think either one of us thought she would, but it didn’t stop us.

“No… Who’s performing?” “Cypress Hill, Public Enemy, Rage Against the Machine-"
“I’ve heard of them, but don’t know who they are.”

My hairline felt that much thinner. It was like walking up a flight of stairs and getting to that one step that gives away the age of all the rest.

The next time she came around and took a seat I asked her what type of music she listened to, and she said hip hop. Nooooooooooooo- If she’d said anything else, my hairline might have grown back. I tried to relate some other way:

“Who’s your favorite rapper?” Please say Lil Wanye, Weezy F-baby, Weezy, either way I got you!
“T-Pain.”

Now if I hadn’t been there for the wings, I might have left at that moment. Is T-Pain even considered a rapper? I couldn’t help it, I went for the jugular:

“Do you know why I don’t like T-Pain. have you ever heard of Roger Troutman,” I said anxiously waiting to prove my point.
“No.”

Ouch! She was killin me softly. “Okay, I know you know Tupac.. California Love?” Forget about it, I threw in the towel.

When I got in my car that night I checked the radio just for fun. No T-Pain, but I still felt too old for what was playing (or maybe I’m just out of touch). So I opted for CD mode, ‘Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik’ (that’s what I’m talking about), and drove home stomach bubbling to the bass.

Labels: hip hop rant