All It Takes is The Courage to Step Out

I remember as a child hearing about all the protests and riots. It was the sixties, when young and old were inspired by the force of change. People were willing to risk their jobs, education, families and freedom to stand for what they believed in. I have vague memories of feeling that I too wanted to be part of The Movement, The Revolution.
By the time I was old enough, the voices had been silenced and I was swirling in Hurricane Cocaine. 



Tonight I watched the movie Walkout. WOW! I cried about every ten minutes, I was moved to the core by the force of the collective human spirit. It seems there is nothing we can't achieve together when inspired by the Higher Good. 


I was trembling with the illustrations of the suffering Chicano students in East L.A. during the sixties.

Why do we do this to each other?

Why is "Looking out for #1" such a way of life for us?

Have we had enough yet?

Several times during the movie, I reflected on how comfortable we have become as a culture in the last thirty years. Where has that collective human spirit gone?

Has taking care of our own, replaced taking care of each other?

Have we had enough yet?

This past January, I reformatted one of the programs I am involved with to include a Youth March on MLK Day. Four hundred or so, predominantly youth of color, put on their coats and bared eighteen-degree weather during a heavy snowstorm to march for youth education and rights, much like the Chicano students did in East L.A. If you have ever participated in any marches/protests, especially a youth lead rally, it reaches deep down inside in a way that few things in life can. 




Abraham Herschel once said something to the effect of, "Marching is praying with your feet". When was the last time you prayed with your feet?

Have we had enough yet?

Please watch Walkout. It is a powerful experience. I can't imagine what the real events must have been like for those high school students. 


Have we had enough yet?

Being One Of Them

Today I was a consumer. Not just normal Michael-type consumption; today I was one of them.

Typically for me, shopping consists of several visits to the local thrifts shops. It entails being open-minded enough to letting the store lead me toward the style I want, as opposed a pre-conceived notion of what “I need”. Thrift shops serve many supportive functions. They are the original and most effective form of recycling I know of. Modern day recycling of glass, plastic, paper and cans, use more energy resources than producing new products. This gives us the illusion, an unspoken license to use, use, use, as long as we put the USED item in the city-recycling bin. So, I have a genuine appreciation for the real recycling that transpires at thrift shops.

Thrift shops are also an effective means of sweatshops. Simply put, if nothing new is sold, therefore, production goes down and the twelve year old who works eleven-hour days for one dollar will actually see his/her family that day. Less use, less abuse.

It is so much fun walking out of a thrift shop with an Old Navy or J. Crew pair of jeans for $2.99. It is my way of giving corporate America the finger. They will not get my money. My Soul is too precious, and I have worked too hard to reclaim it. It is no longer up for grabs, especially not for them. This is my way to let The Gap, Tommy Hilfiger, Nike, Wal-Mart, Kmart or any other mart feel the consequences of their actions; I am not for sale thank you!

No ownership. Thrift shops are typically not owned by anyone. There are the privately owned “vintage” shops, but they are a different breed that typically charges more for a lime green polyester sport coat from 1978 than you would pay for anew one-and a more attractive version too. I feel good about giving my money to no one. Mr. or Mrs. No One cannot do much cannot do much with the money I give them. In fact, they do the reverse, they hire people that typically not very employable or volunteers. And, they give their profits away. They actually give the money they make away to an organization or church or temple or something non-profit. For me, if there is no Co-op in town, this is how Michaels shop.

But not today. I tried the thrift shops in search of something specific to no avail. I tried to bend to meet the available selections but it really wasn’t what I needed. So, I broke my rule and went into franchise/chain stores.

People like me do not do well in these kinds of stores. The music annoys me since I am not seventeen anymore. The fragrances offend me since I like the way humans actually smell, as well as air. The energy is sterile prostitution and the semi-dressed, twenty year old girls that haven’t eaten since 2005 sales associates remind me of everything wrong with this country. Their pre-programmed smile, verbiage and perky demeanor smell of Hell- the place where Spirit and love are devoid. Corporate Hell. I visited C.H. today, willingly. The first sweet young thing with cleavage, midriff and the curves of the brim of her butt exposed was entertaining, even a little seductive in a sick kind of creep middle-aged guy kind of way. I mildly reciprocated her flirting for a brief moment. Then I said to myself, “OK, so these are not really what I wanted to buy, but she is really cute, friendly and attentive… maybe I need to be more flexible in my purchases.” Then I noticed how tightly she was clutching her shiny, red cell phone for dear life and remembered how old I am, and NO; these are not what I need to buy- regardless of cleavage, midriff or butt-crack! After a few of these experiences replicated to varying degrees, I found a store that had what I was looking for and I bought it. I bought it knowing that a woman or child with their sweat made it in China and suffering on the sandals, even before I will wear them. Knowing that this corporate chain has put mom and pop shoe stores out of business all over the country. Knowing that I am now “one of them”- Corporate Consumer. I am almost was in tears when I left wearing my new Spalding sandals.

After further review, the replay shows indisputable evidence I AM NOT ONE OF THEM! I rode my beat-up, black Trek bike what ended up to be five or six miles to get there – I could have used my van. My shirt and shorts were bought at Savers last spring. I did not accept the temptation of BOGO just because I could. I put my old sandals in my canvas bag that a local grower at the Eastside farmers Market in Madison, WI gave me two seasons ago as a gift for being such a strong supporter of local growers and her. I do not need your plastic shopping bag, a second pair of footwear at half off or anything else. Eleven dollars. Brand new Spalding athletic sandals for eleven dollars. An incredible deal but at what cost to those whose sweat mixed with my while pedaling my bike in the hot Virginia sun?

I am not one of them
I am not one of them

Me and my Soul are not for sale. We are not on the open market.
WE ARE NOT FOR SALE ANYMORE!

De-Expresion

It is now white, very white. You can see the spots that are not as white but still very white. I am sure the landlord will only see the places that the orange, blue, red, green, purple and black refused to be hidden. Just like early in the twentieth century when American women refused to have their voices and votes hidden any longer. Just like when the Voice of Nelson Mandela refused to be hidden or silenced by prison, hate or violence. When Brother Malcolm returned from his Pilgrimage in Mecca and refused to support division, and in fact promoted inclusion, and reformed, open-heartedly a vision of what we need to do to be free. The Creative and Inspired Voice has a way of making itself known no matter how many coats of paint one tries to hide it with.

How can we accurately represent or portray six months of days and nights filled with love, tears, songs, laughter, dances, sharing, huge hugs and community after its visual evidence has been whitewashed away? Did we just commit treason of the highest order by submitting to the system constructed to whitewash creativity and uniqueness? But, who would be better assigned to such a task than the creators and lovers themselves? Is there anyone else qualified to dissolve James De La Vega’s chalk masterpieces on the sidewalks of Harlem than De La Vega himself or Mother Nature herself? NO, I think not.

I am writing this knowing the answer but fighting hard to hold back the tears. Real hard. I am leaning against the cement base of the UVA flagpole in front of the newly painted columns of The Rotunda. It’s a gorgeous Sunday morning including tourists with cameras, and Christians in Khakis coming from Church strolling around campus. This is not where and when someone cries hysterically over participating in the process of de-expression. No, not here or now. Maybe I am not courageous enough to let myself breakdown and mourn over being one of the Brillo-scrubbers this morning. I am not strong enough to be that man. After centuries and millennium of witnessing de-expression, the wounds in my belly, heart, mind, ears and eyes are too deep, I am not man enough to embrace the kind of paint that deep.
But they are.

They, the ones who together produced the playlists on his MacBook that was the soundtrack of this loving family of a small, special group of humans. Young humans with friendship, trust, passion and wide open arms perfectly sculpted for hugs that make my knees weak by the sheer force of their love, compassion, hope and humility. They drew the purple sketches of the girl with the amazingly straight nose standing tall next to her soft, pillowy cheeks. They wrote The Welcome in all its bright undeniable colors that spoke the Universal language of Welcome to anyone fortunate enough to enter this Temple of love and community. They who as a group created their own Ten Commandments that lift and include us all, while simultaneously letting us know that we may not be there yet, but know where to go and why.

Purple and blue was the hardest to de-express. The vitality and boldness of these two pigments would make The Buddha, Jesus, Abraham, Kwan Yin and Mohammed proud parents of children like blue and purple. Just look at the sky or any flower garden for proof of their force. The orange was easy to de-express, just like the bag of tangelos we inhaled to quench our thirsts on this hot day while scrubbing.

The handprints on the ceiling had pigments glorifying the colors of the rainbow and de-expressing them took our whole bodies to distinguish. We had to stretch and bend to make sure all evidence of this experience never happened, the lost votes in Florida in 2000 were easier to hide than the tempura paint handprints holding and hugging all below them with love, warmth and forgiveness. These hands caressed and massaged the wounded hearts that Mother Culture beat and abused. The hands reached down to them providing safety and protection. A place where being you was what was expected of you. Not in spite of who you are, but because if who you are!

When I walked up the stairs to the living room this morning, the whiteness startled me. I have many friends of Color who experience being startled by whiteness every day of their lives, for me, this morning was too much. No, I am not man enough to face this pain. How can I allow these tears trying to purify and cleanse my heart and Soul for this act of heresy but I will de-express them too.

If I am experiencing this level of violation and stripping of their outward expression of their days and nights they shared meals, words, arms and dreams together; what about them? I am just a weary traveler grateful for a place to rest my head. This is their collective creation.
When will we choose expression over oppression?

Today, my vote in the primary of life is to express and create. No more de-expression, not one more day!

May 25, 2008, Charlottesville, VA