alixa and naima - climbing poetree presents hurricane season

ase, lovely love you ladies, such a blessing to meet these beautiful souls in nyc, learn more at www.climbingpoetree.com

i wish to articulate a bridge

i am perplexed and saddened by the seeming inability to draw connections (and thereby nurture compassion) across complexions - this feels to me like a dilemma of grave consequence as my female friends who are not of color are having beautiful mixed babies by men of culture, of cultures of the african diaspora. i fear that if i cannot clearly connect across color with these women, then what day of angry disconnect awaits them, in relation to their children?

"you don't understand me ma! you can never understand my experience! i am black. you are white." period.

to feel/fear one cannot communicate conditions across color inhibits dialogue and the possibility (not for unity but) for real change through cooperation. audre lorde wrote of the richness that differences make, the richness, not the hate, nor the distance. the richness in difference will bring us to new solutions (that humanity needs desperately but often does not seek.)

nehal notes the differences between performing black and owning black. black as in black consciousness not that amorphous BET-NBA black blob. to perform is to portray pride to people in the everyday, an ability grown out of a genuine place of inward reflection and self-knowing e.g. the owning. performing is the outside action and owning the inside understanding. i could list other ethnic identities that appear outwardly differently in different people as genuine pride of or striations away from 'stereotypes' across communities all owning their origins that invariably vary but note that 'white' is the norm, is the over-riding desirable state, is the other to a person of color - more often the amorphous blob often trying to lend itself to culture failing either by destroying or disingenuously uplifting or outright theft. is there no room for the heartfelt appreciation of traditions of people different than you, is that wish to learn more about, dress like the people of, play music of a place, an origin, that you cannot locate in your composition?

is there no room for francesca to play kalimba? i cannot countenance this. i must build a bridge.

another level of reality cloud the issue for me: 'looking' of 'x' identity, the perception peice. when a person self identifies as 'of color' but outwardly face, skin and features 'pass' as 'white' or other - how authentic can your identity be when you are perceived as better than that blacker-than-you-being therefore denying that complex set of oppressions that string together the days in dark communities? how can those fair skinned offspring of interracial families maintain his or her ethnic identity in a world that does not respect them as a part of neither side of the family tree? how much to we need to 'see' to believe?

i seek the opportunity to connect across culture with integrity, wanting that for my friends' mixed pickney and equally wishing to affirm friendships i keep. i feel that conditions exist across colors and in the details of the experience are opportunities for dialogue, for caring comparison and connectivity across differences without calling 'sameness' similarity ... quite. mirroring instead of othering says sandra amarie of moja tea gallery.

i say we should all poke out our eyes. moses responds 'then we would judge by voice and odor.' i wish to shed a tear for that othering instinct inside, wish to draw it out of me in that same sigh, wish to expel the impetus to tell you how 'you' are different from 'i'.

i say white mothers of mixed babies, don't antagonize your child with the idea that 'we're the same'.

i say white women don't call 'gender' and say you understand racism and systematic discrimination against (in)visible min(maj)orities.

i say white heteronormative men walk with a level of assurance and affirmation (a result of pervasive patriarchy, capitalism and racism) that women and people of culture simply cannot for the world in this world has not taught us this - we look for grey, seek compromise, learn to accommodate. our labour (from mothering to slaving for pennies a day) has no value inside the market but the world could not continue without us. but sometimes i feel that pedestal built of privilege is a prison all its own and there are no steel bars between he and i, no, there is a steel wall and you cannot really see me and i do not really know you because you in fact have never been compelled to show the real real you.

cry me a river.

black babies eat mud pies because of your privilege and black grandmothers bury their daughters to care for their children because of your injust aid - see how i connect the two?

what to do. what to do. what to do.

how to articulate
an authentic bridge
across color

if i cannot
i fear
all is lost
intergenerationally
between
child and mother

i know
meaningful
connections
permit
cooperation
between privilege

class can transcend color
for money can buy your way
out of oppression
out of identifying with
'your people'

i sense like class
there exist
connections between conditions
across color
and these
can create that bridge

tell me how this can be done?

d'bi says to see the places where you are an oppressor, a witness of oppression and a victim of oppression.

let's start here - shall we give it a try?

i will and will let you know how it goes...

the moon,

the moon hang fat and low the other day when i finally emerged from my bed, bundled up and left the house. i promptly blamed her for my senseless, constant, recent (but familiar) anxiety, 'ah, it's you... my dear, from the window i couldn't see you but now the evening has brought your xray image, a light bright white vision of fine lines and shadows, translucent and out of place in dusk sky.' the day was a write-off, considered too long and began too late, spent paralyzed in reflection - i know this day. this day follows me, peeps from around a corner... then pounces early in the morning without warning. this day is full of questions and wonder, not curious, nor hopeful, but more leery and apprehensive in nature. the questions and wonder are met with easy justifications and explanations - my mind is an expert, an old hand, no amateur here, i know my way around this maze of made up interpretation, defense, analysis and some pretense. i trod to the center, scale the wall with ease and sit atop it quite comfortably, my eyes perusing the twisted paths and the locked gate on the horizon ... in the mist. i sit here often and look out... i look out, pull my collar up against the cold and breathe until i'm dizzy. inhale, count to seven, exhale, count to seven.until my lighthead takes on the weight of a brick, sends me veering slight left, no right, and down.

the street is much too busy to look out from my perch. people are passing, talking, commenting, laughing - jostling, bustling, hustling. it's going to be winter soon. i'll be here. when that snow comes. i'll be here. i've chosen to. or the staying chose me. i'm not sure now. but i'll be here. when the sun returns, i'll be here. i've committed. in my own mind. and it's good. i'll be busy. But what happens when the moon returns?

finance figures fall furiously

so what does it mean?
when media references the great depression?
when bush bails out billion dollar banks?

i imagine rats scurrying
or
liquid money riverbeds sucked dry
or
copper coins spilled through cracks

into pockets?
for cash can't quite disappear
science equations make that much clear -

but really,
bush has bailed out
banks with bad karma
commercial turn speculative
straight speculate about rates
that aren't their business
about figures that aren't their affair -

now 4 million
low income
home owners
working poor
soon on the street
with more to come

to be joined by slick haired men in suits?
oh no, the government came to their rescue
bailed them out with buckets of money
filled the holes in the bottoms of their steamships

but not you and me,
not 'the people'
our canoes stay tipsy

but 'the money'?
save the money!
the people will fend for themselves.

and we will.

damn the bank
damn bush
damn money

all speculation
no reparations
no consequences
all jumpin fences

what foolishness...
wait, how'd we get into this mess?

wrong question -
more important,
who got us into this mess?

why, the bank -
then why'd they get bailed out?

and why not the people?
why not you and me?
what did we do to deserve this frenzy
spinning out of our control
driving us from our homes
wreaking havoc on our economy
but we don't figure in the rescue plan -
cause the government prefers to save the bank
how?

to buy back their debt with taxpayers money.
our money
the people's money.

fine then,
take our money
but at least give us a say

cos, the banks are the ones that got us here in the first place -
these times show they can't be trusted with our money,
nor the rates.

so give us a say
c'mon give us a say
i say -

give us a SAY!

do you ever just not know?

i don't quite know.
i really have nothing to say -
and really and truly
you ought not listen to me anyway...

but sometimes we start things
without knowing where things go
but i value curiosity
(fuck the 'cat' - it will not kill me)

if we just take things slow
and allow things to grow
and see where they flow
we can begin to know

at least that's what i believe
so i won't fret bout it just yet
cause i know i don't need to know yet
the relevance will become clear to me

like water settled,
once murky
murky's not so bad
don't let it get you down
cos murky's full of learning
sift through murky
find sure ground

hold time close
but let it pass
let life happen
lay down and be glad

cos we don't need to know just yet
the knowing will come
i can feel it -
and besides
it feels good too
to not know just yet,
not quite yet.

d'bi.young anitafrika dub theatre opening tonight 7pm 62 fraser avenue (parkdale)

if you live in toronto and love dub, then you know the dub poets collective ... if you know the dub poets collective, then you know lillian allen... if you know lillian allen, then you know d'bi young.

well d'bi young has returned from the UK theatre run of Da Kink.

and she has returned with a vengeance; last night i saw her perform to a small room of OCAD students. her words assault the mic. rythem follows her cadence. no music but her voice carries the beat. while her bangles punctuate the verse. she is a brilliant dub poet sharing words and stories about struggle and love. on stage, she is a sight to be seen and to be heard. the city is glad to have her back i feel for -

d'bi is opening the anitaAFRIKA! dub theatre at 62 fraser avenue (king and dufferin) -

parkdale big up! if i may speak on our behalf, we over-ostracized parkdalians are honored and ecstatic that dbi is bringing a radical, community artspace to our humble hood -

come out tonigth at 7pm to support the launch party of the first storyteller.groundings.fest slated to run Aug 19-24th, 2008

Live Performances and DJsbidding marketplace * raffles * henna body art * kissing booth * donations welcomed

anitAFRIKA dub theatre welcomes you to its new home in west toronto adt! is a radical arts initiative founded by d'bi young during her mentorhsip with dubb aatist visionary ahdri zhina mandiela, based on seven principles of dubpoetry and dubtheatre, used as mediums of social change through storytelling. This fundraising event is meant to gather resources for the company's inaugural storyteller.groundings.fest.

62 fraser avenue - parkdale- liberty village - one block south of King - two blocks east of dufferin. for more info www.anitafrika.com 416.434.1823. groundings@dbiyoung.net

boonaa mohammed - spoken word

see/hear/learn more at http://www.boonaa.com/

what do you think?

maybe you think that I am naive.
maybe you think that I am a case.
maybe you think that I am a fool.
or maybe you think that I am a genius.

but I am learning my worth -
as well as the worthlessness of these wonderings...

what i know is the richness of love.
what i know is the oneness of love.

what i have come to learn is not to curse love's fleeting temperament
rather to enjoy it and praise it and live it
by sharing it wholeheartedly and remembering it fondly when it leaves

you see,
i was too young to become jaded by broken hearts
the gravity of love's disastrous ending evaded me and so
i see love as all around and nowhere
i see love as all the time and everywhere
i show love how i came to know love -
smiling, hugging, touching, laughing, soothing, cooing...
i know i will fall in and out of love endless times in this lifetime
i know that romantic love is one of many loves i will share;
children, friends and enemies will teach me love's infinite spectrum
and as a woman, i know that i must strive to be sure love's many faces are not obscured by one single face...

what i have come to learn is that love is no more than a choice.
it comes and goes, you can fall in or throw it away - you choose.
there is no soul mate, no forever, no one person to bank on -
you can fall in love with one of a zillion (or 6 billion) people
in a given circumstance, context, environment... you choose.

don't be afraid, love,
for the one person who cannot know love is he who has lost faith in love, the disbeliever, one whose trust in love has been broken, affronted and betrayed. and you'll forget that love is all around you always, love, always.

no need to fret, love,
for there's enough life for love and purpose. and you'll find purpose has no purpose when it is not shared and full of love for we are humans on this earth merely to love. your purpose will be emboldened by love, will grow in love's light, manifest with greater fervor imbued by love. know that you won't spare anyone (not even yourself) by avoiding love in the hopes of escaping heartache. if you truly live this life, heartache will find you, but love will make it worthwhile.

stay strong, love,
for we should all be congratulated for loving. when love ends, we should feel proud for having loved as long as we have. we should thank each other for having learned through loving. we should try not to be a backside on the way out so as to shelter love in others' eyes, to ensure that we have not spoiled love for those we love most, to ensure that we can all continue to love.

know that i want you to love, love.
love, love, and live live...
(verb, noun, conjunction verb adjective...)

the return of summer

summertime is slowly returning to the streets of toronto. as I emerge from hibernation, squinting my eyes at the sun, I am so glad to see you again. lock up your winter coat, don your sunglasses and come out, you'll see how happy I am to see you!

"it's been too long, what's really good?"

"yo, haven't seen you in a minute, how are you?"

"man, so nice to see you again, what you been up to?"

the sun has returned and found the jovial in me, we are laughing, hugging in the street, I'm so glad to see you again! the return of summer dusted the chills off, greased my shoulders back down to their natural state, put a smile on my face and a kick in my step.

Let's go! Where? Anywhere!

Let's walk! Where? Who cares!

Let's see! What? Who knows!

this way, I am bound to run into you. I'm sure I'll see you soon, somewhere, sometime, likely on these streets, these "nostalgic pavements" grey hot and pounding with footsteps; sandals, flip flops, slip ons - aren't your feet glad? my feet are ecstatic! my skin is calling out for loose fits and lightness and freedom; expose me! show me!

Let's lay out on the grass, I want to soak you in. I see orange when I close my eyes and bird sounds are in the air. Smells like green. Wind blows warm. Feels like alive.

Smile. Summer is back.

performance

there is a moment, a hallowed moment, when a stillness follows your speech and your eyes raise towards the crowd to indicate the close and their eyes meet yours to indicate understanding. here lives a pause, a perfect silent pause (save breathing and heartbeats,) wherein you and they are all that is and stand in awe of each other. the fleeting moment in time is in itself a deeply moving show of mutual gratitude is broken by an abrupt uproar of applause. this moment is sustenance for the soul, it is balm to a open wound, it is an embrace for those feelings that are long-gone, lonely, fearful of exposure. i want to live in this moment.

Jamilah Malika

the firm

financial firms ain't nuthin but a lucrative spinoff of the almighty market;
alleged self-regulating machine with laws as natural as the environment,
but it is not so, those rusty wheels need greasin and finesse,
how else are rules altered, omitted, turned against the rest?

well, the 'big 4' exist to keep the rich richer
by tellin their clients how to minimize costs, hedge bets, manage risk
- essentially how to rape better,
how to do it faster, harder with an efficient get away
the firms make elite more exclusive
chip chip chippin
at justice, rights, security...
money in the bank ain't working for you and me.

it's invested somewhere likely hurting someone,
cause that which makes them richer
is a loss to some lowly one,
some lowly being with breath and spirit
yet no money, no land, no claim, no hand in it
no control over; still controlled by it.

those spinning wheels, they don't oil themselves;
the 'big 4 do it,' they be doin' it well.

i gotta quit this job. asap.

a poem

I saw you,
did you see me?
you stepped off the bus
unmoving i wait to board
no salutation, no embrace
how very unlike me.

truly
though it was early
i could not go home with you
nor could you come with me

i just don't feel
the same way you feel
about the possibility of
"we"

At that moment
LKJ deep in my ears
please don't disturb
his lovadub rhyme

Lorraine

she left Linton
standing the rain
now he's going insane
and oh, what a terrible pain

and i'm sorry because
i did not mean to do the same...

truly
no matta how late or early
i cannot go home with you
nor can i invite you to
come with me
not in all honesty

the simple truth is
(i'm sorry but,)
i do not share your feelings
on the possibility of
"we"

Jamilah Malika