Urban Snapshot

So I Lied...

2006-03-12T23:07:00.000-05:00

I have a lot to say, and I realize that I can't rant at work about hip hop when I job focuses on social policy and community programming.

Canadian Music Week
I didn't visit any venues, except the Urban Flowcase. It was a bust, as indicated by the lack of press, besides Eye Weekly anointing them with the "Strangest venue" award. It was at the Fairmont Royal York Hotel. To give you a better understanding of the place, it's where the Queen (not Latifah) comes to sleep when she's in town. Initially I was elated by the idea that urban radio was culture jamming the notion of high culture, but then I realized that their analysis isn't that sophisticated. It seems that the choice of venue was an amateur's mistake, after all, who wants to watch Raekwon and Killah Priest throw down in the friggin hotel ballroom?!?

Of course the scarce audience wasn't there early enough to enjoy Melanie Durrant whose voice is incredible live. The only criticism I have is that she didn't seem to enjoy being there. She enjoyed her music, but I sensed a bit of distance from the crowd. Then again, she was facing a crowd of Wu-Tang fans.

Posers were out in full swing, equipped with business cards, Treo's- the urban music honing device, blinding bling, and arm candy. Little X was laying low in the corner behind me, while his cousin J Digs tried to greet anyone who he thought was famous enough to give his talent credibility, including me. I'm nobody famous, but if you look at me and think I'm celebrity enough to get a full on greeting (kisses and all), then either your career is in the toilet, or I need to change my line of work.

All in all the event was poorly executed, the line-up was poorly chosen (Canadian Music Week featured Raekwon... Is it me or is that effed up?), but decently executed. I would have opted for a decently executed show in a venue more conducive to hip hop audiences, sans the "long dresses may become caught in escalator".

When will Canadian hip hop learn?

Back to Life, Back to Reality

2005-10-02T12:21:00.000-04:00

As I'm settling in this new job, I am realizing that I don't have as much type to blog about myself, hip hop, and myself as an observer, participant and lover of hip hop culture.

Where does this leave me? Well, I am now among the pseudo statistics that talk about the short-lived ambitions of wannabe bloggers. It's been less than a year, and what began as a desire to blog at least once a week, has been reduced to once a month. I am sadly, a bandwagon blogger.

I partly attribute this to my inability to post photos. As well, I never got around to subscribing to an RSS newsfeed or signing up for any newsletters. I also didn't reply to posts on other blogs as much as I coul have. A combination of these things and the unforgiving limitations of time impacted my blogging experience. However, even without photos, RSS newsfeeds and replying to other bloggers posts, I anticipated that my e-lit experience would be a little more different.

I blame Sex and the City. I thought, after much encouragement from friends who enjoyed my writing, that I could "pull a Carrie". Granted, I'm a full-figured Canadian of Caribbean extraction in my early twenties with a modest income in the non-profit industry with a big afro, not a size 2, 30-something blonde from Manhattan, with an income that allows for addictions to Manolo Blahnik's and Prada shoes. I thought that I, like Carrie, could reflect on the interesting conversations, moments, thoughts with my girlfriends and share them with the world. Unfortunately, my ill-fated fantasy, was grounded in the pervasive images that I fight in my everday life, personally and professionally. I was preyed upon, and ambushed into unconsciousness and could no longer fight the fantasy, but damn, it was a good fantasy.

In the fantasy of fabulousness, my encounters of divadom are birthed on crisp evenings in late September- the kind of day that epitomizes perfect transitional balance, where one twenty-something, professional (me) could enjoy a roasted red pepper, arugula, and spinach pannini while meticulously identifying fashion faux pas, old flames, and potential mates on a bustling Saturday afternoon. Evenings would find me indoors as the outside winds howelled, as if to warn me to stay indoors wrapped in a tasteful burgandy cashmere turtleneck and peppermint tea, playing Yesterday's New Quintet in the background. It would be a time of eternal inspiration- a place that I traveled to regularly every time I sat crossed legged in front of my chic I-book structuring my weekly masterpiece.

Money is meaningless in this context. In my fantasy, I write passionately without care or concern about how my bills will be paid. It just does. I have no other form of employment, and no significant other to supplement my absent income. Still, to the outside world, I can penetrate the thick air of insecurity, exuding the confidence of a woman who has got her shit together, shopping habits and all.

Nobody questions my credentials. They simply believe. I am invited to every sneaker, CD release, spoken word, wine and cheese, cocktail and fashion party in the city and beyond. I have mastered the art of the chic, I mean, cheek kiss. There is no corner of the city I haven't been invited to explore, as everyone seeks to include me in their social circles. You see, I amd the diva who everyone calls "diva" and can successfully straddle the line between street and geek chic. From the corridors that house the decision-makers in the upper echelons of power to the disenfranchised, but "eccentric" and "funky" people of colour- the stylemakers of the 21st century, I can work any room.

My fantasy occurs in chapters, as my life ventures down the winding and unyielding paths of self-discovery. Still, through it all I remain fly, funky, fearless and free- afro and all.

But alas, here I am. Sitting in comfortable, not sexy, Hanes underwear with my afro flattened on the right side, and my pedicured toes, riddled with the stress of a busy life, suffering from chipped polish. Here, I am surrounded by glossy installations of the upper class, and my imposed aspirations for Prada, Fendi, and couture taste (it's definitely acquired) sit seductively on my bed spread wide open, served by size 0 models who don't look like me.

I am not a blogger. My fantastical illusions of life, are based on a fantastically fictional life, packaged and sold for ratings, product endorsements, and DVD box sets. I have learned that there is no such thing as a Carrie Bradshaw, so there sure as hell is no such thing as the Black Carrie Bradshaw.

This brings me to my end. I will be missed by the one or two random by-chance visitors to my blog and nobody else. Still, I'm grateful for having been introduced to this new world, where "nobodies" and "somebodies" (i.e. unpublished and published writers) speak as opinionated bodies; equals who engage in rhetoric that inspires great print, radio and television stories worldwide. The internet is a beautiful thing for this.

I have bought books, CDs, and read articles because of the great blogs I have encountered. Many of these blogs are listed on the left side of this page. However there are others that I have missed. I know you're out there and I will keep reading your blogs, waiting for the life conditions that will allow for my new writing fantasy to emerge. Until then, I guess it's...

Back to Life... Back to Reality...

Summer's Over, and Life Goes On...

2005-09-14T08:14:00.000-04:00

It's been a minute since I posted, and I only have a minute to spare. So here's the quick rundown.

While there was no beef for Kardi, I was even more fascinated by the predominantly Afro-Caribbean crowd that went out to see the show.

I found out about Jeff Chang coming to Toronto, at 9:30 p.m. in passing. Poor promo, and not checking Del's blog made me miss this. I will never forgive TUMF for this.

I missed TUMF this year because I was in NYC. I should've tried to connect with people, but my whole life has been a big networking hustle. So I just shopped.

In preparation for a guest lecture at U of T, I am asking students to read Chapter 2 ("Sipple Out Deh")in "Can't Stop, Won't Stop". This should be interesting...

School has started and I have 2 great professors. I checked them out on Rate My Professor

The fact that I am a manager of a $1.2M project has finally sunk in. I am now getting stress-induced headaches and 4 hours of sleep a night.

Medina still has $0.00 and I'm treating it like a $1.2M project. Editorial meeting on Saturday, graphic and layout meeting too. My headaches are getting even worse.

TCHC wants me to stay on board for issue 2 of "Project: Life". I'm losing even more sleep.

How did my life become so busy?

Chew On This...

2005-08-23T10:32:00.000-04:00

As Del has observed, Toronto is having quite the interesting summer. A mishandled Flow interview with Kanye, and Mos Def marrying Socrates' baby mother, O.C. getting doused with ice cubes (See Mr. Kamoji for details and pics) from a bartender and abandoning his show due to poor sound quality and after hitting a security guard ("accidentally") with a mic stand, and Mayhem Morearty dissing Kardi has got me feeling like I'm living in Toronto Tattler, tabloids of the not-so-rich, and only marginally famous.

The new rumour is that as Eternia's CD skipped at the All B-Girl's School, Bahamadia whispered to nobody in particular quite loudly, "see this is why white girl's shouldn't rap". That's fine form for the Christian of the new millennium. Break out the Olive Oil and run to the altar.

I am still trying to find out what was said, but apparently when Mayhem performed at the10th annual 416 Graffiti Expo by REMG he got bold-faced and dissed Kardi. I guess, his music wasn't good enough to hold him down with the crowd. More importantly though, is that Kardi has a show this weekend at the Harbourfront Centre with Melanie Durrant. And of course, the big question is will the Firestarter use that as a forum to reply?

Hmmmm..... (I doubt it)

Quite frankly, Toronto doesn't have a big enough talent pool to have beef. Everyone is on the come up, and nobody can geographically or ideologically claim any loyal region of fans, as long as they have BET. So dissing another Toronto cat is as effective as a soup kitchen in Forest Hill or Rosedale.

Bahamadia Took Me To Church

2005-08-22T10:57:00.000-04:00

My grandmother always believed that God worked in mysterious ways. Water to wine, parting the Red Sea, Sodom and Gomorrah and the list continues. But it wasn't until Saturday's All B-Girl's School that I knew that God's repertoire of glory included hip hop.

I walked in the El-Mo(cambo) hailing up the usual suspects (Mellenius (1/3 of Tone Mason), El-Machetero, Isis, Eternia, Leviathan, etc. etc.) and was greeted by the must have staple of any female hip hop show, EGR art. I've long been fascinated by EGR's work back when I used to organize battles at the Comfort Zone, but have since been looking for other women to shine in the spotlight. Evidently, she hadn't surfaced yet.

The Hip Hop Barbershop was in full effect, giving line-ups to every b-boy or bald-headed hip hop nut that truly wanted to represent for the culture. Dalia was spinning the Toronto staple play list of Duck Down Records - Greatest hits, mixed with throwbacks like Apache for Lady Noyz and the Drunken Monkz the breakers doing power moves at the front of room. The fabled hypothesis of all four elements of hip hop co-existing within the same space was actualized right in front of me. It was like I was among itinerant nomads whose makeshift setup gave locals a taste of their life. I was in the Temple Of Hip Hop.

Isis, while egotistical to Kanye proportions, rocked a good show. Zaki, was just as friends said, Sade meets Jill Scott at Jaguar Wright's crib for a soul session that makes Joss Stone switch genres (Brit Country anyone?). Technical difficulties didn't hold Eternia back from rocking the crowd after 2 months away from the T-Dot. A dope line-up is a dope line-up is a dope line-up. These ladies seamlessly complimented the fabric of hip hop that existed in that space, forcing me to lower my head and nod in reverence for the culture.

I had never seen Bahamadia perform and had no expectations. She spit, and we flashed up the lighters, she looked at us, and we became caught in her glaze. The audience was vulnerable and left wide open, hanging on the BB Queen's every word.

Uknowhowwedo, 3 The Hard Way, I Confess. I was right there with her. Then the lyrics stopped and we were vibing on instrumentals. Head nodding, foot tapping, pop-locking, eyes squinting in disbelieve that a song could be so dope. I looked up at my girl, and we smiled at each other, knowing that we had received the holy touch of hip hop. I felt like a changed woman. If you asked any fan in the crowd about what could possibly happen next, they'd never be able to predict what was in store.

"I want to thank the Lord Jesus Christ, for saving me. Everything I do, I do to the Glory of God. Without Him, I wouldn't be here today". Out of respect, the crowd applauded. "Every day, I thank God for the gifts that I'm given." We applaud some more, but without the trance-induced energy that we had 5 minutes earlier. "God has brought me a long way..." By now some of the crowd had found a new kind of solace at the bar. She continued, " God delivered me from prison, from being a thief from bisexuality..." We were stunned, but played it off (just smile and nod right?). I was about to break out with the tambourine and sing hallelujah because Bahamadia was taking us to church- and she knew it. As she continued, people began to fold their arms. Toronto is the San Francisco of Canada when it comes to the Queer community, so even if nobody in the room was Queer, we were all sensitive to the issues as forward-thinking progressive Torontonians. When Bahamadia ended, I was certain she lost a lot of the crowd, who had become more fascinated with the photography slideshow at the back of the stage, than Bahamadia at the front. "This is my truth yall. This is what I believe, and it may be different for some of yall, but I'm sharing my truth."

And with that the show continued... successfully.

If I had known, I would have worn my good frock. I can't believe that Bahamadia took me to church.

Allow Me to Re-Introduce Myself...

2005-08-11T15:57:00.000-04:00

As the church-bred choir girl with a Jamaican upbringing, I learned early that it was a sin to believe in horoscopes, witches and Black magic. Dressed in a silk blazer and skirt ensemble with the white hat and matching netting enveloping her face, Sister Gardener lowered her dark eyes at me and reminded me in a nurturing scowl that it was against God's will to try and predict the future and believe in the 12 universal zodiac signs that exist among the billion + in our global population. For fear of the church woman's wrath agreed and vowed never to bring it up again. That is, until the horoscope page lay open on the seat beside me as I rode the bus to work today.

"Now is the perfect time for you to leave an imprint on eternity, Scorpio. Within the next 6 weeks you will leave your mark"

Me? An imprint? I'd always said that if I had to decide between the ability to influence and being rich, I'd choose to be influential, but that was a secret I told myself. This desire to influence lingered between my sentences and hid within the stitching of my clothes. This was my little big secret. So what does it mean when some random arbitrary horoscope gives me a message that I had shared only with myself?

It means that the many speaking engagements that I have planned for September will be heard and echo through generations, if I prepare right. It means that I no longer have a crutch. I can't cry about being poor, because I just got a job that propelled me to the middle class. I can't talk about dropping out of high school when I have 4.0 GPA in university. I can't talk about lack of access to opportunities when people are telling me that my name is falling out of the mouths of people I don't know and have never met, at meetings that I didn't even know were happening. I have received emails from people who say that they Googled me (say what!?!).

When I thank my mentors, they no longer accept the thanks. "My pleasure" has been replaced with, "Oh please, you did that yourself". I've been forced to stand on my own two feet and not to cling to the coattails of the people I admire.

When I speak and people listen. When I act and they watch me. I now exist among a new circle of people.

I'm a gatekeeper now. I don't know how I will do this job because there is no job description. It's interpretive and relies on one's immediate surroundings. Until today, it never occurred to me that gatekeepers existed in every community and professional industry in the world. We guard a territory that many people are not privy to, for an array of (superficial) reasons. They aren't intelligent enough, they're the wrong class, wear the wrong clothes, are connected to the wrong people, etc. etc. Behind the gates grow health on plush patches of fertile soil surrounded by privilege and opportunity. Behind these gates lies power.

Without being asked, I have been placed in front of these gates with the other leaders, trailblazers, and prodigies.

I am a gatekeeper. This kind of privilege simultaneously enrages and empowers me. Still I must accept it and use this power and share it with others. Allow me to re-introduce myself.

My name is feminist-womanist woman of colour, and I am a gatekeeper.

Disspelling the Groupie Myth...

2005-07-31T11:22:00.000-04:00

I could never understand the mind of a groupie. I don't have many memories of encounters with them, except for that time I went a Little Brother show last year at the Harbourfront Centre and a 5'3, 10o lb orange-tanned, dyed blonde with split ends and the brunette roots showing tried to shove me and my friends aside so that her 10 layers of black mascara, 7 injections of botox, and 5 inch stilettos could shout 4 or 3 "hey babys" sliding her finger in and out of her mouth (for the added effect) to get the attention of Big Pooh and Phonte. I don't think they saw her. I was left wondering what would possess her to be so shameless and so obviously desperate.

I've always held the belief that any woman who agrees to meet with the artist and/or their band 'back at the hotel' is either in a drunken stupor or has had something slip into her drink rendering her mentally incapacitated and unable to make wise decisions. This is assuming that she doesn't want the same thing that I assume these men want- one night of boot knockin' body rockin lip lockin' groupie love.

Using these preconceived notions, I've often turned up my nose at stories I hear about women who just went to "chill" after the show at the artists and/or their band's hotel without the panty dropping, thinking that they were just covering up for their battered self-esteem after realizing that they were just another part of the routine that will repeat itself on the following day in another city 10000 kilometers away in another time zone. That is until I was invited back to the hotel after Dwele's show on Friday night with 5 other friends.

Originally, out of a concern from my self-proclaimed "boy crazy", Dwele-loving friend Ashley (yes, she's Black) who decided to hop on to the tour bus with the drummer as the other 4 of us decided to leave, I agreed that we should go to the hotel. We all went home, got changed (in to jeans, and out of our skirts) and prepared for the worst.

In the car on the way down, we practiced rude quips, impolite jabs and moves that showed us how to take a man out in one swift action. We prepared for the unknown. We arrived at the hotel after leaving Ashley for an hour. Worried, we made a sweat-drenching-Olympic-style-I-don't-care-if-I-sweat-out-my-perm dash down the hallway, looking for her. Room 233. We found her under the sheets (she was "just a little cold" *sigh*), while drummer boy sat in the chair next to the bed. The doors where open, which made it much easier to walk (read: barge) right in.

Dwele, with his bloodshot eyes, white doo-rag and boxers on retreated for bed in preparation for his 5:15am departure to the airport for DC. It was 2:00 am. For the next 3 hours, the 7 of us (5 ladies and two dudes) talked about everything: from the comparison of 2:30 am life in Toronto vs. Detroit, to playing music (we were with the drummer and the bass player) to Slum Village, to Platinum Pied Pipers rumors (to which they would not confirm, nor deny) and even thoughts on the upcoming DC show. I, however, was still on guard, waiting for that “groupie moment” that I had always imagined. You know, sort of like the way Tip Drill insinuates what would happen when the cameras turn off. I imagined it as a series of pre-determined coincidences like a pillow fight would commence and someone would jump on top of the other to pin them to prevent the other one from “winning”, or someone would go to the bathroom and not lock the door and the lights would mysteriously go off and someone would whisper something about how much they're feeling you and blah blah blah. Well, if it came, I was ready, and it was only a matter of time.

I had my lines prepared and knew the fastest way out of that hotel. I had a plan of action that I was ready to act on at the drop of a dime. In the meantime, everyone got lifted and decided to watch Half Baked (which I thought was a funny coincidence). Since they'd never been to Toronto before, we decided to take these guys on a tour of Toronto through the movie (it was filmed in Toronto). After 5 or 6 belly laughs, 3 bags of M&M's, 5 bottles of water, and 3 desperate cries for food, the clock read 5am and we decided to head out. Since it was Caribana weekend, the entire city was still awake and there was no shortage of people at the breakfast joint we went to. We ate, laughed, reflected on the night and were dropped home. As I walked through my front door, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I had made it through… we had made it through and all my girls were safe as we dispelled the groupie myth.

KRS One and the H-LAW: The Miseducation of the Hip Hop Nation

2005-07-26T13:06:00.001-04:00

KRS One the Teacha definitely has a way with words. It's analysis he lacks. While I constantly struggle with his 9 expressions of hip hop (does that mean that the 4 elements exist as foundations and the other 5 are by-products of those original 4?), I have finally chalked up enough courage to share my sentiments on KRS-One's hip hop lectures.

Granted, I never grew up in the Bronx, or the United States for that matter, but to provide no other cultural context from which hip hop was created reveals an inexcusable form of ignorance. I speak about this as a first generation Canadian of Jamaican extraction and it is from here that I find the flaws in the Teacha's analysis and interpretation of hip hop culture.

When speaking about the "Early Years", KRS One neglects to show the relationship between Hip Hop's beginnings and Jamaican sound culture (with selecta's and DJ's, known today as DJ's and MC's respectively), dub culture, roots music, the emergence of dancehall and the emergence of other Jamaican artforms that influenced Herc's actions in the Bronx? In the "Early Days" lecture, KRS One addresses the social and political climate of the United States but severs the connection with it's Jamaican origins. This is problematic for me because this creates a foundation of ignorance that contradicts some of KRS's following lectures (the H-LAW). It's a lack of awareness, and with his power and influence, he is passing this on to those who follow his "teachings" without any question. While this baffles me, it's the previous lecture that really leaves me spinning and questioning, wondering if it's only me who sees these critical errors as potentially detrimental to the hip hop consciousness that KRS One is so eager to spread.

Then there is the H-LAW, an acronym that stands for Health, Love, Awareness and Wealth. In this 1:18 short lecture, KRS shares the belief that those who follow Hip Hop should only engage in activities that reflect positively on their physical health, their ability to give and receive love, their awareness of self and the world around them, and their financial stability.
I don't disagree with the essence of what's being said here, but I do have issues with his ideas around a few things, namely KRS One's definition of a "hip hop head" and notions around financial stability. The claim to hip hop's fame is that it was created in the streets by impoverished youth and then endorsed by the mainstream. As KRS concedes, it was an expression that was so passionately loved by the pioneers that they even risked (and often went to) jail for hip hop. I have yet to hear about the avenues of financial stability that hip hop provided in those early days until Sylvia Robinson decided to cash in and Blondie decided to nibble on the culture.

It wasn't until majors realized how profitable hip hop (rap, in particular) be that hip hop lead to economic stability. This is a known fact by any average hip hop head. The result was that more and more people, out of a genuine appreciation for the culture and money, became rappers in hopes of being signed and receiving the windfall of cash, assumed to be attached to any chart topping rapper. People wanted to be employees of hip hop.

I might be wrong. Chances are I'm not though, because today as hip hop turned 30 the discussion on the table was "where oh where has hip hop gone since the days of yester-decade?" complete with complaints about the irresponsibility of rappers and their lyrics, the commodification of women and their body parts, and the large middle-class suburban audience who has made hip hop the multi-billion dollar industry that it is today. To many hip hop has become a genre where the right image can half-ass the skills and make their millions without paying "true homage" (read: recite hip hop's historical legacy) to hip hop culture and its pioneers. But is this not a quest for positive economic stability?

When a culture is created by impoverished people becomes profitable, chances are those who experience the same destitute predicament will try to use the culture to get out too. Besides having an unclear definition for what constitutes a "real" hip hop head, H-LAW doesn't seem to recognize that with the pursuit of fortune comes a by-any-means-necessary perspective on the culture by those whose only way out of their dire conditions is basketball or rapping.

If KRS One is going to include financial stability, I wish he'd take an extra 1:18 on that lecture to address the fact that (mainstream) hip hop has become the lucrative success it has because of action that has resulted positively on the financial stability of an impoverished person. And still, despite this, hip hop is still at the crux of the discussion about hip hop's purity, authenticity and original purpose.

I'm still listening to the lectures. More updates soon to come.

Boobie Trap

2005-07-21T14:49:00.000-04:00

While I wrote the post below, I considered how much I might be discrediting the horrific reality of breast cancer experienced by people of colour. Still, I hit send.

Rachel, shared with me her experience and the experiences of her family members as they have all fought (and sometimes lost) the battle against cancer. Besides sharing the personal, she brought to my attention something that I didn't consider: "many, many poor folks are getting cancer - breast, lung, bladder, and all the other kinds of cancer, but don't have health insurance or money to do anything about it. so that's on the reasons that the images of "chemo women" - lost hair, emaciated, etc. are primarily white and "middle class"."

Good point.

While I referred to it in the context of the middle class, I never addressed the issue of privilege (and what access that privilege provides) among people of colour and the working class. To receive chemotherapy, one must take time from school and family responsibilities to take care of their health. When they don't have the luxury of time and/or money to sustain themselves and their families while in treatment, the option of treatment becomes null and void. This is usually only experienced by those in the working class. The middle class, on the other hand can rely on work benefits, spousal benefits or savings to carry them through.

I have never contended that cancer is experienced exclusively by white people from the middle class, however, I never acknowledged that breast cancer also impacts the working class and people of colour. This is the weakness of my perspective.

Still, I believe that corporations are neglecting issues like the poverty that exists in their own backyards. By throwing their money at one cause (in this case, breast cancer), I feel like they assume no responsibility to use their power, influence and finances to anything else. My understanding of breast cancer is that it doesn't lead to other social ills such as risky sexual activity, dropping out of school, getting in conflict with the law or family/domestic abuse. There is a belief that poverty does. The focus need not remain on one issue, but a small concentrated set of issues, with informed decisions about how to participate and set benchmarks for success.

Mark Echo's motivation behind his support for breast cancer may be a genuine desire to help. However, I am personally troubled to think that an entrepreneur who profits from the commodification of poverty (street style), would then ignore the issue of poverty to mobilize around breast cancer.

I'm still learning...

Activism and Our Big Breasted Barrier

2005-07-14T11:30:00.000-04:00

Activism has become the new black. It's rebel chic at its finest, and the best way to get street cred. However, activism in its many forms has become a perverted delusion of self-righteous rhetoric pimped by the gatekeepers of power and influence. They preach, and we throw our money into the offering plate without any questions asked, hoping to get a piece of what lies beyond that gate. We resort to wreckless reconciliation within ourselves that consists of hypersensitive self-awareness about who is thinking, speaking at looking at our every movement. We are indeed a self-conscious breed.

Live 8 generated attention of historic proportions, but still many feel that the leaders of the Group of 8 (G-8) are missing the point. The Canadian government has agreed to double its support in the eradication of poverty, but the 2015 goals are "unreasonable" to achieve. I am in no way an economist, so I cannot dispute this. I can, however, wonder why our reaction is only to cry foul, instead of taking the financial mobilization into our own hands. I think I have the answer to this, and it's sitting right on my chest. The movement to secure the necessary funding and supports to eradicate poverty is having little impact on our leaders because everyone and their mother is too busy supporting breast cancer.

Privilege determines our access to the daily necessities of life. This same access is what also provides people with the ability to receive the necessities of life that will ensure North America's definition of "success". In our culture of sink or swim capitalism, the most aggressively "marketed" cause makes the final cut.

For the past 12-15 years breast cancer has made the final cut. While the issue is extremely important and requires attention to address the issues of prevention and treatment, I wonder why so many corporations jump on to the breast cancer bandwagon. There is the CIBC Run for the Cure sponsored by Ford Motor Company Canada, Nygard, The Running Room, Ganong Brothers Limited, New Balance, Revlon and Canpar and supported by a whole bunch of other corporations. Then there is Princess Margaret Hospital's Weekend to End Breast Cancer with similar sponsors (CIBC, CityTV, etc.). The list continues, but supporters remain as majority white, middle-class individuals. That is until hip hop, decided to get a piece of the pie.

Marc Ecko has decided to take the mission of breast cancer fundraising and awareness to the hip hop community. Isn't it ironic that hip hop, the genre fuelled by individuals who live in impoverished states, are being rallied to support a cause that is considered a disease of the middle-class? Why do we need to shuck and jive (see Live 8) to remind people that the issue of poverty is still real and devastating our world? More importantly, what will it take for people to admit that this is happening in our own backyards? People are running, walking, cycling and fundraising without a true understanding about what they're running for, or who their throwing their money at.

Have supporters actually assessed what is needed to find the cure for breast cancer? Yes, money is needed, but what infrastructure, research, programming, community mobilization and outreach need to be done? How much of the money they raise goes into finding a cure and what percentage does the organization take out for coordinating the event? These things are important to combat the many criticisms about the fraudulent war against cancer. The successful branding of breast cancer has resulted in $21.4 million for the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation. That's a great leap from the $85,000 only 13 years ago. All this while the National Anti-Poverty Organization struggles to stay afloat in delivering programs and pressuring our governments about the "true North's true (impoverished) problem".

Ecko's decision to utilize a known impoverished community to support an issue that mainly impacts middle-class, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It seems that public image trumps good intentions. This means that when a desire to help the community that the rich have benefited from isn't deemed important by society's high culture socialites, attention becomes fixated on where the crowd is; in most cases it's at the starting line for the 5k, 10k,20k bike, walk, or run breast cancer research fundraiser. In my humble opinion, this kind of support is a misnomer for publicity and shameless self-promotion that is often masked in the phrase "I am giving back to the community". Armchair activism has never been so comfortable. We are indeed a self-conscious breed.

Just wanted to get some things off my chest...

I really know how it feels to be stressed out, stressed out

2005-07-12T22:53:00.000-04:00

This is an old post that I was too embarassed/ashamed/scared to publish...
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I'm experiencing a lot of anxiety around a few things, and it's preventing me from "functioning normally" in my everyday life.

I'm having recurring moments of self-doubt that are preventing me from asserting my feelings and intentions. I'm playing it safe and I don't like it. I feel like I'm giving into groupthink (bandwagon hopping), and I'm not challenging my professors or the curriculum that I'm learning. I'm accepting it all.

Why?

I can only move for so long without a plan. Spontaneous decisions are cool in the beginning but I need to devise well thought out strategies. I also need to realize that I don't need to "like" everything. It's okay to like nothing. I see the value in what I'm learning, and need to appreciate that more.

I wish I could have a "difficult conversation". Instead I leave conversations or discussions feeling completely shitted on. I smile and take it.

I don't want to work for free for something that I love forever. I want to get paid for it. I actually don't want to pay someone for the work that I've been doing for free for the past 2 years. I don't want to be expected to train this person either. I don't want to be expected to fill in the blanks when this hired person, who has no real history with the magazine, decides to say that they can't do 10, 20, 30 or 40% of their workload. I want people who work with me to get paid for it. I want the move from "volunteer" to "employee" to be strategic and rolled over a set period of time. I don't want to be expected to "hold the fort" writing grant applications, soliciting funding, advertising, and business sustainability while going to school full-time and working 1, 2 or 3 jobs just to pay my rent. Am I being selfish?

I want to challenge the things that I learn. I want to know what kinds of questions to ask in order to benefit from my "challenges". I want to be comfortable with being wrong. I want to be comfortable with being looked at as the keener who always sits in the front row and gets good grades. I want to be the president of the muthafuckin student council. I want to learn how to run large scale bodies of people in a way that can satisfy the needs of many. I want to understand the economics of the world and become comfortable with numbers. I want to be able to throw that shit in the face of banks, politicians, and companies who choose not to invest in communities for "worthy" causes because it's safe to just give to the breast cancer society for the 15th year.

I want to grill my city councillor at the meeting I'll have with her in March. I want to get back on the "activism" scene.

But I can't.

I'm expected to be a good student, a good unpaid employee for a magzine and organization that I started (and have been able to continue with 4 other women), an even better paid employee at the 3 jobs I have, and a responsible rent-paying tenant.

I have no time to get caught up in the other shit.

Sometimes I wonder why I do it to myself and think "Just quit that fuckin magazine. You'll never get paid and nobody will ever think you're worth paying." Or, "drop out of school, you've made enough connections to hustle your way into another job that you're technically underqualified for, but will excel at." Then I think that I should just tell people how I really feel.

I try, you know I try. But that shit will never work. I'll turn into the old ig'nant me. And we don't want that angry black woman to come out.

I'm so frickin stressed out.

Hip Hop's "Purity"

2005-07-03T01:21:00.000-04:00

If nobody profitted from Crunk juice, pimpin, etc. would we still reminisce about the good old days when hip hop was "pure"?

What is hip hop purity? My unintentional quest to answer this question began when I attended the Harbourfront Centre's World Stage Festival Flying Solo. While the idea of a one-person show conjured up images of self-gratifying soliloquy full of flowery prose and intellectual masturbation, I took a chance and attended Benji Reid's "13 Mics and Style 4 Free".

Going in to the show, my assumptions were that the British based performer was well versed in the foundation, progression and evolution of hip hop culture. I assumed that 13 mics each represented something- an era, a school of thought, a number of pioneers. And, if that didn't work out I figured that at the very least, "Style 4 Free" implied something about the exploitation of this beloved culture. However, when the show was over, I realized that I had clearly read too much into it.

Benji's performance sounded a lot like the calamitous disquisition of the 30+ crowd who wear really baggy [insert "urban" name brand here] t-shirts with their hat turned back and shell-toed Adidas, in a last ditch effort to "represent" for their "dying culture" reminiscing about the good old days when hip hop was pure- when hip hop was political.

I asked Benji about this politicized hybrid of hip hop that he seems to love and miss so dearly. With his Manchester-tinged accent, slender frame and dark skin glowing in the gracious spring breeze, he responded that hip hop needed to go back to it's origins, when each song had a message of mobilization and resistence exclusive mainstream norms that often ostracized those who were in racialized and/or impoverished communnities. Now, I am no hip hop historian, but if you're going to sit there and tell me that the origins of hip hop began with Fight the Power, then I'm left with no other choice but to humiliate you, even if the humiliation is only witnessed by me. Well, I shared my opinion about his performance, the (mis)use of the 13 mics and questioned his views on hip hop culture. Given that he'd just performed for an hour, we agreed to talk about it in further detail on another day. Apparently, nobody chose to challenge this man on his views or the messages that he was putting out about hip hop's origin and destination.

Do people not realize that this tolerance can lead to moments where left-leaning activists claim hip hop to be the autobiographical depiction of their lives in complete ignorance because of the assumed parallels between their political struggles for a better world, and hip hop's misunderstood origins as a tool for political resistance? These mixed messages often lead to anger from the African-Canadian/American community about the presence of white fans at conscious rap shows (I still am interrogating the issue within myself).

Hip hop purity doesn't exist. As long as money is involved in the equation, I am hard pressed to find the "purity" that everyone romanticizes about in hip hop's past. If you have a definition for purity, please share it with me, because at this point, for me, talking about hip hop purity is like buying light cigarettes- it causes a slower and more painful way for you to suffer for something you love too much to abandon.

Wonderful Music Baton

2005-07-02T02:46:00.000-04:00

Wow... I am so late.

Del, the all-seeing, all-knowing writer from Toronto at Vibes & Stuff has passed the baton to moi. So without further adieu, here I go...

Total volume of music files on my computer

Last December, I got a really good deal on a 200GB computer. Broke and ashamed, I will say that I have a total of about 100GB of music on my computer sigh.

"You got my album, but bootleggers don't pay me"- One. Be. Lo

Last CD bought was...
-I get a lot of free stuff from cats (thanks to the battle days), but I got that SARS 3, by Empire Click.

Song playing right now

Athletic Mic League- Non-Stop

Five songs I listen to a lot these days:

Luther Vandross (r.i.p)-A House is Not A Home

-This is a great song to remember a great artist.

Roy Ayers- Everybody loves the sunshine
- It is so damn hot here, I have no choice but to sit under a tree with a Tropical twist fruizzi and my fro, baking... I mean basking in the sun.

Mos Def- Beauty In the Dark (Groove With You)

This is a great song to listen to as the sun disappears beyond the horizon.

Common - "Testify"

I love how Kanye uses this sample and the way the storytelling comes out on this. It's not exactly Slick Rick, but this track is executed so well that I can place myself and feel the vibe of this track. I love when music can do that.

One. Be. Lo- "The Ghetto"

It's refreshing to hear the things you've been saying forever- a confirmation that I'm not so crazy after all.

I'm sure everyone has recieved this, but I noticed that the baton missed two people:

Mindbender

Mr. Kamoji

Do the damn thang!

Miss (In)Activist

2005-06-16T01:44:00.000-04:00

What exactly is solidarity? Within myself, I am still reconciling with my internal disillusion of the word and its material mutations.

Before May 2005, solidarity was a word that existed in the vocabularies of community radio, namely politically charged shows by volunteer activists who eat, sleep, breathe and excrete the "revolution". I was, and never had been, a part of this group. But, here I sit after two speaking engagements at the Canadian Labour Congress' national convention in Montreal where I shared a message of action, solidarity and equality.

I didn't write a speech (which I need to start doing), but my message at the first engagement, a woman's forum spoke to my transition from disassociation to full embrace of word "feminism" as I carried the Women's Global Charter for Humanity. I talked about my feminism/womanism and its impact on the work that I do. I also talked about the honour and privilege of having the opportunity to share these personal accounts with the 300+ group in the room. Still, despite my intentions and passion about the topic, my amplified words reverberated against the walls of the auditorium with an unfamiliar numbness that left me feeling hollow and inadequate.

The second engagement, a youth forum, I sat as one of 3 panelists sharing my views about leadership and what I have witnessed among my activist peers and how as well as if it had any impact on the work that I do. Instead, I ranted about the tokenism I experienced, and the misconstrued conventions of leadership that institutions recognize and exploit. I spoke about my privilege as a Canadian born, English speaking, passport holding, (quasi) educated woman of colour and I reminded the group about the perpetual cycle of poverty and homelessness that most institutions neglect to recognize when they pull you away from work for "exciting opportunities" (that don't pay the rent). I was candidly personal and open about my feelings about being sucked dry by the non-profit and activist scene. I shared my struggle to pay rent and get hired by organizations who question my commitment to them because I am in such high demand elsewhere. I let the room have it.

In response, the group looked back at me blankly and save the 3 people who had heard me speak before, filed through the door discussing where to go to get drinks. They didn't get it. And I was left regretting not having written a speech. I figured that they'll get it when they see my activism and my passion to make positive change in the world (cue: tree hugger music). Well, the stars were aligned and I had a chance to show everyone that another world is possible!

There was a Medicare rally today. I was accompanied by one of the executive members of the Canadian Federation of Students who suggested that I listen to Steven Lewis. While we missed some of it, I thoroughly enjoyed what I did hear and for one rare moment, I experienced a sensation of resistance bliss. Overcome by these feelings, I stuck with my well-informed, and connected companion yearning for another hit of this non-conformist-stick-it-to-them-euphoric tingle of what I now recognize, in retrospect, was activism. However, by the time the next opportunity came, a Medicare rally, the sensation was gone.

There I stood among the rushing sea of thousands of steelworkers, meat packers, union leaders, and community activists eagerly scurrying to show their support- their solidarity in the rain. Branded with messages of resistance and tattoos of the same token, these individuals exuded a fire within them that left the elements off balance. I suddenly became self-conscious and very afraid of... my inactivism.

Without a second thought, I removed myself from the scene. I didn't know how to handle my feelings of inadequacy and when asked to choose by my companion, the activist of all student activists, I bailed. The metro (subway) was connected to the building and moved towards it with the quickness, panicked and eager to avoid any familiar faces.

I need to come to terms with my inactivism. When forced, I can speak at and even celebrate at rallies. However, when I'm given the choice, I run for cover. Why? Who knows.

What I do know is that I need a 12-step program, or something like it that really allows me to understand my attachment to the shadows of resistance, rather than the spotlight of solidarity. I talk a good game, but when it's followed up by inactive gestures of resistah-hood, then what's the point?

High School Drop Out Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

2005-05-22T23:35:00.000-04:00

I finally got a job. However, it wasn't the job I applied for, it was a job they made for me... and it's for two months. As much as it was clearly explained to me about why I didn't get the permanent job, I couldn't help but wonder if not getting the job had anything to do with the fact that I haven't been ordained in the realms in intelligesia by those who guard the ivory tower.

Still, I'm satisfied. I've never worked on national campaigns before and I've had the fortune of meeting everyone from the respective provincial chapters during my "amazing feminist race" (see below). So I won't have to deal with that chick who hates her job and decides to take it out on the new hire.

By taking this job, I had to turn down another. It was with the City of Toronto coordinating a city-wide research project. I've never said no to a job before, I usually just take them all. In retrospect, I think it has a lot to do with the soft foundations on which I stand as a "young professional" without the "right" training- that is, a university/college degree.

Every day I go to work, dressed to kill because my mother always told me that if you dress poor, you'll be treated poor. Not to mention overweight chicks (seriously though, how accurate is that BMI anyways?) suffer from greater job discrimination. I arrive, and immediately I recieve compliments on the bright colour, cools bags or homemade bead necklaces I'm wearing which sends me in another panic. Are they questioning how I am able to maintain this "style" without a diploma or degree? How will I justify it? How will they recieve it?

After mentioning some of these issues to a friend, she told me that I'm overreacting and too self conscious. After all, I still had to submit a resume and endure one nailbiting hour in the grey room with that stale office lighting on the other side of that ugly 70's peeling 8ft. brown veneer table and respond to the same questions other candidates did.

She reminds of me the self-sabbatoge mentality, where people who spend most of their time at a job that they never thought they deserved checking email, making personal calls, and fitting job-related assigned tasks in between; a subconscious reaction in anticipation of being fired (because the powers that be suddenly realized that they chose the wrong person), which is then used to justify why they were fired when it happens. I need to be careful of this.

Yes, she has a point. Still, I can't get too comfortable in this cushy job because that's when you're most vulnerable. So I'll keep my guards up until my subconscious sabatoge sensations subside.

The "Amazing" (Feminist) Race...

2005-05-15T23:02:00.000-04:00

While the Amazing Race racked up record-high ratings in Canada. I was doing a trek of my own. I've had little time to reflect, but I wrote this to share with the many woman I met on my journey.

My Amazing (Feminist) Race

I began my amazing feminist race without any surefooted balance. For me, this was a race that had been going for decades, prior to my arrival onto this earth. Seeing others running with me and behind suddenly conjured up feelings of inadequacy: My shoes were untied. I didn’t train long enough. I should have stretched more. I should have brought an extra handkerchief, bottle of water, wristband, pain reliever... something. I didn’t feel ready to run this race and yet, there I was far from home in an unfamiliar place being driven to the starting line- Vancouver.

First stop, Vancouver. It was fitting that my race began at the same time as the Vancouver marathon. It could have been a weird coincidence, but I took it as a sign: I’m not running this race alone. There were others. Some I knew, but most I didn’t. Still, we all had a race to run, and I needed to get laced up.

Driving to the Seattle border on May 1st, I overcame my nerves by preoccupying myself with conversation. Michèle Asselin from the FFQ, Marie Clark Walker from the CLC, “Femme Bleu” (she goes by another name by her peers) Christina from Rape Relief Shelter, Diane Matte as well as some others. Through this I began to understand a little more about this feminist race. While the facts and figures were important, I had a philosophical epiphany. This amazing feminist race was bigger than me, my politics or the politics of the fantastic trailblazers that surrounded me; this was a movement to inspire others in the race who didn’t have the luxury of time, education, and basic human rights. This was a race for globally unified solidarity for and with oppressed women.

We picked up the charter from two women in the US who had the quilt spread over their car. While some had hoped that the car was clean, others marvelled at the intricate and ornately decorated representations of justice, solidarity, freedom, equality and peace on a patchwork quilt. Running our hands over the quilt was almost therapeutic and could have been had it not been for the media presence that was also there to document this historic and monumental moment. Standing under the Peace Arch at the border, the American women handed the Charter, an eight foot long piece of canvas, over to us. We posed for pictures, hugged, hopped back in the van and parted ways. The race had begun.

Back in Vancouver at the Public Library there was a rally where activists joined together to welcome the arrival of the Charter and the quilt. Led by a stilt walker in red and yellow we stopped traffic and made our grand entrance. The speeches began with me sharing the preamble of the Charter and were then followed by speeches by a group of extraordinary women including Lee Lakeman, Lynda Gherty, Michèle Asselin, Diane Matte, and Marie Clark Walker among others. The message was simple: Another world is possible and this march is evidence of it. A few celebration songs, solidarity chants, and May Day pamphlets later it was over. The first event was successful and full of a kind of fresh energy and inspiration that was better than I could have ever imagined.

My subsequent stops in Yellowknife, Winnipeg, Ottawa, and Moncton all provided a renewed sense of movement, feminist cohesion, and inspiration. The issues of poverty, childcare, pay equity and violence against women were heard loud and clear in each of the respective provinces. With activists, service providers, brothers and sisters in the movement, we pushed the government to take action on eradicating poverty, following through on recent childcare agreements, moving on the issue of pay equity and supporting organizations that help women leave violent situations. We also urged them to join us in the global movement of justice, equality, solidarity, peace, and freedom.

My final stop was in Quebec City. If Canada didn’t hear the message in Vancouver, Yellowknife, Winnipeg, Ottawa or Moncton, then they were sure to hear it in Quebec City. There, 15,000 women, men and children marched chanting with a message: “So So So... Solidarite avec les femmes du monde entier!” Our march was proof that the movement had not died down, and that it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Overwhelmed by the moment, I cried and smiled realizing what I had first found out in Vancouver. I was not alone.

We marched through the narrow streets of Quebec City and finished at the Legislature building. We were guided by chalk messages in blue, pink and yellow along the street: “Solidarite” (solidarity), “Paix” (peace), “Egalite” (equality), etc. We handed off the quilt to Aboriginal and First Nations women, and carried the quilt. People shook their banners, protest signs, and streamers shouting our unified message: “So So So... Solidarite avec les femmes du monde entier!”. I addressed 15,000 people in French and English, as the Charter Bearer and as someone who has been extremely humbled by such a remarkable occasion. I could have cried, but I was too focused my French pronounciation. In the end, the event went off without a hitch and I left with more energy, better French, and a first-hand account of what it was like to be a part of making history.

On the plane back to Toronto, I reflected on the entire trip. I realized that while I was recognized as the “official charter bearer”, there were hundreds, thousands, and even millions of other people running this great feminist race. Some were running for their lives, as women are being persecuted for speaking out around the world, while others ran in solidarity with those persecuted women. Some of us were running for our children, while others were running for the children of the world who have the misfortune of being destitute without access to many of life’s luxuries that I often take for granted. The relay of the Women’s Global Charter for Humanity, “this amazing feminist race “, has showed me that we are all connected, and that regardless of where I’m from, my work, my voice and my action is never done in isolation.

Smarten Up...

2005-05-15T22:36:00.000-04:00

A week ago on this day, I was sitting in seat 2A as we touched down from Quebec City to Toronto.
I went to 6 Cities... 7 days... and returned to an upcoming week full of volunteer appreciation activity.

There is the feminist movement, and then there is the post-feminist movement. At least, that's what I gathered after meeting tens of thousands of women across the country. This is always an interesting concept for me because I am the feminist who never really publicly declares herself as a feminist. Sure, I'll say it if it means that I want to talk to stale-cheese breath and activist B.O. (apparently, deoderant is a product of the capitalist to make you feel inadequate about your (un)natural scent), but really, I call myself a "womanist".

The feminist's of yesterday seem to not want to be associated with today's more privileged feminists and womanists. Even the term of womanism makes them want to get out the olive oil and rebuke and exorcise those "anti-solidarity demons". Some say that we take their struggle for granted, others are upset that we won't all chain ourselves and declare a hunger strike because some man in a Dodge f150 with a blue flannel shirt took a moment from his tobacco chewing to call us "sweety".

Let me be the first to say that I'm almost afraid to call myself a feminist. There is a different kind of radicalism that exists with "the struggle". The spectrum of experiences that exist among the feminists is much larger than it was 40 years ago. Not to mention that now that we have our privileges, the feminist movement has shifted to fight the battle that isn't so obvious.

I am treading a fine line. I can't pretend that I'll do the hunger strike or stand in front of bulldozers. I can't afford to struggle the way that some university grads pretend to when they pick up their Che Guevera t-shirt and Bob Marley wristband, sipping on organic Free Trade (is that the word?) tea. There is only so far that I'll go for this solidarity.

Teach me how to lobby, and I'll talk up a storm with any politician, business person, or crowd of 15,000. Ask me to make flyers, help plan a rally (provided that I have the time), or sign a petition... No problemo. But ask me to stop working and debunk the capitalist and patriarchal machine by not buying toothpaste, deoderant or any other basic necessities and my only response will be... smarten up.

Shut up before I call immigration on you...

2005-05-09T12:47:00.000-04:00

Okay, so this might be the moment that the 15 minutes of shame begins. It might not.

For Mother's Day, I took my mom to see CRASH, starring Don Cheadle, Sandra Bullock, Matt Dillon blah blah blah. I don't really care about who was in it (although I really appreciate the many roles of Don Cheadle), so much as the story behind it. So I'll skip this part.

I have become fascinated by the appropriation of language. From "bling bling" to the zizzle-speak to dude, son, god, homie, star, differently, still, bred'ren, guy etc; I have grown up in a world where language has the ability to transcend social lines and speak in unison with the oppressor and the oppressed.

Language is the key in CRASH. CRASH, directed by Paul Haggis, written by Haggis and Robert Moresco is a wonderfully executed film. Its depiction about the intersections of life and the events and biases that weave between them without actually "playing the race card" are quite interesting to see unfold in the film. At the beginning of the film, Graham (Cheadle) is an L.A. cop who, after briefly assessing a crime scene says that it's the sense of touch that people in L.A. lack. He continues saying that since nobody in L.A. actually touches- no bumping shoulders like NYC or squeezing by narrow passages, etc. people crash into each other with their cars just to fill that void. As we continue to watch the lives of 6 main characters, we realize just how imbedded our isms, and prejudices are.

For example I laughed (hard) when an Asian woman with a heavy accent threatened a Spanish cop with calling immigration on her and telling her to go back to her country. I didn't laugh because of what she said. Actually, I did. But as I did I thought about the many instances when people with thick Sri Lankan, Brazillian, Pakistani, Korean or even Eastern European accents would ask me where I'm really from and look baffled when I tell them I was born and raised in Canada. Their experession is even better when I'm accused of theft (on so many occassions... more on that later) and am asked if such behaviour is tolerated in my country. Yeah, I laughed and I'm not sorry for it. Racist son-of-a-bitches are so bloody ignorant that you can't help but laugh. If I was the violent type, someone would get knocked the **** (fuck, in case you didn't get it) out.

I also laughed when Don Cheadle blew off his mother on the phone saying, "Not now mom. I'm in bed with a white woman [who was actually Spanish... but same difference right?]". The laugh was more out of shock than anything, but also because I remember the hoover-maneuver rule with my guy friends: Mouth like a Hoover, your ass better maneuver (or some dumb shit like that). I got the idea. It's like passing the blunt counterclockwise- it fucks up the rotation.

I can understand how this could be well recieved in the US. There has been a history of documenting race data in statistics, but in Canada?

There would be a million-man, woman, queer, aboriginal march protesting against the movie. I know I shouldn't create false arguements, but I can't help it. After travelling, I think that I now have some credible grounds for saying this. The Albertan activist/feminist believes that it's okay to equate diversity with a "wonderful selection of African and Caribbean foods". The Yellowknife "socially conscious" person chuckles (just a little bit) when reading about a university educated woman with 4 children who is widowed and ends up on welfare with a part time night job. The Francophone activist believes that the French Nationalism issues has no impact on race or class. Yet, despite these varying interpretations of this extremely touchy subject, one statement remains: "There is no racism in Canada" That's right, it was smuggled past that straight-backed Mountie and "tolerant" and oh-so-friendly American immigration officer and dumped back on American soil as the overt piece of shit that it is. Give me a break.

Had this movie been set in Vancouver, Edmonton, Toronto, Montreal or Ottawa there would be an uproar about what the world this about this tolerant and "accepting" nation. In my frank opinion, Canada needs its own CRASH. It's easy to point out the obvious: you're fat, you're black, you can't speak english, you're wearing a well-recognized pointed white hood that is historically associated with racially motivated crimes. Too easy. It's the silence that we need to learn to point out. The silence that only pops up in conversations with me when someone asks me if the weather better "at home" than it is here.

The Wirelss Trail...

2005-05-08T10:31:00.000-04:00

It's been an interesting journey. I've travelled to 7 Canadian cities in 7 days. My fingers are cramping up in anticipation of the carpel tunnel I am about to get from sharing my jet set journey with you (if you're still out there). Unfortunately, I'm plagued by an idea that has been known since we recently heard the in Parliament or found that picture of Eve or even remember the story of Milli Vanilli: It only takes one mistake, one ignorant slur, one defeated moment of peer pressure, one outburst of anger, naivety, or risque behaviour to be have the eternal dark shadow of shame hover over your life. And it's all thanks to the wirless trail.

On the plane back from Quebec last night, thinking about the exhaustive list of things to talk about, thoughts I had, my process of growth from the anti-feminist/ pro-womanist to feminist-womanist who had the priviledge of participating in a historical and global political movement. I said earlier that I am interrogating my thoughts and language about "political correctness", and so have used them if only for me to look back and assess how absolutely stupid or insightful that thought, phrase or idea was. I need a point of reference and vegan-eating-tree-hugging-anti-capitalist-pro-Gap-jean-wearing (Trust me, I've seen it with my own two eyes) activists isn't a place that I want to start. So, I try to draw inspiration from the Globe and Mail.

I despise tabloids and gossip columns, but when I came across "15 Minutes of Shame" with pictures of the Star Wars Kid and scenes from One Night In Paris (Hilton) I could feel my hands quiver, as if I was experiencing withdrawl from the gossip-lessness of my life. I was hungry for that dish of dirty secrets. Assuming that the article was about voyeurs or incredibly stupid people whose voyeurism and idiocy is exposed on camera in ways that they'll regret (or laugh about many years down the line), I burried my head in the newspaper. However, I was only partially right.

The article used the Star Wars Kid and Paris well-known examples of a scary, but very real truth- the world wide web has become more dangerous than a paper trail. Instead of fingerprints, there are IP numbers that, in addition to identifying you (provided they find the match) investigators can also retrieve addresses, phone numbers, credit history, falling short of telling you the day that your grandmother's sister's cousin in-law's stepfather's adopted son's daughter's niece first learned to walk.

This thought has haunted me for the past 12 hours. I could tell you about the politically incorrect passenger who told me jokes (that I sometimes laughed at) on my way to Ottawa from Winnipeg or the government official in Yellowknife who used sexist language to "joke around" with the Executive Director of a women's organization. But I can't. I'm afraid that somewhere out there, someone is waiting, voice recording, camera and videocamera in tow, for my 15 minutes of shame to happen. Keep waiting.

The danger of the wireless trail is a port less travelled by older generations. However, 20-somethings like myself now have the ability to remember, no, store more memory thanks to faster, cheaper and more efficient techonology. My 15 year old brother can laugh about Milli Vanilli because he can read about them on the internet, look at how others have ridiculed them and even listen to some music clips. Complete with bad fashion and even worse hairstyles, the memory of Milli Vanilli can suddenly become his own memory, as if he was old enough to experience this memory in real-time. The homophobic and anti-semetic messages thrown around by Jewish kids in private schools playing "cool" connect the wireless trail to a web of uptown rich kids who thought that the coast was clear when engaging in hate speech.

As is the case with many things, the wireless trail has its advantages and disadvantages, but one thing is for sure. Whenever there is a story to tell and an open forum to tell it, you better believe that you've already been trapped in the web- the world wide web.

And so, as a result of this revelation you will only get the politically correct, activist friendly, feminist loving, heal the world feeling report.

Sorry...

2005-04-17T00:14:00.000-04:00

I've been consumed by my academic responsibilities (exams).

Hip Hop History Club...
Is going on tonight and I'm missing it because I'm unemployed and cannot afford the cover *sigh*

Toronto "beef"...
I'm a little late with the JStaxx commentary, but I will say that he did some serious backpeddling when he was on Project Bounce a week and some ago. More on that when... whenever....

Great news...
An organization here has created a women's charter of rights and equality to be launched in a few provinces, and they've asked me to do it.

So, right after exams, I head to Vancouver, Yellowknife, Moncton, Winnipeg, Ottawa, and Montreal within 7 days to do press around this event. It's going to be an interesting journey, and I will definitely be capturing the journey with my Minolta Dynax 500si.

Update on Toronto "Beef"...

2005-04-03T16:37:00.000-04:00

I posted the wrong track for J Staxx... This is the proper link.

Rich London's Response | Mhedik's Response

My commentary on both is coming soon, but for now, juss lissen.

Put It On Big L, Put It On...

2005-04-03T16:31:00.000-04:00

For those of you (like me and my moms) who enjoy a Big L track or two. Here is a site where you can download anything he did until his untimely departure.

My Afro Poem...

2005-04-01T14:12:00.000-05:00

I have an afro.

To Black people: Yes, I comb it.
To White people: No, you can't touch it
To South Asian People: It's naturally like this
To Queer People: Yes, I know I'm a diva *2 snaps*.
To unassuming city dwelling hipster cum writer for the daily newspaper: No, the fro doesn't mean that I'm a f*cking aspiring urban (read "rap") artist.

I just have an afro.

More Fiyah Fi Toronto!

2005-04-01T11:06:00.000-05:00

Toronto seems to have had its application for hip hop realness approved. Hip Hop realness? I couldn't think of a better word. Anyways, you know what I mean. We're finally being embraced without snide remarks about Blink 182 remixes and Shania Twain hooks.

It started with our first urban radio station, Flow 93.5. When the urban format was introduced in Toronto about 4 years ago, most of us were just relieved that we no longer had to listen to Buffalo's 93.7. We had something to call our own. But, as time went on, there was a great divergence between the ideals of the "urban purists" and well.... everyone else.

Flow picked up DJ X, who had hosted Toronto's most popular college radio hip hop show, the Power Move (on Saturday's for 3 hours) on CKLN. To many of us who had listened to the Power Move over the years, we hoped that stardom (ie: getting paid to play) wouldn't cloud X's judgement and cause him to abdicate from his responsibilities to "the underground". But he did. Then, he switched stations (for more money, popularity, power, etc.)... Then he got fired. It seems that he sold out and eventually the shit caught up to him

Note: This drama happened in the midst of a fierce competetion between country/ rock-station cum urban radio show Kiss 92. Eventually, Kiss kissed Flow's black ass and returned to their roots. Flow, Canada's first commerical urban radio format ever is now the only urban radio format in Toronto.

Personally, I've ALWAYS despised Flow. I predicted that they would replicate American urban radio and lose Toronto's flavour for everything else like reggae, soca, underground hip hop, and r&b. And they did. However, recently the programming started to change. Local artists were getting more play. Artists like Rikoshay were being bumped in Jane/Finch (not the best representation, but its all i got), where it was common for you to get clowned on for saying Canadian and Hip Hop in the same sentence. Rochester (aka Juice) was being bumped in Scar-town (Scarlem, Screwface Capital or the '03 classic Sars-borough). Aye, even the $500 ripped-jean-wearing-blonde-streaked-mowhawk-sporting-classic-adidas-limted-edition -throwback-flashing Queen Street hipsters were bumping Arabesque at their own free will. Now online, I see Jay Smooth, Okayplayer, and others bawlin out more fiyah! for Kardinal Offishal (Kardi), especially since his recent drop. And you all know that K-OS is our claim to fame.

Yesterday, I heard "Get Money", "Luchini", "I wanna be down" and "Old Time Killin" within 15 minutes during the FLOW Critical Mix. Gettdahf*ckouttahere! My mom (yeah, more on her later) turned that shit up in the bitter breezy 1 degree weather like we lived in Cali driving a drop top convertable. Cold as hell, we drove down the financial district bumpin the joint, laughing because the music just felt that good. Good music can mek we tun fool yuh see?

Now to say that Toronto has officially crossed the threshold into quasi-cross border recognition cannot be official without some certified grade A Canadian beef. Flow, with its unique position is now used as a sounding board for up and coming artists. Most recently, they've been giving JStaxx, the West end emcee some rotation for his track Jane Block. In it he drops some subtle (and weak) disses to a few people, specifically the 10-man crew Camp X. The dirtiest response so far has come from Mhedik, who is also part of Camp X. Expect response from the other 3 or 4 people Staxx disses too. This makes it official... we've got beef.

We've got the hip hop/"urban" seal of acceptability: one famous act, a commercial radio station, and beef. Ohhh, and we've got a mixtape scene. What is a city without a mixtape scene?

So far, Empire Click is doing it up. Here's a recent freestyle session they had on CIUT's project Bounce. These dudes know how to hustle a mixtape. You can catch them ANYWHERE backpacks in tow, convincing Richmond Hill white kids, 20-something professionals, lawyers, polticians, and everyone in between that a SARS (Sick Artitsts Runnin Shit) Mixtape (released '03 and '04) will grant them a ghetto pass to guttaville... and they buy it.

So there you have it folks. Toronto is on the map, even if its like the eye squinting, head turning (maybe if we turn it this way, we'll see it) Where's Waldo kind of map.

This is my place... the T Dot O Dot... where "we're all rude (can't find one girl without an attitude)". I say fukka mountie and maple syrup, we've got hip hop.

Big Ups to Anson...

2005-03-31T16:34:00.000-05:00

My little brother plays competitive hockey. I thought he'd be the first Canadian to do this (provided that he actually makes it to the NHL)

All Hip Hop has an article about Los Angeles Kings forward Anson Carter, the NHL Player who just launched Big Up Entertainment

Carter is quoted in an interview with AllHipHop.com that the company is "building the ground level to be a multi-faceted entertainment company." He's starting with two VA artists, Main and Merc. I know that's going to ruffle a few Canadian feathers.

Like most people who start businesses, Carter wants to do it Diddy style- music, fashion, and whatever else hip hop can be used for to make a profit. However, unlike most people, dude has the capital to do it. I'm interested to see where this goes

AllHipHop mistakingly reports that Carter is the only Black person in the NHL, but they forgot about Jarome Iginla, Georges Laraque, Kevin Weekes and Donald Brashear to name a few.

Anyways, To read the article on AllHipHop.com, go here.

PS: My Hello Program won't work... how the #@$! do I get photos on my site?

I Want To Go To... (updated)

2005-03-30T21:49:00.000-05:00

The Hip Hop and Feminism Conference in Chicago. However, registrated was full a week before the deadline. We're still going. If you plan to be there, get at me at tmorgan(at)ryerson(dot)ca.

Maybe we can make an action plan that produces better results than the Images of Women In Hip Hop panel. I haven't said much about it, but read the reviews:

Lynne @ Lynne D Johnson
Clyde @ Pro Hip Hop >> Post #1 | Post #2 | Post #3 | Post #4
Hashim (Hip Hop Blogs) @ Media Chin Check (SOHH)
Jay Smooth @ Hip Hop Music
Metalface @ Funk Digital
Julianne Shepherd @ Cowboys 'N' Poodles

3 x 4 = 7 Continued...

2005-03-28T03:30:00.000-05:00

It's true, math is a subject only mastered by view. Many of us (myself included) possess the gift of gab on the discourse of (fill in the blank) in contemporary culture today. We post blogs that discuss our feelings on the world, and we then use these views to stimulate small talk at hipster sneaker parties in a vintage style decorated wannabe new york chic apartments. You know the kind. It's the place where every chick is petite with ripped paint splattered jeans and a blonde/red streaked mowhawk, and every dude has a limited edition pair of Chuck Taylor's on with a matching (but mismatched because matching is corny) blazer with the an electrict green, yellow and pink silkscreen designed by their unemployed but incredibly gifted roomate (who always "happens" to be a graphic designer).

So what happens when those of us who are bestowed with this gift are asked to think outside of our realm to the very technical world of numbers? You get responses like 3 x 4 = 7.

On April 28, 2002, the North America's Conservative (Canada) and Republican (USA) community was provided with the greatest ammunition to date in the attack against hip hop music. On the Weakest Link Da Brat, Xzibit, Jermaine Dupri, the Rev. Run, Cypress Hill's B-Real, Nate Dogg, Young MC and DJ Quik endured humiliating cracks about lyrics, education and age in classic Anne Robinson style to raise money for their respective charities.

There were a few funny moments, but B-Real's out-of-this-world...okay, I'm exaggerating, but his asinine reponse to a simple math question had me wondering who handled the books at the non-profit arm of these artists' commerical enterprises. With pressure from the audience, and the North America watching him, he mistakingly said that 3 x 4 = 7.

The entire show was Dave Chappelle Show skit-worthy, and something that I wouldn't be surprised seeing on the O'reilly Show to convince the makers of Right Guard deodorant that they should have pulled the plug on the Xzibit endorsement deal because of his humour about doing a bid.

Hip Hop's sect of KRSian, Commonian, Mos Defian, Public Enemian, and even quasi-Kanyenian lyrics have always had a place as "conscious" rappers, but what about real book smarts? Like the kind that Roxanne Shante has? Watching the Weakest Link made me wonder about the real life links that exist within hip hop culture.

Hip hop academia is coming into the spotlight as a credible source (go to 11:25) for providing a context in which this culture exists in (North) America. Suddenly, those who grew up with hip hop in their lives have earned the respect of their colleagues in making hip hop culture worthy of intellectual interrogation and analysis alongside other issues like feminism, poverty, and of course, race.

However, who are those that are being educated? How is this information being shared? Who is responsible for the dissemination and translation of this information? How do hip hop academics get their "street cred" without hip hop's industry buzz? An equally important question is how do hip hop academics maintain the respect of their PhD card carrying colleagues within the institutions of which they teach?

This post has taken me 45 mins to post.... it's a work in progress. As I said before, feel inspired to start your own post, or link this blog.

This is to be continued...

It's Getting Late...

2005-03-24T05:48:00.000-05:00

2 papers in 2 days and 0 sleep.

I can barely decipher the words on my screen.
Thought it was important to share with you.
That I
Feel ex
Exha...
Exhaus...
Exhaust...
Exhaustion...
Exhaustion...

I have a headache, but...
My papers are in on time without an extension
My report for work was completed without complications
I will receive my last paycheque today
I will be broke tomorrow
And I will live another day to tell you about it
Because
I'm superwoman, and I can't seem to burn this f****in cape.

Why Didn't You Ask Me?

2005-03-21T16:03:00.000-05:00

Recently, I've become the postchild for inspiration amidst adversity. It's been an interesting ride with the media. Now people are popping out of the woodwork to tell me that they heard me on the radio, saw me on TV, or read about me in the paper.

A lot of my childhood friends didn't hear about this until they read the article in Share News, a local newpaper for the Caribbean community. The response has been mixed, but today, I saw one of my old best friends while heading up to the library to start my paper that is due tomorrow.

She told me that her mom, who I used to call Mummy, saw me in the paper. I immediately felt a wave of shame or embarassment about being homeless and dropping out of school, but I smiled and waited for her to contine.

After what felt like an eternity of an awkward silence, she looked me straight in the eye and said "Why didn't you ask me?". I never thought about it. I was embarassed. I, I... didn't know how to ask. I tried to make up an excuse about not having her number (which I'm still not sure if it's true) I suddenly felt ashamed for not asking. I felt dumb, thinking "shit, I didn't have to go through all this shit. I could have just asked her for help."

"You should've asked me. You know I would have helped you." No I didn't. I don't even remember thinking about asking her for help. I wonder who else is out there thinking these things.

We parted ways after our 5 minute conversation and she made sure that I had her number. I always used to think of her as the smooth, dark skinned Jamaican girl who used to walk home from school with me, run from boys with me, and fight other girls from rival schools with me, but today I realized that she was, and still is, my sister, ally, and friend.

I'm Not Privileged... I'm a "person of colour"

2005-03-21T02:21:00.000-05:00

I just got back from a National Youth Anti-Racism Network (NYAN) conference. Picture this:

The 17 year old secretary of the executive board for the National Chinese Council
The 20 year old bi-lingual grassroots organizer who is recognized by the Canadian Race Relations Foundation as the anti-racism organizer of the year.
The 25 year old west coast First Nations (or "Native") person who calls you brother and sister and discusses colonialism without any sound of bitterness in thier voice.
The 25 queer person of colour whose statements sound like questions (always ending in a high pitch), as they challenege your white, middle class privilege
The emcee, dressed in the conscious colours (brown, beige, yellow) who believes that hip hop was created as a tool of resistence to speak out against racial discrimination in the late 1950's.

And then there's me. The cynic. The person who enjoyed being invited as a facilitator at this conference and flown in from the other side of the country to "engage in critical dialogue" about anti-racism and issues and ideas to mobilize these community practioners for "positive change", but believes that even these anti-racist, super conscious, "aware of my privilege", army fatigue wearing, dread locked hair (even if it's blonde), vegan, queer loving, university educated young people need to check their egos at the door.

Case in point. After a morning session of "Privilege 101" I was certain that people were prepared to do my workshop: Re:Defintion, the appropriation of labels, their meanings, and ownership of language. Our mission was simple: Give a set of predetermined words to a small group and tell them to label 3 issues, one of which is hip hop.

Suddenly these activists had a bone to pick with us "censoring them". The soapbox rant began in some corners. Others looked at the labels we gave them and then at other groups, to find the "safe" way out. They spun in circles, some frantically, asking questions, running to the washroom just to escape the pressure and exchanging nervous glances with us, the facilitators. Strange Fruit just played in the background.

I laughed. It was funny to watch these "grassroots leaders of tomorrow" get pissed off, nervous and confused about how to think in other shoes, that is- thinking from the perspective of the larger sect of society who has no clue about the "anti-racism movement in Canada".

The activity was repeated without providing pre-determined labels and the freedom to create their own "labels". Just as predicted all of the anti-racist jargon came up. Inclusive, violation of rights, patriarchy, oppressed, empowered and the list goes on. After seeing all this, we asked, "when you speak your language of anti-racism, what language do you use? What language does the media use? Which is better understood?". I could see the "yeah, but..." in their eyes, but they didn't bother. They knew what we were trying to say.

Stop preaching to the choir. Get out of your comfort zone and stop talking about privilege by charging them of "colonialist practices" and walking away. And why do middle class people of colour think that they have no privilege?

One chick got called on it. A masters student, born and raised in white bread Guelph, started our session by stating that issues of creating safe spaces aren't necessary because we all know how to be safe and cautious. Someone responded by highlighting her education, and organization affliations as reasons why she might take issues of "safety" for granted. My girl batted her lashes and said "yeah, but like, i don't really get it." So it was broken down some more: You are a university educated light skinned woman from a middle class background who owns a home and has never lived in subsidized housing. Some people here may not have even finished high school, still live in public housing, and their darker skin puts them on the lower rungs of the ladder as "desireable" by the "mainstream". Creating safety is a way to make sure that everyone can participate. Her response: "Don't judge me. I'm just as oppressed as everyone here. I have no privilege. I'm brown (South Asian/Indian)"

The rest of the conference was full of unrealistic optimists who, as my new found friend Shane pointed out, can eliminate racism in one single email. Every suggestion was, we'll start a network and email you to let you know that we exist. Everyone scowled at Toronto for wanting to hold the organizations accountable and find out how individual anti-racism projects could be sustained with this NYAN network. They seem to forget that people who have the time to voluntarily meet 3 times a week to plan, develop strategies for anti-racist organizing must either a) live at home and not pay rent or; b) make so much money that they can afford to volunteer. Either way it's privilege. Sadly, nobody but myself and a few others realized this.

By the end, my only thought was, "thank goodness they paid for my flight, hotel food because this was a soapbox session wasn't worthy of my hard earned cash".

But You're Canadian!

2005-03-04T07:00:00.000-05:00

Here's an equation for you:
You listen to hip hop? + But you're Canadian = You're Jamaican + But You're Canadian!
Both statements = ridiculous responses
Therefore, You are ridiculous.

I realize that I'm getting caught up in American-related hip hop issues. While valid, I think that the job of reporting on hip hop is well taken care of by Jay Smooth, Hashim, Funkdigi, Clyde, Trickology, AllHipHop.com and a host of other dope sites. This doesn't mean that I won't post about American-related hip hop issues, but that I will make an effort to report on Canada's hip hop scene as I experience it.

Don't laugh. Canadians do listen to hip hop. It's interesting to find that when I tell people that I listen to hip hop, they often reply with "but you're from Canada". Oh that's right because my musical tastes must be comprised of "Mountie Music" with the national anthem, "Oh Canada" on the remix track and lead vocals by Shania Twain, Celine Dion and Avril Lavigne. Why is being Canadian a qualifier for my percieved two-dimensional tastes by non-Canadians?

I think it has a lot less to do with Discover Channel induced images of snow, igloos, and First Nations and Aboriginal (not "natives") peoples in goose down parkas, and more to do with looking at the context in which hip hop was created.

It wasn't created by an American kid in the slums who wanted to make music for American people, but rather influenced by a Jamaican immigrant who brought his musical influences from "back home" to the "land of opportunity". Reggae and dub culture emigrated to the US. Once there it was manipulated to appease the tastes of the locals, and ta-da! hip hop. It then grew to become the omnipresent force that now permeates the way we walk, talk, speak, laugh, interact, chat, and blog.

I have a feeling, someone out there is wondering, "What is this chick whining about?" It's simple. Hip Hop wasn't created in a vaccum. The things that influence the music and culture were inspired by more than the "American way". So if you want to find "Mountie Music" and Celine Dion remixes head to Ebay because I'm not the one.

Multi-Culti Closure...

2005-02-26T13:34:00.000-05:00

"Suede magazine, the Essence spinoff that aims toward a hip, multicultural audience, is going on "hiatus" after four issues because it launched too quickly and needs time to regroup, Essence officials said late today."

If this isn't a metaphor for Essence's Take Back the Music Campaign, I don't know what is.

Yes. Suede has folded. I'm not surprised, nor will I say that it will be dearly missed by me. Then again, I'm a broke student with a blog, not a Manolo wearing, SUV driving, $200-for-a -wash-at-the-salon kind of chick. But where are those "chicks"? The "multi-culti" fashionistas, whose social life is spent in high end department stores dangerously equipped with a credit card, a freshly brewed cafe latte mocha chai with a hint of expresso and kahlua and no foam but lots of whip cream with cinnamon sprinkled on top? Clearly, advertisers were looking for them as well.

Michelle Ebanks, President of Essence Communications Partners attributes this "hiatus" to high production costs that weren't being offset by advertising revenues. I would say that it is also attributed to jumping the gun by moving from a quarterly to a monthly within 4 issues. What's the rush?! Was there pressure coming from the show-and-prove "suits" at Time Inc? Was this a pet project of those opportunistic, money, hoarding, exploitists seeking to maintain "street cred" in the eyes of the black community?

Essence knew before the launch of Suede in September 2004 that there was a possibility that the company would be sold. Was this creation of this high end multicultural fashion and lifestyle magazine only done to sweeten the deal for Time Inc? One can only wonder.

As much as Essence is geared to women who are "not defined by age or income" I think it's realistic to say that the publication is intended for women in their mid-30's. Still, I've noticed that there is a younger generation of women who, like post-boomers, don't have the word "kids" in their vocabularly until age 35. Plus, North America is becoming increasingly multicultural where people now celebrate the commonalities (like living in a particular city, shopping habits, and education) rather than the simple fact that we are different.

I'm sure somewhere in Corporate America and Canada (which is still Corporate America) a team of Harvard, Priceton, Schulich or Queens University 4.0 GPA business graduates were wondering how to tap in to this "market". Suede was the answer, and who better to have the answer than percieved "insider", Essence Magazine?

Granted, Suede is a brand that could prove to be profitable in our age of product placement and lifestyle branding. However, as acknowledged by Ed Lewis, president of Essence Communications Partners and co-founder of Essence Magazine"Suede's unique approach to fashion defined a new category," This means, that even with a stellar line-up of marketing, fashion, and branding all-stars success is not guaranteed. So again, I think about moving from a quarterly to a monthly in less than six months and ask, what was the rush?

As the cyncial conspiracy theorist that I am, I think that somewhere in the higher ranking positions someone knew this was going to happen, and could even anticipate when ("when" meaning pre-sale or post-sale of Essence). I also think that the move from quarterly to monthly was profit maximization strategy initiated by Time Inc after the acquisition of Essence's shares.

Like I said... I'm still a non-believer.

More On Dymes

2005-02-24T16:28:00.000-05:00

"Got Misogyny" on Lazarus' site Street Dreams takes what seems like a "fact vs. fiction" approach to Essence's Take Back the Music campaign. While there are some good points raised, I cannot, as Canadian, solely rely on American statistics to address the issue of misogyny and hip hop. And since Canadian statistics don't survey race, I'm left with nothing to rely on but my hunches. However, Got Misogyny has ruffled the feathers of a few people who have commented on the article. It's interesting to read about those who scowl the music, but listen to an artist because he makes good music. Ummm... yeah... it's so ridiculous that I can't even think of a clever remark. Talk about setting the "movement" back.

Thanks to Pro Hip Hop and everyone else for their comments on the article, and links on your blogs.

Peace

A dyme for your thoughts...

2005-02-20T23:06:00.000-05:00

What is a dyme? Last month Essence Magazine launched their "Take Back The Music" campaign to call hip hop on its misogyny. Devoting approximately 5 pages to the cause, Essence defined 2005 as the year to intervene in a "big family problem"- that is, music videos and the portrayal of black women in it.

This strikes me as interesting and in some ways laughable. Hold on you bra burners, let me finish. I've read a few articles online, as well as the January and February installment of the campaign. While somewhat informative, I find it ironic that the same magazine that criticizes rap's objectification of women in pursuit of fame and fortune places titles such as "Make him love you more", "Be richer this time next year" with tips on how to be sexy, "must have" information on plastic surgery, bleaching creams and medical weight loss procedures. What's more is that Essence's newest family member, Suede, glorifies the ostentatious lifestyle of hyperconsumption in the name of "urban multi-culti fashionistas" who revel in the glory of divadom.

Essence projects images of "positive" women- that is, women who appear to have their lives together, with beautiful flawless skin, proportional bodies without overaccentuating features (i.e. the booty), well-groomed hair and infectious smiles as if to say, "I am it! I have arrived, and I am independent!" This is the Essence dimepiece. She's successful in health and wealth (more importantly wealth), and there is not a wrinkle on her face nor a ruffle in her clothing to indicate any sense of struggle. However, I find it slightly disturbing to realize that in many cases, these are some of the same flawless skin, well-groomed hair and infectious smiling "divas" that accompany articles on bleaching creams, plastic surgery procedures and "ways to make him love you" or "reasons why he'll cheat on you".

I have tried the principle of charity, removing my cynicism and negative assumptions I had about Essence's intentions. Still, I can't help but to wonder why Essence has not implicated themselves in "big family problem". As much as nobody wants to held accountable for the shortcomings of an entire generation of young people, the truth is, that we all play our part. For example, Essence has included photoshoots with "video chicks" and "XXL Hall of Famer" Liris Crosse. When I saw this, I immediately thought that Essence accepted that women such as Liris were in the business to be successful, and therefore endorsed/supported whatever other work Liris did. I think that to attack misogyny in hip hop (read: attacking other magazine's interpretation of "dimepiece") without ever implicating yourself is a contradiction about accountability that even reveals itself in Essence's polls.

By assuming zero responsibility, I am left to believe that Take Back the Music is a ploy to point fingers at XXL and other urban media publications and increase Essence subscription revenues, rather that really address this issue of misogyny in hip hop music. In light of the recent business transaction, it would seem to me that with everyone pointing out that the nation's second largest black magazine would no longer being owned by black people, and the company needed to deflect the attention. What better way to do it than by rallying older black, "successful" women together to scoff at this monster we call "hip hop", which premeates our musical, social, political, and economic consciousness on a global scale? Michaela Angela Davis, Essence fashion and beauty manager makes it quite apparent how far Essence is not willing to go. In a discussion about the campaign and its goals, she states:

"[Take Back the Music Campaign]It means we are coming at this from a place of concern as opposed to taking up picket signs, because it is a complicated issue. It is a call to action, and we are not telling people what to think, but we are telling them to think."

Yes, aligning yourselves with grassroots organizations who you've featured in past issues, who have the ability to actually touch the young women directly affected by the 45-55 hours of tip drillin, booty clappin, mini-skirt wearin, pole sliding, crystal sippin music videos on BET or MTV is too hard to do. It's true, protest signs may not always work, but to talk about wanting to encourage people to just think requires more than a 4 or 5 page spread on page 117 of your magazine. When you have the social and economic power to influence the way your entire demographic thinks about such an important issue, why just write about it? Chances are, you're preaching to the converted. Use your power and make real change!

There are also issues of access involved in conveying these messages to younger generations. I'm curious to find out if Essence considered the socio-economic factors of young women who dream to pursue careers as "video chicks", the literacy level of the young girls who are consumed by these images and are motivated to try their stuff out at schools, in shelters (if they find themselves homeless), or at their local community centre, the nature of the school curriculum being taught to these women that may lead to their disinterest in the school and fascination with the fast lifestyle hip hop "promotes". Also, I wonder if Essence will address hip hop on the commercial AND underground scale? The American AND the global translation of misogyny? How serious is Essence about this issue of female representation and treatment in hip hop music?

I am not terribly conviced about where Essence is going with this. Still, I'll read my mom's issue of Essence every time it comes in the mail and see if my feelings change over time. Until then, i'll stay being the non-believer in hopes that a real movement, connected to each other on all levels (political, social, economic) global, or at least within the continent, will emerge.

Peace,
Shuttabugg

Jamaica's 23rd Psalm

2005-02-11T14:51:00.000-05:00

My aunt said this to me and I was rollin. I'm sure other people have heard it, but I thought I'd share this as my thought for the day.

The Lord ah mi one boss, and mi nuh fi want nutt'n.

Ah Him ah prevent mi from tell people 'bout dem bumboclaat everyday.

Ah Him ah gimme peace, when so-so madness a gwan roun' mi.

Ah Him ah remine mi fi pray and fi do everyting widout complain, murmur or
kiss mi teet.

Ah Him ah remine mi dat ah Him, noh mi job, ah mi source, although lickle
more pay woulda nice.

Ah Him ah 'top mi from mad a daytime, an' ah guide mi decision dem so mi
can honor Him inna hev'ryting.

Ah Him ah prevent mi from shoot up di whole raass place, an' tun' all mi
supervisor dem inna some bloodclaat duppy, so mi no haffi go ah prison an'
live 'mongst ah bag ah battyman or get heng to raass.

Even though mi get one whole heap of fu*kry e-mail, fool fool deadline fi
work wid, have some co-worker dem whey a chat mi behine mi back, some big
heediat fi supervisor, an' ah howl body dat kyaan' mek it a mo

mi nah give up because Him deh wid mi!

Him presence, Him peace, an' Him power ah go si mi through.

Ah Him ah raise mi up, even when di heediat dem nah promote mi hard working
raass, though mi have three set a degree an' diploma.

Ah Him claim mi as fi Him own, even when di company ah threaten fi fiah mi
an' me ah threaten fi light wan fiah an' bun di whole raas place ah grung.

Fi Him faithfulness an' love betta dan any bonus check, but yu si mi, a
check woulda help out some time.

Fi Him retirement plan betta dan every pension plan outta road, but mek
anybady try rob this pussyhole place yah an yuh see wha 'appen out yah
tiday: Suhmaddy bettah pussyclaat run to bloodclaat!

When unnu done talk; Ah Him mi ah go wuk fah fi wan long raas time.

So Tank Yuh Lord
Amen! Hallelujiah

Without A Trace...

2005-02-08T19:49:00.000-05:00

Why does it seem that when big moves are about to happen, NOBODY (in Toronto) knows about it? It seems like movements of "progress" are agenda items at secret societies where there are code words to get in, nobody is ever called by their name and contact to the outside world (read: Canada) is strictly forbidden.

It's either that, or we need to step the communications strategy up.

I recently came across some information about a Hip Hop World Summit in Paris, France. Initially, I was excited, but then I began to wonder why, with only 5 or 6 weeks to go, am I just hearing about this now. Then I became optimistic as I browsed the site to find "official" (read: first world endorsed) support from the UN.

Note to self: Stop falling for things because of their percieved affiliations. Research, research, research!

Toronto needs to know about this, but I won't be the one to go. Still, the magazine is interested in sending someone there, and so I must step back and remain neutral during the decision making.

So far I haven't heard many good things about the organization of the event, save one comment from one of the organizer's themselves. However, the very nature of this conflict alone has me intrigued.

What will the hip hop world say when it's all over? Chances are we'll provide some psychoanalysis on why the world won't take hip hop seriously and place the blame on the organizers. Luckily, I'm taking a conflict resolution course, and as a result I'm constantly making a conscious effort to "shift from blame" and move towards the "contribution conversation". Sounds corny, but in practice, it seems to make a lot of sense. Instead of placing judgement, I should say, "if this Hip Hop World Summit fails, what did I, or the Toronto hip hop community do to contribute to its shortcomings?" and then move to build solidarity with the disgruntled and optimistic through partnerships and continue to work within our respective communities.

As it stands, my interest now lies in how the hip hop community (in North America, but mainly in Canada) will receive, participate, and critique such a monumental occassion on April 1, 2005 and the worlds response to both the event and its critiques. I personally remain skeptical, especially after hearing mixed reviews about the outcome of the Hip Hop Convention last June. Still, I'm hopeful that we, participants, consumers, critics and believers in the hip hop movement will successfully pull this event off and leave a permanent and distinguishable mark in the earth.

Peace,
'Buggin

7 Minutes of the rest of my life

2005-02-04T00:29:00.000-05:00

Everyone has a story. Here's mine.

I woke up early to get to work, only to spend an unplanned 30 minutes watching some anorexic, 40 year old with a 12 year old's body, circus school reject in a bridal vail and lacy white grandma undies (they said it was "sexy") contort her body, flip, spin and twirl in what looked like a life sized hampster wheel. I really don't understand people who do this. Is your life that devoid of meaning?

Then again, I was watching it... all of it (commercials too).

Because of my fascination with lady lusty in the lacy grandma undies playing in her life size hampster wheel, I left home late. To make up for lost time (and money) I took a cab to the subway to make up for lost time.

My nose is sensitive. I can smell funky body odour covered up by thick layers of deoderant, applied on after a visit to hygeiene section of the grocery store through 3 layers of clothes and goose down jacket. I'm the kind of chick that makes guys afraid to have "lady friends" because I can smell her cheap-ass-drug-store-bought-on-sale-in-the-clearance-section-body mist that makes you hack or do the smokers cough when you get too close to her cuz the shit stinks so bad and cuss you out for being friends with the cheap bitch. This heightened sense of smell would make you think that I was blind or deaf, compensating for my loss of one senese, but nope, everything is in working order :)- That is, until today.

I couldn't smell anything in the cab. Maybe God was trying to tell me something (There are more important things in life than determining whether the cab driver showers with cheap, organic, fruit scented soap). Instead, my time was spent having a converstation with a cab driver who wasn't really a cab driver (yeah, I said the same thing too). He was a South Asian (Indian) man with an accent (sort of like that "you kicked my dog"-skit from a few years back) and without the turban. He almost fit the stereotype.

For the next seven minutes, my life changed. Well not, really, but it was an interesting cab ride. And it goes a lil somethin like this:

Minute 1 to minute 3:30:
He's chirpy- more awake than half the city. I presume that he'd been picking up fares since early in the morning. This is when I find out that he's really a real estate agent. Yeah, I thought the same thing: Then what are you doing driving a cab? At the red light, he proceeds to show me a legal size folder with his business card stapled to the top and plenty of top secret documents inside and tells me about a client he was trying to get a hold of to close a sale for a house in the suburbs. This client was a cab driver. So cabbie, who used to drive cabs before the real estate gig, brushed the dust off of his money mobile, turned on the transmitter and went to find this client.

At 7am, he found him, got his papers signed, and thought he could pick up some fares on his way back home. I was fare #2.

Minute 3:31-5:00
I commend him on his business sensibility to which he responds "Yes, I must work hard". He then tells me about his credentials- awards he's won, the number of houses he sold last year, how many billboards he has out, the total number of promotional material he's paid for and how he paid for it (cash). He says this to me 3 times in 3 different ways while I gaze out the window smiling at...nothing.

Minute 5:01 - 6:00
Flattery begins to enter the conversation. He tells me that I look like a young professional going places. He asks where I live and I look out the window fantasizing about the young professional life as a...(note to self: figure out what profession you want to pursue). Three seconds later, I bring him back to reality by telling him that I'm just a student. That doesn't phase him. He tells me that what I pay for rent I could use to pay for a mortgage. I roll my eyes.

Minute 6:01-6:45
He tries to reassure me and recounts his awards and track record. He hands me his flyer which has a picture of him sitting poised in a suit with a shave and a haircut. I giggle, and he looks at me through the rear view mirror and says "you refer someone to me, I'll give you $500. If they buy a house, I'll pay for their home inspection. I can do this" I tell him that I, nor anyone that I know is interested in buying a house.

Minute 6:46-7:00
He looks at me through that window again and says, "We must take the land back from those white people in government. Your people work too hard to rent and put money in a white man's pocket." He drives it home, by saying "I bet your landlord is an old white man, right". I sit quietly. He finishes by reminding me that our people (people of colour, i'm assuming) have worked too hard for centuries to not own a part of the land we helped build. He then hands me another business card and tells me that if there's anyone that is interested, I should send them to him and wait for that $500.

What a great way to start the day.

The Real Hip Hop Is Ova Here!

2005-02-01T16:00:00.000-05:00

In one of my courses last semester, I wrote a paper on whether or not poetry was a genre that bridged oral and writing cultures. My findings were interesting, but one event/reading in particular stood out. It was with guest poet Afua Cooper.

Her performance touched on a few issues, but the most memorable one, "Africa's Wailing" really got me. It was set in a dancehall reggae club, and talked about the ill-treatment and abuse of power by police against Black people in a face whenever they decide to get together and jam. After the event, I spoke to my professor about how much I understood and appreciated what Afua had said. My petite, pixie cut, red-head prof looked and me, smiled and said, "By that last poem, I couldn't understand what she was saying." Huh? It was at that point that I realized that each of Afua's poems incorporated more and more patois. Why didn't I notice this? My prof, extremely intrigued by my revelation said, "Well, some people are meant to be left out of the text. We aren't all meant to understand it, otherwise the message gets lost."

Hmmmm...

Reflecting on that made me think: Is this what hip hop is? Is it a culture only meant to be understood by a select few? Who are these chosen few?

Last summer, at the Hip Hop Peace & Unity Fest, I was joined by 3 friends, women who wanted to give the 13 member (12 male and 1 female) panel a chin check on the topic for the night "how to use hip hop as a tool for grassroots organizing"... or some shit like that. It was going well, we asked our questions that challenged and made this dudes look for their jock strap. And then she came. Some anonymous chick walks up to the mic, taps it a couple times, bats her lashes, and says, "considering the state of music today, do you think hip hop is dead?"

WTF? You dumb broad. If it were dead, would we be having a discussion about how to use it to mobilize communities? With your one thoughtless quip, you switched the focus of a discussion where real strategies and movements could have been devised and ignited. Davey D sat quietly while we awaited a response from him, but suddenly was inspired to reminisce on the good ole days of hip hop after the death of hip hop question. Will Strickland seemed to have been waiting for the moment to say "Rap is somethin you do, hip hop is somethin you live". And he said it- Just like he said it at the other 3 panel discussions I'd seen him at with nothing more to add to the conversation than that applause starter. When we requested to hear from the one woman on the panel, Mr. Strickland seemed to make the decision that my girl couldn't speak or understand English well enough for her to answer for herself, and said "she doesn't like to speak". I guess she forgot to tick that box off on the potential panelist/motivator/public speaker questionnaire and didn't read the fine print about what is required of a panelist (i.e. "must be comfortable speaking in public").

So who is meant to speak in the circles of hip hop rhetoric?

Clearly Ms. I-really-have-no-concept-of-hip-hop-but-call-me-sometime seemed a little removed from the culture.
Aside: it's funny that when intelligent chicks hear a stupid question from another woman, we automatically label her a ditz
I may not be completely "hip hop", but my balanced understanding of politics and hip hop allowed me to understand the purpose of the event. Does that make me one of the chosen few?

KRS One has the Temple of Hip Hop where he managed to get hip hop recognized by the UN, Davey D is regarded as the hip hop historian and speaks EVERYWHERE, hip hop became "net savvy" courtesy of SOHH (Support Online Hip Hop), Chuck D famously said, "rap is CNN for black people" and continues to speak to audiences about, well... hip hop. Underground Hip Hop (UGHH) will always be remembered as the place you went to get that Louis Logic, Primo, or Jay Dilla loop before Napster could index it, . All of these individuals/organizations have credibility because they helped to build something that left a permanent imprint on the hip hop consciousness.

Blogs and news sites like Hip Hop Blogs and Pro Hip Hop, FunkDigital, and Trickology have all made a name for themselves carving out their own space in the world to discuss all things hip hop. Since discovering the world of blogs a week ago [see post], I realize the power of pursuasion no longer needs instutional credentials attached to it. It just needs a monitor, a keyboard, a "reply button", and an opinion.

As the internet continues to blur the line and distance between author and reader, orator and audience, teacher and student I am reminded that I don't need to be concerned about who is "chosen" because but rather, how I choose to position myself in my discussion of hip hop, politics and, my contribution to hip hop, womanism.

Memories Don't Live Like People Do...

2005-01-29T23:52:00.000-05:00

My grandfather turned 65. People think he's my father and often assume him to be 20 years younger than he actually is. This is no exaggeration. When asked at the party what his secret is, he scowled (as usual) and said something like, "Nuh badda me wit nonsense. Mi nuh ave no be-you-tee (beauty) secret like di white people dem. Mi jussa work hawd man. How yuh a call me fi pawty, and nuh feed me yet? Feed mi 'ungry belly nuh!"

My memories of my grandfather exist in sayings. Sort of like those village tales where the details of the story aren't remembered so much as the moral. I remember at the old house, when people used to knock on the door to visit him, he'd say "come in if yuh ugly", and if the person walked in, he'd laugh hysterically at them taunting them about their ugliness. If they stayed out, he'd lock the door and look at them through the front window laughing (yes, hysterically) because he'd managed to keep his Sunday afternoon a quiet one.

That was my grandfather. To the point with that disregard or irreverance(is that a word?) for all things politically correct.

Today as I was at my grandmother's house preparing for his surprise party, grandpa walked in had 2 beers and said "mi nah go nowhere" after my grandmother tried to convince him to help her drop off some food she prepared for a "friend". He knew she was throwing a party for him because every time she tried to be slick and ask him to go to the party venue with her, he'd scowl and say "mi nah go nowhere!" and then look at me and laugh. It wasn't a belly laugh, but rather the kind that shook your shoulders like you were shrugging really fast (yeah, go ahead, try it. You can do it! I won't tell.)

Since I became a grown up and moved downtown, I haven't spent much time with my folks. So, after being clowned on twice (read the posts below) about not knowing anything about Jamaica, I thought that today was the time to ask. Plus who knows when I'll make the pilgrimage up to the land of nothingness (read: urban sprawl suburbia in the middle of nowhere... or at least feeling that way when I look across the street and see a barnyard)

Although I had already found out, I started by asking my grandparents about the JLP. The both smirked at me with eyebrows raised:

Grandma: You mean the Jamaican Labour Party?
Me: Yes
Grandpa: You mean the one in Jamaica?
Me: Of course
Grandpa: Why you suddenly tek a interest inna dis?
Me: I met someone who too pictures of Eddie Seaga, and he was making fun of me for not knowing who he was
Both: [laughter]
Me: What?
Grandma: That's a long talk to have. Yuh see how Trudeau was good fi Canada? Well, di JLP was like dat, but betta. Only ting is di leadas was not too good. But still, in politics yuh get dat. So yeah, di JLP was a good ting fi Jamaica.

My grandmother had NEVER spoken to me about politics before. Im am ashamed to say that my elitist Canadian privilege led me to assume that my grandparents had no understanding of politics or the ways of the world. I still wanted to find out some more, so I changed the direction of my line of questioning. I asked my grandpa about growing up.

I found out that my grandfather is from West Moreland. I don't remember the district or the surrounding districts because I became consumed in the stories he was telling me about when both him and grandma took me to Jamaica the year before his father died. I was 3. While I don't remember the entire trip, he couldn't believe that I remembered the scary incident with what I think were tarantulas and cockroaches all in the house and me screaming at the top of my lungs as I watched them crawl around me. We went on for 5 minutes about that, and another 15 about his childhood. Grandma in the meantime was rushing around trying to get ready, standing in her walk-in closet complaining that she had nothing to wear.

Later, at the party there was a "lifetime trivia". I was too busy filming the festivities and helping with food to participate, but I found it interesting that most of the questions asked, I had only learned the answers to only a few hours ago. How many brothers and sisters does he have? Where was he born? When did he come to Canada? What was the date and year that he was born?

Today, I'm thinking about what I learned about Grandpa and thanked God that I everything I learned was done around the anniversary of day that he entered the world and not the day he left.

Back In Business

2005-01-28T17:13:00.000-05:00

I went to work for 5 minutes, missed my boss, and decided to leave. I still got paid for my time.

Working in community health poses its challenges when you're contracted to work from home, with no solid background in health issues. But the money is good. Better this than working at the Gap for $8/hr with $4000 quotas to make in a 6 hour shift.

Would I ever go back to working for 200% less than what I'm worth for the million, no billion dollar net worth of a company that only acknowledges you as employee # 45-39-32710-4847-850a-bakd-jkfo-aiufoa?

As I walked away, I began to wonder how much of my integrity would I trade on the stock exchange just for "good pay". I mean, my assets (skills and connections to powerful people) are valuable and can be used to strengthen my life's portfolio, however the "me" stock is bound to depreciate if I keep investing in penny stocks that I hope will one day enrich my life.

Large corporations are like penny stocks to me. They require little risk and if you stick with them long enough, it can sometimes render great fiscal rewards (job stability, benefits et al). It's "safe" to go to a corporation that you know has a good business history (albeit built on the backs of First Nations, Africans, etc.). In many cases, it requires little of your brainpower to think outside of the box because well, there are people hired in the "Strategic Management" department to do that. I hear a lot of people I know say, "I just want to be told what I'm expected to do". These are the same people who watch the clock at 4:59pm and who call their community involvement, going to the charity happy hour in the bar across the street. You aren't required to know about anything except that which directly relates to your job. What's more is that if you remain "loyal" to Father Corporate Cash Cow of Capitalism you will be among the chosen ones. The ones chosen for raises, stock options, housing investment plans, benefits, and that free gym membership (because your image affects their image, so shape up fatty!).

The real money can be found in the risky options. The ones whose definition of currency involves more than money. The ones that let you sleep better at night in a $250,000 home instead of that $1.2 million because a few lives were made better by the fair wages and ability to unionize and advocate for themselves. The risky stocks force us to shop at Winners, TJ Max, Goodwill and antique markets, instead of Holt Renfew, Berdines or Chanel, or Tiffany's. These kinds of stocks can naturally extend your life by a few years because retirement is never in isolation and your contributions to the world are still remembered. Those kinds of stocks are breast-implant-viagra-pill-face-lift-botox-Atkins-diet-Billy's-tae-bo-sun-tan-booth free.

Plus, it is said that those who challenge their brains more reduce their risk of Alzheimer's and memory loss in general. Thinking outside of the box about ethical ways to deal with unethical people, injustices and abuses is a good place to start. The other challenge is that of learning to learn. It seems that those who invest or are employed by the penny stocks are only interested in learning things that will render the highest fiscal return on investment. By this I mean that if you're a shipping clerk at UPS, the only additional learning you may only consider is how to operate the new shipping system as the old one gets phased out (because you can't lose this job!) or someone in the marketing department working with a community basketball league only to test out the new Jordan's and understand how these "coloured" youth think.

There is a bigger picture. To see it, I think it's important to take risks. "Safety" is not how revolutions begin. In fact, I think "safety" is a social construct (well duh!) that is rooted in laziness. Do we tell Hot 97 that what their doing is racist? Or do we play it safe and not stick our necks out because we have our own problems to deal with? Do we tell the white man that I'm tired and so I refuse to sit at the back of the bus? Or do I just be a good quiet little nigger and move to the back? Do we challenge (not attack) sexist portrayals of black women or do we keep droppin' down and gettin our eagle on, tip drillin that sexy nigga who's leanin back callin other shawty's on some "what it is ho...wussup?"

I can't bother paying for penny stocks. I don't walk around with a roll of pennies in my purse. It weighs me down in a way that can be completely avoided.

If you're feeling a bit unsure about where to go next, after reading this post. I just have one thing to say...

I'm rich biiiaaattttccchhhhhh *honk honk*

Kodak Missed This Moment

2005-01-27T01:22:00.000-05:00

The moon gleamed on me, evoking a radiance that made me feel bright eyed and elegant. I smiled (straight cheesin), and got brainfreeze. Father Winter was reminding me to keep my trap shut. After all it was -19 degrees celcius, with a wind chill that made it feel like -35. Yep, brrrrr is the word.

Still I left my place thinking, "it's a beautiful night. I should take my camera" But I was running behind on an 8 o'clock meeting I had scheduled with a potential graphic designer for the next issue of the magazine.

This winter I was smart, and decided that I looked cuter warm, than eternally regretful because of amputated toes from frost bite because I decided to wear stilletos in the winter like the rest of these dumb broads around here. These boots were like my portable version of all season Michelin's- prepared for the weather, and let me move smoothly through the harsh winter terrain. It's no surprise then, that when I heard the streetcar coming, I did a little jog for it. I tried to look cute, but how cute can you look when you see the driver look right at you while you're standing 1ft from the door, and drive off (asshole)? This has happened often. So I got over it quickly.

I looked up the street to see if I could see another one coming. Nothing. So I decided to walk down to the next stop (the resistance from the snow will give me some sexy ass calves!). Beep! Beep! I look to my left and there is a 2000 silver VW Golf (my low-income dream car!), and more importantly a handsome man inside. He calls me over, and I usually pretend I don't hear, but for some reason I moved closer.

Me: Yes?

His complexion was like a Werther's Original candy-smooth and sweet. His hair was wavy and dark. I didn't notice this until I got in his car. Yup. I got in. I don't usually do it (fuck what you think), but I did. Boy was this a ride.

Him: Yuh know why I call yuh ova?
Me: No, I actually wasn't...
Him: It's a cold day gyal. You c'yan feel it?
Me: Yeah, but people don't usually...
Him: You know where I'm from?

Suddenly I notice the cigars in his car, and that my seat is tipped back real low. Like summertime ridin through the city in a drop top on the way to a cook out kind of low. Bob Marley and the Wailers suddenly enters my mind, and I feel like I'm in a movie. I smile.

Him: Mi from Saint (See-aint) Elizabett. You know where dat is?
Me: Sorta *embarassed chuckle* [thats the second time in 2 days that I've been grilled about Jamaica. Note to self: read a book or two before you get really clowned on.]
Him: Well, yuh see me? I h'am di blahkest person d'ere. Yuh know what a red nigga is?
Me: No
Him: A red nigga is ah di German an' white people slave dem. We hahvest (harvest) cahn (corn), an' fish cah (cuz) we close tuh di beach dem. And yuh see back 'ome (home) I walked 5 miles to school, but yuh see when di fama (farmer) dem come by inna di mawnin (morning), 'im (him) used to let us jump inna di bahk (back) of dem truck. Like di Fawd (Ford) F150 truck dem. Yeh, dem use tuh let us ride in di bahk ah (of) dem truck goin to and comin 'ome (home) from school.
Me: Oh
Him: So when I see someone who look like dem need a ride, I just pick dem up. Yuh know everyone needs some 'elp (help) from time to time. Even when mi girl inna di car. Mi jussa ick people up. Plus, mi 'ave (have) a flat tiya (tire).
Me: You mean right now? Oh wow. Well thanks for picking me up. Not many people would do...
Him: Dats di problem wit yuh Canadians. Yuh nuh wan' 'elp (help) nobody. Yuh see di Indian dem? Dem a come 'ere an tek ova di whole place.
Me: True
Him: I ave nuhtin agains dem people deh, but Black people need to come too-gedda. Yuh know what mi ah seh sista?
Me: Yeah, I feel you.
Him: Can I let yuh off 'ere (here)?
Me: Yeah, thanks so much, you shortened my travel time by like 20 mins.
Him: Alright. Tek care y'ere (ya hear?).

By the time I could recall what had just happened in the past 12 minutes, it was over. We didn't exchange names. He didn't try to hit on me. It was just me, him, Robert (Marley), the cigar he was smoking and his memories of Jamaica during one of the colder days in Toronto.

I got out of his car and tried to recall the story he told me. I recorded myself in my cellphone. This is the type of kindness that I never want to forget.

I got on the streetcar wishing that I had brought my camera.

Divine Intervention

2005-01-26T15:55:00.000-05:00

I stopped going to church 4+ years ago. In December 2004, I decided to contact my pastor. Actually I wanted to speak to him because I needed help with somethin at work.

Anyways, since then he's called me randomly to tell me that he's thinking about me, and that God loves me. Yeah, I expected that, but I don't mind. Until I was 18, this man had watched me grow up, from singing on the choir, to getting caught with a hickie on my neck (i was absolutely terrified of sex) while on a church outing (Don't act like you haven't misbehaved once or twice in your life).

So today, I decided to call him and check in. I had told him that I'd call him "right back". That was a month ago, and I thought it was time for some spiritual cleansing. Ironically, when I called him, he was in the carwash.

I didn't know how to begin, so I told him that I just called to say "hi" and apologize for not returning his call like I said I would. He predictably forgives me, and asks me how I'm doing. The carwash thing really threw me off, because it was dripping with so much irony (no pun intended). This caused me to lose focus. As a result, the conversation was short and filled with standard questions and standard answers (How are you? I'm fine. How's school? It's good...) Then he says, "Do you have something to eat?" Umm... *blink blink* I wasn't prepared for that one. That wasn't on my list of standard-questions-to-expect-from-your-pastor-when-you-haven't-been-to-church-for-4-years. How did he know my fridge was almost on empty (save the half a lemon and leftovers my mom brought me when I told her that I was hungry last night). I had to act fast. So I regrouped and told him that I have some left over oxtail from the night before. He pauses, chuckles and then says "oh wonderful". Whew.

We hang up the phone, I and can't stop thinking about that last question. It sounded like a genuine concern about my well being. Did my voice give away that I was just forced to quit (semi-fired) from one job, while the other reduced my hours to 2 (yeah two) per week and the third one is ending in 2 weeks? Was it because I called at a time that most people should be at school or at work, making it apparent that I'm lonely, slightly depressed, and possibly bored? Not that I don't think my pastor is genuine, but it was just how he said it that really touched my heart.

I'm listening to Foregin Exchange and didnt realize it until just now when I heard the chorus "I gotta feeling that we're gonna be alriiiiiigggghhhhtttt. Everything's gonna be alright!"

Yeah. Everything is gonna be alright.

Am I Not "Hip Hop" Enough For Ya?

2005-01-26T10:11:00.000-05:00

I reading people's hip hop blogs and thinking to myself "why didn't I know that?" As a woman who started an organization dedicated to using evolution of hip hop as a means for women of colour to understand political movements in the world, I am ashamed to say that I'm not as "hip hop" as many think.

I can't tell you how old Kool Herc is right now. I just found out that Sugarhill Records was owned by a woman *gasp*, Ms. Sylvia Robinson. I didn't listen to the well over 100 Roxanne records out there. I just found out that Angie Stone used to be in a hip hop group called....I can't even remember the name, but it was with that chick Blondie and umm... dammit, I can't remember the other chicks name... I don't, no wait, I can't buy Hip Hop books on the regular, but I could probably tell you about what the reviewers said. I just started listening to break records, but I still don't know the names of half of the songs or the artists. I also just started listening to Tribe Vibe's, Pete's Treats, Alchemist's Rare Library, and Kanye's Further Behind the Beats.

I've never been to the "birthplace of hip hop". I think I'm the only person of Jamaican heritage who don't know any family in NYC. I don't really agree with KRS-One's theory on the 9 elements of hip hop (Street knowledge, fashion etc. are elements of poverty, not hip hop...in my humble opinion.). In fact, Temple of Hip Hop sounds like a scary cult-type thing. I love hip hop, but it aint my God (and neither is KRS One for that matter). I missed the Political Hip Hop Convention because well... we're all one paycheque away from homelessness, and hip hop don't pay my bills. The closest I ever got to hip hop was bringing Tonedeff, PackFM and Pumpkinhead (of Wack Emcees fame) to Toronto, fucking up their hotel arrangements (one of em had to sleep on the floor), and being so sick the next day that I didn't even see them off on the bus (yep, 9 hour bus ride) back to NYC. Actually, I was even closer. It happened when I was talking to...around Royce Da 5-9 this past summer and realizing that "damn, this dude can't be taller than... oh... 5'9. My first hip hop "concert" came courtesy of DJ P PLus who got me on a backstage guestlist to see the Pharcyde. I was 18, and too self concious to sing along to "Oh Shit" (I loosened up by the time they did Passing Me By, which meant I lyp synched some of the words standing stiff... like white girl can't dance stiff)

Luckily, I've avoided jail, crackin slinging, pimping and ho'ing a couple times. I am proud to say that I've been nobody's bitch, baby mama or bootycall. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've smoked weed, and Henessey makes my throat burn. I can't spell Courvossier (and if I spelt it right, you have French Canada to thank for that), and Crystal evokes images of crushed glass conspiracies. I drink my Bailey's with milk or ice cream... and beer smells like a men's bathroom toilet.

I'm too big to wear those lil tiny skirts to even qualify as a "hip hop honey","dymepiece", et al. I'm too big to be considered a "real head" (shorty, shouldn't you just burn some incense, read poetry and call it a night?). I've never freestyled in front of real people (yahoo chat don't count). I can't really get with Freestyle Friday's on BET, and I can't tell you (beyond my knowledge of dope Canadian, yes Canadian, emcees) who could beat them. I actually think Free is a decent femcee... no she's a decent emcee. I was about 7 or 8 when MC Lyte was lookin for a roughneck. C.R.E.A.M was a code we spoke when we were conspiring wit my guy friends on how to trick high school boys into giving us money, rides or free pizza (sans sexual favours). That's as close to the Wu as I got. Oh, besides Glenroy (damn, these Jamaican names), singin' "baby I like it rrrraaaawwwwww" and me thinking dude was talkin about vegetables or sushi.

I still can't appreciate Luda's Lyricism, but I smiled when I saw the beautiful thick... no fat (and proud) chicks in the Get Back video (WTF was up wit those pink bows though?). It's funny that when I see a plus-sized woman being confident, she's automatically "beautiful". I hope people say the same thing about me...lol. Okay, back to business- I'm a jigga fan, but can't recite all the lyrics from Reasonable Doubt... or the Black Album. I know I can to Nas' Illmatic, but I can never find myself when it comes to Black Girl Lost. I can finally rhyme in unison to Talkin All That Jazz. Actually, its only the "you said it wasn't art, so now we're gonna rip you apart"- but I know you believed me when I said I could. I have only sought out one D.O.C track, and I can barely remember it. I have no archives of Tim Mays' empire when it was just a newsletter and I don't need to listen to Benzino to know that his music sucks (Cracked out Sean Paul wit crows feet). I guess this means that I only have half the history of The Source. I don't read The Source, Vibe, or XXL. I've read Pound, Peace, Stealth, Elemental, Straight No Chaser and Fader. I don't know the specific names of all those in D.I.T.C, Blackmoon, Lootpack, Mountain Brothers, Anti-Pop Consortium, Company Flow or Athletic Mic League. I just umm "obtained" my first Edo G album and listened to it. Same with Immortal Technique. Same with Masta's Ace's Disposable Arts. I hate Def Jux, so you New York pop art backpackers and tasteless Canucks (Canadians like me but without good taste) in Newfoundland, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island who have nothing better to do but to listen to shitty music that gives you gas like you were lactose intolerant eating a tub of Hagen Daas probably have me on your hit list. If you don't, put me on it please and thank you.

I've never seen "Breakin", but I happened to catch Beat Street while channel surfing one day. I have Wild Style on VHS, but I only have a DVD player *sigh*. I saw Beef 1 though. The only part I remember is Roxanne Shante talkin about going all the way to med school at the expense of the record company (lick 2 shot innah di air fi dat one deh). I saw a few others, but I can't remember.

I have seen and met hip hop artists, and with a camera around my neck, proceed to take pictures of the scenery behind them instead. My lense is allergic to "posers" unless they're beautiful strangers that I meet while on my way to work, school or grocery shopping and I ask to pose.

Above all this- I apparently don't "sound" hip hop. Well when KRS wants to become President, Prime Minister or Tyrant of an unclaimed land somewhere in the world and call it Hip Hop, I'll move there and speak will no doubt speak the language. Until then, I'll have to settle with my Jamaican-twang infused, "white-girl" (read: educated beyond 6th grade) Canadian accent eh.

Having said all this, too many people tell me that I'm not hip hop. But I have a question for them (and you)...
Who the hell told you I was trying to be hip hop? And if I told you I was trying to be, what is your definition of being "hip hop" because we clearly are not on the same page...

Think about it.

Wow...

2005-01-25T18:50:00.000-05:00

Great news.

I thought I had lost my long ass post. But really, I just didn't check to see if it was published.

So, in the name of anti-censorship, I have left them BOTH for you to read. Also, look out for my take on the "attack on misogyny in hip hop". Hopefully I can figure out how to post pics of "dymes" who really look more like nickels, and (in my humble opinion) are sometimes only as desireable as food stamps.

Enjoy!

Oh and I take back the blame I placed on you about your attention span and stuff :P

We're all STILL Afflicted

2005-01-25T17:11:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I just typed a LONG ass post and lost it. It's a sign. Yall don't have the attention span or the stomach to read about my thoughts. Haha. I hate the way people remove themselves to avoid being accountable for their words, actions, purchases, horrible hairstyles, and nasty grills in their mouth. Don't ask me where I'm going with this, I'm still a little upset about losing my previous post.

Anyways, I went to this site Afflicted Yard and thought this cat would be dope to interview for the next issue of the magazine (and I'm still not telling you). The commentaries on the site about events in Kingston, Jamaica are gritty and pretty funny. I think in some way, I wished I could be like him in his indifference about being judged for his thoughts.

I mean, my folks are pretty liberal, but that word is so convoluted nowadays. Anyone who was raised in a Jamaican family knows about the "not in mi yawd" mentality. Basically, it's when Jamaicans who emigrate to the Great White North (or Duurrrtyyy Souf, just a lil north) lie to immigration officers and talk about "out of many, one people". See, it's all good until 55 year old, 5'0 ft Ming-Lin Cho takes your parking spot and you cuss the "chinaman dem" about being too short to see over the steering wheel, or until Jasprinder Singh scratches his turban looking at you confused because he doesn’t know what a "bah-troom" (bathroom) is, or Kofi Mumba calls you "bradda" or "see-stah", when you know nobody in your (immediate) family speaks with a foo-foo, couscous-rich Nigerian accent.

Now they wanna act out.

A short while ago, I suddenly concluded that this "acting out" has roots in extreme ignorance (duh!). But where does it come from? Oppression? Economic strife since J.A.'s independence? The fuckery from the IMF immediately thereafter? Or just some badly seasoned chewy oxtail (yuck!)? I don't know, and frankly I could care less about where it comes from right now. The point is that it's here, pervading my thoughts as I cautiously navigate my way through life without pissing too many people off without unsubstantiated ignorant quips.

See this is where my problem lies.

I care. I care so much in fact, that I often fight my battles alone, in my mind. Do I say it this way? Nah they'll think you're dumb. What about that way? Nah, then you're not being PC (politically correct) enough. Your way? Nah, then they'll say you're jock/Jill strapping. Not at all? What...do you have shit for brains? How about this- How about you shut yer pie hole and listen to me! If I make a mistake, it's because I'm human. I'm not perfect.

So don't sneer at me when I say "homo". What I really mean is stupid.
Don't laugh if you really think my reference to young, spoiled Jewish women ("JAPS" (Jewish American Princesses)) is wrong. School me about why it's offensive to you (yes to you. don't think that your shit don’t stink to the point where you can speak on behalf of an entire population. don't get it twisted).
Don't blacklist me from your womb-rubbing, yoga stretching, vegan eating book club because I said "that's retarded". I just mean nonsensical.

I know I know. If that's what I mean, then why don't I use it, right? Well, in all honesty "nonsensical" is a word I learned when I wanted a synonym for ridiculous and hit shift + F7 in Microsoft Word (Big ups to my boy Bill. Good lookin out.). Retarded on the other hand, is a word that has been used at many a TV dinner tables like my own.

And if you're not black don't hesitate to ask me why I refer to some really dark people as "BLAHK". I just mean that their so dark that saying "black" is no longer an adequate description of one's charred pigmented skin.

Speaking to Peter Dean Rickard of Afflicted Yard tempted me to go back into my old mode. The ig'nant mode. Where Asians are referred to as Missa (Mr.) or Miss Chin, densely populated South Asian places are considered off limits for fear that the "frowsy curry stink" will somehow jump on my back and ride me home where i can "contaminate" the rest of my household; The list goes on.

Interestingly enough, it was only four years ago that you'd hear me cuss an' get'an bawd gallivanting wit mi fren' dem making comments like that. Then some shit happened, and the cataracts reality gave me were suddenly remedied with 2 drops of Visine and a swift kick in the ass. Still, I'm tempted to revert back to the old me, where my ignorance was (you know it's comin...) bliss *sigh*

Peter cracked on me for using American slang and not knowing who Eddie Seaga was (the former leader of the Jamaica Labour Party (JLP)). Our convo had its high points and low points. My self-esteem was somewhat trampled on because I realized that I was trying to win him over with smart ass remarks and constant "lol's".

Note to self: Stop trying to win the approval of elitist third world academics

Seriously though. He was cool. If I learned nothing else, I realized that it's okay to lose in the battle of ignorance.

-Shutta

We're all Afflicted

2005-01-25T15:11:00.000-05:00

Note: This is a long ass post. If you can't or don't like to read, then what the hell are you doing here?

I went to this site Afflicted Yard and thought I could do a really interesting story about activism, rights, and all that other tree hugging shit in Jamaica. I don't hate tree huggers. I am one.

I have been really trying to challenge myself about censoring my words. We all say and think things that would get us stoned, but some of us can supress it better than others. I'm one of them. I've been told that my tact and diplomacy is rare and will take me far. I hope so. However, sometimes I WISH someone would ask me what internal things I'm fighting myself to not say.

My folk are liberal people, but anyone who was raised in a Jamaican family knows that liberal is really the NIMBY (not in my backyard) or NIMF (not in my family) mentality. Where we love and appreciate everyone until 55 year old Min-Ling Cho takes our parking spot at the mall, or Jasprinder Singh doesn't understand when we tell him that he gave us the wrong change, or Kofi Mumba calls you brother/sister when his words are saturated in a heavy Nigerian accent, or John Parker wants to marry one of the only girls in the family, therefore "tainting" the lineage (but what about them pretty babies?). That's when it all comes out.

I've been fighting with this since I was 19, when the cataracts reality gave me were suddenly cured with optimism contacts (and a job hookup). Before 19, I'd say it, and let you know that I was sayin it to you. Now I realize how ignorant I was, but 19 years of thinking one way doesn't just disappear in 3 and a half years of thinking another way. So I'm left fighting with myself to suppress and eventually rid my mind of some of the real ignorant shit I used to think and say.

And there there's someone who almost tempts me to go back.

Peter Dean Rickards was that dude. I contact him and we talk on MSN. Let me just say that being the innocent and nice Canadian girl trying to rid herself of the horrible and narrow perceptions of people doesn't spare me from anything. It was a long convo, so I tried to cut it short.

----------------------------------------------------------------
+ afflicted + says:
whos this?

[it starts as business as usual...]

Shuttabugg says:
you dunno me... i peeped ya site though and wanted to ask if i could do an interview wit you for a magazine here in Toronto

+ afflicted + says:
whats the mag?

Shuttabugg says:
Medina, its local

+ afflicted + says:
some chick thing?

Shuttabugg says:
yeah, a hip hop feminist mag

+ afflicted + says:
sounds lesbian.. is it?

[aint that some shit? Women try to mobilize and do shit, and suddenly it "sounds lesbian"?]

Shuttabugg says:
nah. u into that?

+ afflicted + says:
nope

Shuttabugg says:
well, to be honest, we dont hate on lesbians

+ afflicted + says:
sure...do the interview...send the questions

Shuttabugg says:
aight...

Shuttabugg says:
My name is *fill in the blank if you know my name*, in case you're wondering

+ afflicted + says:
u a journalist ?

Shuttabugg says:
nah but im on that fukka mainstream media movement

+ afflicted + says:
u jamaican?

Shuttabugg says:
Canadian born, but my fam is

[That felt corny after I said it. Almost like I wa fumbling over myself to get his approval...]

+ afflicted + says:
which part u live? i used to live there..toronto that is... i used to live in parkdale...

[cut out the reminscing shit that yall wouldn't understand]

+ afflicted + says:
and mr jerk was there..

Shuttabugg says:
lol...Mr. Jerk has been replaced by pseudo "ethnic" style "island food" joints

Shuttabugg says:
the kind that white people talk about when they get excited about Toroto's "diversity"

[this isn't about disliking white people. Its just that Breakfast Television did a segment on what made Toronto a great city. It was live on location at Yonge and Eglinton and all the people interviewed there just happened to be white. Coincidently enough, when asked about why they love Toronto 3 of 4 people first responded on some "I love all the cultures. You have so many different ethnic restaurants to choose from here."] shit. That as well as my own personal experiences are what informed my comment above.

+ afflicted + says:
lol...that roti place baccus in parkdale still open?

Shuttabugg says:
Yeah, although I aint been there yet

[back to him trying to remember where in Parkdale he lived]
+ afflicted + says:
but u see...after lansdowne ends..at that seedy hotel [The Gladstone] ...the streetcar turned a little corner..goes under a bridge and then heads towards king..

Shuttabugg says:
Dufferin?

+ afflicted + says:
yes! thats it..

+ afflicted + says:
before u reach burger king..theres this ugly building on the left... my street was on the other side of that road..

Shuttabugg says:
oh okay ive never really noticed a street

+ afflicted + says:
the little tree lined streets that used to cost money before they opened a mental ward up the road

[I dont know if that's an insult. "Ward" seems so...so... I don't know.]

Shuttabugg says:
it was just a long strip of ugliness to me

+ afflicted + says:
theres some really nice parts of parkdale..tucked in there..

+ afflicted + says:
the main streets are gross

Shuttabugg says:
this place is being gentrified like you wouldnt believe

+ afflicted + says:
i can beleive..

Shuttabugg says:
I'm livin closer to high park

+ afflicted + says:
dead body in the river park?

Shuttabugg says:
roflmao

+ afflicted + says:
still..its nothing compared to here.. (Jamica)

+ afflicted + says:
4 (people) a day now...

Shuttabugg says:
damn

+ afflicted + says:
toronto is safe and quiet...

Shuttabugg says:
Its messed up that my family never tells me anything about life in J.A

[this is where it gets interesting]

+ afflicted + says:
i guess u know who eddie seaga is?

Shuttabugg says:
i have NO CLUE... unless I watch and A&E documentary

[it's sad, but true. My family, almost intentionally never tells me about life in Jamaica. Unless they're fixin to whoop my behind and tell me to shut the fuck up, 'cause if I was in Jamaican I'd get it worse.]

+ afflicted + says:
lololol..now that is embarrassing

+ afflicted + says:
how old are you? u must be well young

Shuttabugg says:
22 (sigh...not that young)

+ afflicted + says:
still not young enough to be excused

Shuttabugg says:
haha

[that's a damn-i-feel-like-an-idiot nervous "haha" in case you're wondering.]

+ afflicted + says:
whats with the hip hop attraction?

Shuttabugg says:
dunno... i just love the culture

Shuttabugg says:
i think its just my way of clinging to somethin that i know has good intentions in the underground

[WTF kind of answer was that? Good intentions? I just like it... don't question that. Next question.]

+ afflicted + says:
hip hop isnt a culture...its bad music and bad clothes

[He says as he adjusts his nuts in his stonewashed strangle-my-balls-jeans and wifebeater]

Shuttabugg says:
haha [but] you were in north america during hip hop's classic true school era

[I had backspaced so many times, that this was all I could come up with.]

+ afflicted + says:
sure i was..

Shuttabugg says:
and it is a culture

+ afflicted + says:
lol..

+ afflicted + says:
hip hop doesnt inspire me...

Shuttabugg says:
what inspires you?... you're too jaded...

+ afflicted + says:
lots of shit...just not hip hop

Shuttabugg says:
mainstream hip hop or underground?

[i thought this would send the convo in an interesting direction]

Shuttabugg says:
because mainstream hip hop doesnt inspire me either

Shuttabugg says:
i think im just fascinated by the commodification of north americanized caribbean culture

Shuttabugg says:
cuz you know hip hop started wit Herc and is sound

+ afflicted + says:
i dont use words like 'underground'...hahahaha

[...I was sadly mistaken]

Shuttabugg says:
that's because you're old

Shuttabugg says:
well what words do you use?

+ afflicted + says:
not 'underground',,,...ahahahahahaha

Shuttabugg says:
wow... you're having a little too much fun with that... underground is a term

+ afflicted + says:
i know all about hip hop...doesnt do a thing for me..herc and onwards

+ afflicted + says:
its the term if u arent embarrassed by cheese

+ afflicted + says:
"underground'..hehehehehe

+ afflicted + says:
u might as well say 'alternative'..same level of cheesiness

[he just revealed his age. he's clownin me hard like the viagra just kicked in.]

Shuttabugg says:
i dont make the words, although i often redefine them

[oh, im so smart...]

+ afflicted + says:
so is 'underground'...and the word 'wack' u can add to that list too...lol

Shuttabugg says:
so are you inspired by Celine Dion?

+ afflicted + says:
lol...at least she makes me laugh...even if shes crap

Shuttabugg says:
i cant believe you, but its all good...

+ afflicted + says:
wack eh?

Shuttabugg says:
its beyond that...words cant describe the feelings i have about your disdain for hip hop

+ afflicted + says:
so whut u do besides particpate in 'hip hop culture'?

Shuttabugg says:
im in first year (university), so thats been occupying a lot of my time

+ afflicted + says:
doing what?

Shuttabugg says:
Arts and Contemporary Studies...

+ afflicted + says:
really?

Shuttabugg says:
its a new program

+ afflicted + says:
and where do u hope to be waiting tables after u get out?

[fuck off, you elitist third world academic. Wow. I can't believe I just said that. But I did. And he does consider Jamaica a third world, and by his university training and this analysis of language he does sound like an elitist academic. Still it's inexcusable, but I won't delete it because I don't have to. Don't like the show, change the channel, don't start a chain letter petition to the network. You'll just be ignored.]

Shuttabugg says:
im going to major in culture and entertainment and minor in marketing

+ afflicted + says:
well...culture analists are in short supply arent they?

+ afflicted + says:
analists...hahahahaha

[it wasn't THAT funny]

+ afflicted + says:
sorry

Shuttabugg says:
i dont want to be a cultural analyst

+ afflicted + says:
good call

Shuttabugg says:
yeah i know

Shuttabugg says:
i can see where this "urban" culture consumerism bullshit is going

+ afflicted + says:
i like that comedy called trailer park boys..i see it on bbc america

[ yes he did just change the subject and completely ignore my previous statement]

Shuttabugg says:
yeah, you seem like the type

+ afflicted + says:
its funny...SCTV was good too

Shuttabugg says:
memories of SCTV are so faint, but i could tell you about the (new) mickey mouse club

+ afflicted + says:
yah ur 22

Shuttabugg says:
im from the disney era

+ afflicted + says:
evidently

Shuttabugg says:
excuse you?

+ afflicted + says:
evidently?

+ afflicted + says:
as in..EVIDENT?

[you condescending asshole...]

Shuttabugg says:
slow down

Shuttabugg says:
let me write that down

+ afflicted + says:
u dont know what evidently means or something?

Shuttabugg says:
yeah, i know what it means.

[see right here i would've had a feisty little comment for that ass, but i didn't. I took it like a lil punk]

+ afflicted + says:
oh ..just checkin

Shuttabugg says:
dont take it so literal...

+ afflicted + says:
lol

+ afflicted + says:
me ? literal?

Shuttabugg says:
yeah...

+ afflicted + says:
not likely

Shuttabugg says:
you seem to have your moments

+ afflicted + says:
ya think?

Shuttabugg says:
you're a cynic though...

Shuttabugg says:
and incredibly arrogant in your choice of words

+ afflicted + says:
funny..i dont FEEL arrogant

Shuttabugg says:
its hilarious

+ afflicted + says:
wicky wicky wicky...

[ WTF is wicky wicky? Frickin foreigners...lol]

+ afflicted + says:
wick wick wicky

[and still he continues like its funny. sadly, i laughed after he said it.]

Shuttabugg says:
hahaha

[see?]

Shuttabugg says:
i havent spoken to ANYONE who has me this lost for words

+ afflicted + says:
u might not know many people then

[No comeback for that one either. Here comes my pathetic attempt to get into this dude's dome]

Shuttabugg says:
i see what you're doin

Shuttabugg says:
you keep it gully

+ afflicted + says:
that more hip hop slang?

+ afflicted + says:
"gully"

[now i try to make an excuse for why im lettin this dude son me]

Shuttabugg says:
see... right now I'm really trying hard to do the whole "respect your elders" thing

[bra-frikkin-vo]

Shuttabugg says:
yeah "gully"... look it up www.urbandictionary.com

+ afflicted + says:
american slang....terrible... scornful even

Shuttabugg says:
and why is that?

+ afflicted + says:
just sounds vulgar..i dont miss that sort of language

Shuttabugg says:
when someone calls a word vulgar, they're being defensive

Shuttabugg says:
its all subject to interpretation

+ afflicted + says:
because the word is vulgar ?

Shuttabugg says:
nah... who determines if a word is vulgar? you? and who the **** are you to say that?

Shuttabugg says:
feel me?

+ afflicted + says:
nah...for a grown person to use the word GULLY or WACK,.,.,is a sure indication of a lack of vocabularly..not really a issue of defensiveness..check it..im right..honest

Shuttabugg says:
theres some more american slang for that ass

+ afflicted + says:
lol that ass

+ afflicted + says:
hjahahahahahahahahaha

Shuttabugg says:
nah, it depends on the context...

+ afflicted + says:
i got a better question

+ afflicted + says:
who cares?

[he's right and i feel dumb for not saying it first.]

+ afflicted + says:
not very edifying..but hey..to each his own

Shuttabugg says:
her own

+ afflicted + says:
whatever

[imma slap the next dude who pulls that "whatever" on me!]

A Penny? Gimme $5 for my thoughts...

2005-01-24T15:31:00.000-05:00

I was probably #1099 in a class of 1100 when I got to class 5 minutes late. My prof, the asshole that he is, made it a point to say that I was being a disturbance. To which I replied "smarten the fuck up and teach". While he didn't hear that, the entire first row did, and so I had my 15 seconds of fame.

I wonder what would have happened if my MBA card carrying professor, who has at least one (albeit poorly written) marketing textbook (which automatically gives him the prestigious title of "all-seeing-and-knowing academic") actually heard me.

To him I'm nothing but a 9 digit number. It's true that my blackness preceeds me and that my larger than life afro and big mamma bigness is an unfamiliar sight in the T. Dot, but that doesn't mean shit when you don't know my name. So smarten the fuck up and teach.

I managed to look up my readings online and realized that there were only 10 pages to read! So I read it on the subway, on my way to school. The lecture, as a result, was easy breezy and required little concetration, despite what the frantic rustling of paper by my unprepared peers would have you to believe.

Speaking of beliefs...

I was in the student lounge doing some reading, and talking it up with my profs and fellow classmates. I intend to run the school in two years, so I need to make allies sooner rather than later. Don't laugh. I'm for real. I know enough of politics, diplomacy, negotiation, and community mobilization to oust these suburban trust-fund gap khaki wearing starbucks coffee drinking kids and ignite a REAL movement. Call me the Fiya Stahtah Dahtah cuz a mi run dis bloodclaat place zeen?

Yeah, I got Jamaican on that ass, and of that expression you probably only recognize the word "bloodclaat". Yes, it is a cussword, but only because West Indian men are threatened by women's menstrual cycle. Yep. Blood. The actual translation of "bloodclaat" is *drum roll*........ blood cloth (known today as a "pad" and because of smart marketing is currently referred to as a Maxipad). See? Simple. Don't get grossed out. This is nature, and nature is beauty.

Anyways, back to beliefs...

So yeah, I'm talking it up with people- mainly about the magazine I launched with 4 other wonderful women last month. One person in the room is a second year student who is starting a 'zine. I give him our magazine, and dude is like "I think I should pay you for this." I tell him that our magazine is free, and still he insists on paying. This is when I take back all the things I said about suburban trust-fund gap khaki wearing starbucks coffee drinking kids. I don't refuse the money. You wouldn't either. That holier than thou shit only works on Touched By Angel.

So I take his $5 donation and he proceeds to tell me that my work is too good not to charge people for the magazine. He believed in me. He believed in my movement. He paid so that the beliefs in my movement will continue *tear*.

So, when the April issue comes out, yall be prepared to contribute to the fuccamainstreammedia movement, courtesy of my magazine.

Yeah, I know, I didn't tell you the name of the magazine. This is me being drunk on power. And I'm still not telling you.

Still buggin,
-Shutta

My First Day As "Blogger"

2005-01-23T23:27:00.000-05:00

I'm having a moment where I look at the clock on the bottom right hand side of my computer screen and realize that my eyes are burning because over the past 2 days I have spent nearly 16 hours in front of the computer. I've discovered the world of "blogging". I had heard of it before, but never had I experienced it the way I have within the last 48 hours.

Hip hop, current events, the realness. It's so cliche, but since the website is gone now, I can truly say that blogging, is "the real".

I just deleted what I was going to say for fear of being judged. WTF is that about? I'm so self-concious. Say it like Kanye did. It's funny for me to say that I am actually concerned that someone will read this and correct or even challenge me. The clock is ticking, and I'm listening to Black is Back, 9th wonder's remix of Jay Z's the Black Album. Yeah it's old, but this is my gat damn blog, so there! The digital clock on my computer is reminding me that I have a few hours to sleep and get ready for class tomorrow... with no readings done.

I'm a week and a half behind my readings at school. For some reason, it doesn't phase me. This arrogance is probably attributed to the fact that I kicked ass on all my papers last semester. How many chicks do you know fail english 5 times in high school, drop out and then get straight A's in university? If you know of any, tell her to hit me up. We should start a secret sisterhood. None of that ya-ya bullshit though. Not the kind that sips herbal tea and waxes eloquent about the indignities of patriarchy and perverted misogynistic wet dreams of capitalism. No. I just want some chicks I can go to a club with, look fly with, shop with, learn with, be smart with, and kick a niggas ass with.

I've been struggling with my use of the word nigga, but more on that another day.

I really don't know how long I'll last doing this Blogspot thing, especially because nobody knows I exist. Still, this is therapeutic. I can now talk to myself and pretend other people are listening (reading) without being moved to the padded room and labeled the "crazy black woman".

Sistahs, you know what I mean. When we become too aware, we're suddenly a low-income tax write-off of second hand sweater wearing sock factory non-unionized neanderthal immigrant from the land of Jamaica (because all blacks in Canada are Jamaican, according to the store owner who accused me of stealing his piece of shit sweater) who are too radical to be truly engaged in the social and political discourse that will advance, stagnate or reverse the direction of our lives.

I think I've said too much. As I write this, there is this burning feeling that is telling me to be careful of what I say for 2 reasons:

1) Big Brother is watching me- and I'm the oldest child of my parents, so you figure it out, and;
2) When I get famous, some of the shit I say here will bite me in the ass, and possibly get me sued. And my countersuit for defamation of character will be null and void because well... the proof is in the blogging.

To those who know where the rainbow goes and smile after reading that line, only to curse yourself for realizing that you've been branded, I have this to say...

I'm buggin'
-Shutta