This Is What It Sounds Like...

Happy Birthday 2Pac

I remember riding the subway in New York around this time last year and overhearing a kid, no older than 15, say "I really look up to Chris Brown. He can dance, he can sing, he paints, he does it all. He's my hero," and my first thought was - poor kid, he is about to have a rough life. Then my second thought was - this is probably how I sounded some 15 years ago when I told my parents and teachers how much I idolized 2Pac, that he was my hero. And he was. I had every album, every documentary, every book, and almost every movie he was in. And luckily for me, I had a mother who didn't condemn my idolization of 2Pac, but would take me to Blockbuster Music on Carrollton to get his newest albums the day they came out. Yes, 2Pac was my hero, and he was an important one because he was the first hero I chose, the first hero that was not assigned to me by my elders. Sure he was flawed, contradictory, extreme, and sometimes vulgar - but he was also unapologetic, genuine, caring, and determined to uplift those in his community. He made songs like "Keep Ya Head Up," and "Smile," and "Dear Momma," and "I Wonder If Heaven Got A Ghetto" that can still put goosebumps on your neck when you hear them today. Sitting here at 29 and looking back on a life that was cut short at 25 almost two decades ago, I still consider 2pac a hero for the impact he was able to make on an entire generation at such a young age. Sure he made some mistakes along the way, but those mistakes I can learn from without exemplifying them. Pac, the world is a dimmer place without you in it, but a much better one for having you here. Happy Birthday. (Takes sip of Hennessey)

🦋🦋🥊🦋🦋

In an alternate universe Nefertiti has a tattoo of 2pac on her chest. 👑

Who shot ya!? Hey, Pac, I’m still on the case because ever since they murdered you none of us have been safe. Was it the police? Was it your homeboys? Was is the KKK? On the Vegas Strip after a fight I’m surprised nobody got it on tape. I remember being nine on the cusp of defiance, rejecting all the heroes I was assigned in my sociology class. I told my teacher they were all murderers or murdered or make-believe, then I played her “Only God Can Judge Me” before she ran to the stereo and threw my cd in the trash. And that’s when I knew you were the hero I’d look up to, somebody not in the history books someone real I could grasp. And then I saw the news you had been shot you had been killed. Then I came back to school and my teacher just laughed. She said I should pick better heroes, somebody not as aggressive, someone on a much better path. Then I had to remind her of Malcolm of Martin of Huey of Fred of Medgar etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, and told her it didn't matter, black heroes don't seem to last. Who shot ya! Hey, Pac, what are we gonna do? How are they gonna find who kills us if they can’t find who killed you? I Wonder If Heaven Got A Ghetto, verse three you sounded something like a prophet. You predicted 20 years ago that police would be out here killing us and we couldn't do anything to stop it. You said, “cops give a damn about a negro, pull the trigger, kill a nigga he's a hero” and now, “the streets are death row.” The cops are judge, jury and executioner and apparently every bit of it’s legal. And I don't know if Heaven’s got a ghetto, but I know its got a long line and there’s some people waiting to get in that could use your comforting because we know Tupac cared when nobody else did. I’m sure we keep you busy up there, we’ll make sure you died for something. Who shot ya? Hey, Pac, your killer is still on the loose. I don’t know if you heard, but they got BIG too. They’re killing everybody that we looked up to. And I know there’s people who will hear this that won’t understand “He was a thug” “He got what he deserved” “His music should have been banned” And those are the same people who fear us when we band together in death. They mock us they incite us when we riot or protest. Who shot ya!? Hey, Pac, maybe it’s best we never know. Jokes on them because they will never be immortalized and you will forever be the hero.

“There is nothing more powerful, than an idea whose time has come” - Saul Williams

Where Are You?

Please don’t leave me here with these people. I'm not of them. I won't love them. Take me with you when you go. I don’t recognize them. We don't speak the same language. They’re humid. They're dank.  They’re hollow. Don’t make me love them. I don’t want to. I just want you. I’ll be quiet on the road. I’ll love them if I have to but I’d never tell you I’d be too embarrassed to let you know. But tell me who will you love? Where will you go? Will it ever be as good? What will you do when they don't recognize you or they don't love you like they should? I’m right behind you. I’ll come and find you. Don’t be stubborn out there on your own. They love me here but it feels so empty. Don’t leave me here with them alone.

There are no pieces of you missing. The same way a tree doesn't miss its fruit when the farmers come for the harvest, neither should you worry about what parts of you are not there.

A Poem About Cheese

If your heart was a cheese, what kind of cheese would it be?

I’m sure my heart is made of brie. Hard on the outside, but once you cut it open it oozes all over the kitchen counter like butter. It’s an introverted cheese. Some people like the moldy rind and some don’t, but brie never makes any apologies. It’s the cheese you put out for holidays when you want to impress people. My heart is like the holidays.

I’m pretty sure her heart is made of cheddar. Just as sharp as her tongue. As yellow as the sun that shines through the blids onto her cheek in the morning.

Or swiss. Full of holes because she gives too much. Or blue cheese because she’s always cold and her heart crumbles whenever I try to take a piece for myself.

She told me my heart is probably made of gruyere. Old and cracked and mostly good in fondu. The kind of cheese you melt down and make a party of and share with friends, and then regret that you didn’t save more for yourself to give to someone special. A type of cheese that likes to please. That melts too easily. Goes good with beer and cider.

I disagreed. I prefer red wine, myself.

She said her heart is made of pepper jack. Mild, but spicy when it needs to be. Versatile. The type of cheese you fall in love with instantly and will love you back just the same, but every now and then in the middle of the night it will wake you up and remind you, you’re not as young as you used to be. You have responsibilities… like no eating spicy foods past 10 p.m.

On September 15th, 1970 the New Orleans chapter of the Black Panther Party held their ground in the Desire Housing Projects against law enforcement in a shootout that lasted over 30 minutes. At 8:00 am over 100 officers in military gear stormed down on the Panther’s headquarters located at 3544 Piety St. and unloaded gunfire in an attempt to eradicate the Black Panther Party from the State of Louisiana. Miraculously no one was killed in this standoff.

Law enforcement made another attempt to raid the headquarters on November 19, but thousands of Desire residents circled the building in a successful effort to protect the members and fend off another violent attack.

In August of 1971 all of the members were found not guilty.