Hope Walks

Yo, We at war
We at war with terrorism, racism, and most of all we at war with ourselves
(Jesus Walks)
God show me the way because the Devil trying to break me down
(Jesus Walks with me) with me with me with me

You know what the Midwest is?
Young & Restless
Where restless Niggaz might snatch your necklace
And next these Niggaz might jack your Lexus
Somebody tell these Niggaz who Kanye West is
I walk through the valley of Chi where death is
Top floor the view alone will leave you breathless Uhhhh!
Try to catch it Uhhhh! It's kinda hard hard
Getting choked by the detectives yeah yeah now check the method
They be asking us questions, harass and arrest us
Saying "we eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast"
Huh? Yall eat pieces of shit? What's the basis?
We ain't going nowhere but got suits and cases
A trunk full of coke rental car from Avis
My momma used to say only Jesus can save us
Well momma I know I act a fool
But I'll be gone til November I got packs to move I Hope

(Jesus Walks)
God show me the way because the Devil trying to break me down
(Jesus Walks with me)
The only thing that I pray is that me feet don't fail me now
(Jesus Walks)
And I don't think there is nothing I can do now to right my wrongs
(Jesus Walks with me)
I want to talk to God but I'm afraid because we ain't spoke in so long

To the hustlas, killers, murderers, drug dealers even the strippers
To the victims of Welfare for we living in hell here hell yeah
Now hear ye hear ye want to see Thee more clearly
I know he hear me when my feet get weary
Cuz we're the almost nearly extinct
We rappers are role models we rap we don't think
I ain't here to argue about his facial features
Or here to convert atheists into believers
I'm just trying to say the way school need teachers
The way Kathie Lee needed Regis that's the way yall need Jesus
So here go my single dog radio needs this
They say you can rap about anything except for Jesus
That means guns, sex, lies, video tapes
But if I talk about God my record won't get played Huh?
Well let this take away from my spins
Which will probably take away from my ends
Then I hope this take away from my sins
And bring the day that I'm dreaming about
Next time I'm in the club everybody screaming out

(Jesus Walks)
God show me the way because the devil trying to break me down
(Jesus Walks)
The only thing that I pray is that me feet don't fail me now...
- Jesus Walks, Kanye West

I watched "Dave Chappelle's Block Party" last night.  I watched it because I felt like God wanted me to.  I kid you not.  I mean, I know in a distant, cliche kind of way that "God can use anything" to speak and/or minister to us.  I thought God wanted to give me a break because I was sick, had a stressful work week and just needed a good laugh.  I couldn't wait to hear me some Lil' Jon "WHAT?!" imitations and  dirty, racially-charged jokes. 

So, I'm laughing my arse off, silently praising God for giving Dave Chappelle such a freakin' crazy sense of humor, when Kanye begins to perform "Jesus Walks."  And all of a sudden, I started to cry.  Like, really cry.  Oh dear Lord, what the bloody is wrong with me?!?  I'm watching Dave Chappelle, there's a freakin' party on the television screen, people are goin' nuts waving their hands in the air and dancin', Kanye West is performing a rap song - and I start to cry?!?  Is it that time of the month? Am I PMS-ing?  Do I miss clubbing that much?!  Did I forget to take my happy pills?  (Kidding!  No "happy pills" in Nancy's medicine cabinet.   I just pop a lot of vitamins.)  I wish I could describe what I was feeling, the jumbled crowd of thoughts that were criss-crossing and intersecting and connecting and racing and running through my head.  As I watched the television screen, looking at the crowd of mostly Black people (honestly, I don't know how to describe the audience because "African-American" isn't necessarily the proper or best description - so, please forgive me), I suddenly realized how much we need, how desperately we need, HOPE.  

I've been reading the book Freakonomics; one of the authors, Steven D. Levitt, is particularly obsessed with studying crime.  By pure luck, he managed to hook-up with a psychology student who had lived in a Chicago crack- and gang-infested ghetto for a couple years when crack was at its peak in the '80s.  There are numerous studies and reports and analyses done on the urban poor; on the wealth gap between different minority groups and White people; on drug use in certain cities, certain age groups, certain ethnic groups, between different genders; on the education gap between certain minority groups and White people; on the vernacular, the habits, the lifestyle, the marriage rate, the birth rate, the abortion rate, the rape rate, the eating disorder rate, the single parenthood rate, blah blah blah blah blah....Any and every possible study you can think of to answer the question of inequality and "differences" between certain ethnic groups, between men and women, between certain socio-economic groups.  All these numbers, all these hypotheses, all these reports and studies, all these fellowships and scholarships and research grants awarded - I wanted to throw something at the book or throw the book at something; I wanted to scream.  F%#$ YOU!!!! Reducing somebody's life, their hopes and dreams, their nightmares and fears, their pains and their struggles, their insecurities and their realities, to a bunch of statistics and numbers.  Mr. Levitt, it's a great book; interesting theories, well-written; and I will continue to read through your book.  I know that research is often done so that we can "figure out" the plight of "x" - the plight of the Black-American, the plight of the Asian-American, the plight of the youth, the plight of the poor, the plight of the Native-American, the plight of the Latino-American/Hispanic-American, the plight of women in America, the plight of "fill-in-the-blank" women in America; the plight of individuals with disabilities, the plight of the marginalized and the labeled.  But in the end, do any of these studies and reports, does any amount of number crunching, offer even a sliver of HOPE to them, to us, to you, to me?!?  A tangible, bleeding, pounding, fighting hope?

Towards the end of the movie, Wycleff Jean asked several members of the Ohio Central State University drum line, "What would you do if you were president?"  A young Black girl immediately declared that she would end the war and use the billions of dollars to give all the students in the drum line scholarships.  At that moment, I wished with all of my heart and all of my being that I had billions and billions of dollars in cold, hard cash - but billions and billions also in warm, heartfelt love - to give to all those students, to give to every person in the world who wants to see hope at the end of the tunnel and to see themselves victorious over the struggles, the pain, the insecurities and fears, the lies and the counterfeits.  I wished that I could tell every person who was afraid to talk to God because they haven't spoken to Him in so long, "I know He hears you when your feet get weary....He walks with you."

I know our money goes to the battles that we pick and choose.  Who's to say that one cause is greater or more worthy than the other?  The problem is, there are too many battles.  God, thank you so much for what Dave Chappelle did on September 18, 2004.  That block party was so much more than a party.  It was a sense of release, a sense of community, a sense of pride, and a ray of hope.  I needed a good laugh but, I needed some of that other good stuff, too.  

This Place Sucks @$$

My friend I were on our way to a bar the other day.  This bar has a decently-sized dance floor and, on that particular night, would be spinnin' some dance-a-licious hip-hop and house music.  If you know anything about me, then you know that I love to dance. I l-o-v-e to dance. I loooooooooove to dance. I  to dance.  I love it, I love it, I love it.

So, anyway, my friend and I were walking into this bar - a supposedly fun bar with supposedly good music in a supposedly hip part of town.  We could tell it was the hip part of town because there were a couple police cars parked nearby.  (Note: That would be a sarcastic remark, my friends.)  Just as we were approaching the entrance, we saw two gentlemen walking out of the fine establishment towards us.  Just as our paths crossed, one of these well-bred young men had the balls to grab my arm (no, he did not gently tap me on the shoulder or ask if he could defile me with his dirty little paws) and bark, "Heeeey!"  Well, he tried to purr, but all I could hear was static and the sound of hopes lining up to be crushed.  I, as the sole owner of my arm and personal space ("Do you see my retractable adamantium claws and the 10' thick barbed wire barricade around me with a 'No Means Hell NO' sign?!?"), yanked my arm back to its rightful place by my side and continued to walk. 

Now, to gain admission into this classy joint, one pays a fee at a register (actually, it's just a metal box manned by a couple of hot chicks) outside of the bar and then crosses a walkway delicately enclosed by an outdoor patio area full of vultures and cigarettes.  This walkway might as well be a raised catwalk with strobe lights and stripper poles.  Basically, whoever is on the walkway better run for her sweet life; these vultures are hungry.  One of these vultures cawed out to me, "Hey sexy!  Nice eye shadow!"  Another one decided that 'twas the season to be jolly and said, "Merry Christmas!" 

"Merry Christmas?!?"  What the bloody, dude.  It was freakin' February.  I don't care how much you've had to drink.  You might forget what year this is, you might forget your manners and your keys; heck, while under the influence, you may even conveniently forget the fact that you've got a girlfriend.  But how the heck do you forget the fact that there ain't any Christmas in February?!?  Whatever.

I run into the bar thinking that I might find a safe haven from these lunatics outside.  Clearly, I am scared out of my wits and sensibilities if I'm thinking that I'll find shelter and refuge inside a bar.  I immediately realize this when another gentlemen brushes up against me and says, "Heeey...nice sweater."  Dude.  I wasn't even wearing a sweater.  I was wearing a zip-up velour hoodie.  However, this error was much more forgivable than that Tourettes syndrome outburst of holiday cheer.

As my wits and senses return to me, I remember that it is not the bar or the club that serves as the refuge; it is the women's restroom!!  Duh!!  So I grab my friend and we "oomph" and "ugh" and "argh" our way through the crowd, wishing that I could trade my retractable adamantium claws for an invisible cloaking device.  Finally, we see the light at the end of the tunnel (literally, the door swings open and the light from the women's restroom gives me the final surge of strength I need to "oomph" the last guy out of my way) and rush into the ladies' room.  Refuge!  At last!

By this time, I've had enough.  I look into the mirror to see if the clock has, indeed, struck midnight and I've already turned into the wicked witch of the West.  Instead, I learn from my friend that it is only 10:(freakin')30, so I angrily shout, "It's too early for me to be in bitch mode, damnit!!"  Another girl in the restroom giggles. She feels my pain.  Man.  It's bad news when the "Bitch Mode Show" airs an hour and a half earlier than regularly scheduled.

And it is because of precious, precious moments like this that I decided to take a little hiatus from the bar/club scene.  *sigh*