On Blackness.

For me, the struggle.  The fact that your grandmother whipped yo’ ass in the morning then fed you in the evening.  Being Black is a consciousness.  An awaken-ness.  Black is not hip-hop, not house, reggae nor rock.  It’s rhythm.  All of the above…

Being Black is smooth Jazz, a fine wine, volcanic, purgatory, sweet and salty, revolutionary and love.  It’s eating watermelon in front of white people cause it’s delicious and with one eye open.   On guard.  Black is Colin Powell and Condoleezza Rice.  And Malcolm and Martin.  And Amos and Andy.

Maya Angelou

Black is greatness from nothing.  Or being on the Clotilde knowing in a hundred years, “we birthin’ Motown.”  It’s not wanting to do it but doing it-twice as hard, more sweaty, bloody, callused and all…

Not cracking.

Black is soul.  Or energy.  A connection through melanin to the sun (The Son) – the sustainer of life.  Hunter AND gatherer.  And settler of the world Ms. Lucy.  The Ethiopians begat the Romans.  The construction of the (8) sided pyramid in Giza is considered a mystery; a mystery hidden in the Black mind….

“The deeper I go the more knowledge I know.”

And Black is hurtful.  All the brothers and sisters caught out there, drugged up, p-doped out, exploited, bamboozled, hustling, genocide-ing, surviving and down right trifling.  Niggas.  Failures, no!  They tried…

Black is the majority of the universe that’s unobservable, semi-undiscoverable yet dominates with a necessity.

Dark matter matters.

Being Black is a journey to greatness, already greater; rearwindow-ing great.  A journey to enlightenment towing the tribulations of the past to accompany the riches of the future.

In the be gin ning
How long did Black ness sus tain?
In fi nit wis dom.

I love being Black.