Duke Ellington looking cool as ever, stepped off the plane that flew him from Bangkok to Beirut. Two nights hence, his band’s scheduled performance on behalf of the US State Department had been canceled due to inclement couping. The Iraqi government had been dethroned, defrocked and deposed. Instead of the music of the legendary Duke Ellington and his main man Billy Strayhorn, the people of Iraq received the sound of bullets, screams, confusion and explosions. What we would later recognize as the sounds of “regime change” in fact. Hundreds of reporters crammed the runway of the Beirut airport trying to get a sense of what was transpiring in the Iraqi capital. They wanted to get an interpretation of the sights and sounds from the most significant artist 20th century music produced. Duke Ellington lit a cigarette and ran it down for them.

"Those cats were swinging"

1963 had been a good year for Duke. He was no longer the face of jazz but with legendary status long ago cemented, Duke was still stretching his wings. He could still swing with the best of them but the advancing years found him looking to shore up his composer credentials more and more. So he began stretching his compositions out, turning songs into suites and exploring his classical influences.

Meanwhile the United States of America was burning, figuratively speaking of course. The Government was knee deep in cold war but the mood of the country was too hot to be cool. If “winning the hearts and minds” of the chess pieces -which all other nation-states had become- was integral to the battle strategies of both the United States and the Soviet Union then the US was in trouble. Big trouble.

The Civil Rights Movement was well under way and a seismic change had begun to shift the national consciousness. Images of Bull Conner opening the hoses and letting the dogs out on protestors in the streets of Birmingham; Governor George Wallace blocking the entrance of the University of Alabama and yelling expletives about colored kids (and their JFK mandated state militia chaperones) stepping foot in his public institutions; the prone body of Medgar Evers laid out on the steps of his home in Jackson, Mississippi; and the hundreds of thousands of people that marched on Washington looking for freedom were carried around the globe via television. The world could see the sickness and the Soviets were looking mighty-fine in comparison.

To combat this public relations disaster, the State Department scrambled to find an ambassador to send to one of the most hotly contested areas of the cold war- the Middle East. Desperate, it needed the best America had to offer. The State Department needed someone whose principles of freedom and democracy could be seen, not just in talk, but in deeds and work. It needed someone whose American citizenship validated the country by proving that genius did indeed grow on its soil. It needed a man whose natural charm and grace could disarm the most belligerent of detractors. It needed a black man. America needed Duke Ellington. So on September 6, 1963, Duke Ellington, Billy Strayhorn, the band and their music were sent to the Middle East to represent the United States of America. They would soon be joined by yet another image from back home- the charred remains of the 16th Street Church that was firebombed with 4 young black girls inside. Against this backdrop Duke Ellington toured the nations of the Middle East.

The tour included stops in Syria, Jordan, Afghanistan, Sri Lanka, India, Ceylon, Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, Turkey, Lebanon, Cyprus, and Greece. Though the work itself was basically routine- Party. Reception. Concert. Lecture Demonstration. Party. Reception. Concert. Etc etc- Duke and the boys acquitted themselves well. When people asked Duke about Jazz, he shifted the subject term to “American Idiom” or “Music of Freedom of Expression” because he had stopped using the word “Jazz” 20 years ago. The band noticed that there were nothing but dignitaries and “rich folk” attending their shows so Duke, being Duke, demanded that all musicians be let into his concerts. The foreign press took note of Duke’s largesse and hailed his “Democratic” spirit.

But it wasn’t all work. Duke was greeted by beautiful girls with beautiful flowers dressed in native Ceylon garb, drank Arak alcohol and learned the Depke dance in Jordan, purchased Himalayan textiles on the side of New Delhi roads, watched elephants bathe in Sri Lanka’s Mahaweli Ganga River, and listened to blind men playing soft music on single-bow instruments. He even had the opportunity to debate “the race question” with a belligerent Indian man who tried to intimidate him with “snake eyes.” But all of that was just a set up for the real fun. The real fun would come in Iraq.

In 1958, Iraq became an American focal point of the Cold War when General Abdel Karim Kassem led a coup of the country’s monarchy, an ally of the United States. President Eisenhower’s administration immediately started to cozy up to Iraq’s new and aspiring government in the hopes that keeping the country as an ally would allow for the continued countering of Egypt and its president, Gamal Abdel Nassar- the primary bogeyman of the day.

Instead of embracing Eisenhower however, Kassem became a thorn in the United States’ side. By 1961, Kassem had established himself as hostile to the interests of the US in the region by engaging Israel in an arms race, threatening the US’s dominant position in the Mid East and endangering American access to Iraqi‘s large oil reserve. Eisenhower’s growing frustration with Iraq was exacerbated when the Iraqi Communist Party began to gain a greater foothold within the Kassem government, eventually growing into what some regarded as the largest communist party in the region. The CIA went to work behind the scenes looking to foment change and embolden the Ba’ath Party- Kassem’s primary opposition. Their efforts helped set the stage for a coup of the Kassem government that was to take place in the fall of 1963.

Into this fray stepped Duke Ellington and the boys. Set to play for a sold out audience, the concert was suddenly canceled and the band was ordered back to the hotel. Overhead, they could hear the sound of airplanes crisscrossing the sky and later learned that a government official’s home had been blown to bits, much like the church on 16 th street in Alabama. Once things had died down, the musicians were flown to Beirut where they continued their tour. The coup would become a story that Duke and the members of his band could tell for years to come. They had escaped unscathed.

Iraq was sent into a period of turbulence and would not stabilize until some years later. The coup that Ellington had witnessed lasted just a few months but the Ba’ath party would return to power again in 1968, with the approval of the US Government, and set up shop. During this period a young, ambitious, and determined sociopath named Sadaam Hussein maneuvered his way to the head of the Ba’ath Party. When his benefactor and mentor President Ahmad Hassan al Baker resigned his post in 1979, it removed the last remaining barrier to Hussein’s ascendancy to the throne. Instead of embracing Carter-Reagan-Bush-Clinton however, Hussein became a thorn in the side of the United States. By 1990, Hussein had established himself as hostile to the interests of the US in the region by becoming a sworn enemy of Israel, threatening US’s dominant position in the Mid East and…endangering American access to Iraq’s large oil reserve. Added to this, he tried to kill George W. Bush’s daddy. And the rest, as they say, is history.

As for Duke, he would later take his experiences from his tour of the Middle East, add memories from his subsequent tour of Japan and pour them into the album The Far East Suite, one of the most ambitious albums of his late career. He would pass in 1974, nearly 30 years before the United States’ current “regime change” campaign under the moniker “Shock and Awe” began. But if Duke were still around, odds are he might look at the situation in Iraq and say

"Those Cats Are Swinging"

And he would be right because those cats are still swinging. They just aren’t hitting anything.

Phillip Harvey is the editor of nat creole. He is excited about 2006. Please hit him up at ph@natcreole.com with any thoughts, suggestions, beliefs and other forms of commentary. Hold the beef please.

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Joy Denalane’s debut album Mamami begins slowly, sensually. Multi-lingual, her vocals sweep over the smooth introductory track in a variety of languages. In person though, it is a different experience. Talking over hazelnut toffee lattes in a Starbucks on 26th and 6th ave., Joy Denalane expressed both excitement and concern. English is not her primary language and this was her first English speaking interview. She didn’t have to worry. She spoke the king’s English free of regional dialect or inflection. There was no barrier to communication so what follows is a personal introduction to Joy Denalane- German singing sensation, daughter of South Africa and proud mother- for all those unaware.

Brook Stephenson: What moves you to create music?

Joy Denalane: I just love music. For instance, I have family. I have children. And I love my family. Family comes first but if you gave me a bag full of music and set me on an island alone, I would listen to the music everyday. Music means so much. When there is a song that really touches me, I want to listen to it over and over and over again and I want to find out about the person. I think you understand a person when you hear the person perform. Whether it is an instrument or if it is a singer, or if the person really has goals, you will get to know the person better if the person has truth. You know what I mean? That is something that really inspires me and I am very serious about it. Billy Holiday made a few songs -a lot of songs - but a few songs when you hear [them], you know her a little better.

BS: Your musical influences?

JD: Mainly it’s American Black Music - Aretha Franklin, Chaka Khan, Mary J. Blige, Lauryn Hill, Donnie Hathaway, Stevie Wonder, and a lot more. Of course South African folkloristic music, Hugh Masakela, he’s my uncle. South African folkloristic music is very inspired by jazz music and that’s the cool thing about it. When I hear the folkloristic South African music, I can relate to the black music from America.

BS: How has the combination of cultures (German and South African) affected the music you create?

JD: South Africa inspired my whole record. The concept of my record was to show the people in Germany that I live in between two worlds. My mother is white and my father is black. I grew up with both cultures because my father was there. I am very inspired by both cultures- the European culture and the South African culture. I just know a lot about South Africa – political situations, cultural situations through my father - and I’m a German girl. That’s something very rare and I wanted to state that in Germany because in Germany, we have a little Afro-German scene. In Germany, people see you and they say ‘Yeah you black’ and that’s what we are, but we are from different cultures. I am South African black; then you have Nigerians, Ghanaians and Americans. It was very important for me to make people understand that I am a South African black woman in Germany.

BS: How did growing up black and being ridiculed because of it then, through hip-hop’s explosion, being accepted affect you?

JD: In the end, hip-hop is the reason why I do music. ‘89 was the year everything happened and I was fourteen years old. Before that, wherever I was, I was the only black girl with the strange hair and the strange booty. People didn’t know that blackness [or] African-ness and they didn’t want anything to do with it. I was a very good student and I was a very self confident person. My parents were very good and they had much love for us children so we were very self confident kids. So they [Germans] didn’t accept me as a girl for instance. I was accepted as a person, but not as a girl. They didn’t think I was cute. Then hip-hop came and all of a sudden, all the black heroes I could relate to from hip-hop [came as well]- Rob Base, Salt-n-Pepa or Roxanne Shante - that made me even more self confident. I started listening to the music. Then R& B came over. I always knew I was not an emcee but I loved hip-hop so much when R&B came over, I slowly but surely found out that maybe, maybe I could sing. I started very late. The first time I had a mic in my hand I was nineteen. Never took lessons, nothing. I didn’t learn singing. I just do it. I do it the way I feel it. I didn’t go to any schools, maybe I should do that. I don’t want to say that I’m so good. I just want to say that everything I do really, really, really comes from here [the heart, the soul].

BS: When you completed your album and listened to it for the first time, thinking about the whole process of making it, what were some of the things you learned about yourself?

JD: I hate performing in the studio (laughing). I love live performance. I don’t like the studio work. You do not have a lot of space. You can’t work with your body. It’s hard for me to stand and feel and be inspired…to have soul.

(Thinking aloud) what did I learn about myself? When I listen to the album now, I think I like it but I would do better now. I’m haunted a little by myself. I want to become better and better and better. I think it’s a good piece and I think the concept is a very good concept. When it comes to the singing I think I could do something…better.

BS: You said earlier that it didn’t come out the way you planned it. How did you plan it?

JD: I wanted to have an album more of beats, just beats, beats. I had the chance to work with really good musicians and they were so committed. I had the chance to work with very good musicians and make good songs, compositions and I went with the musicians and wanted compositions on this album. Also it was a very long process. I met a lot of people. I lost my mother. I became a mother. It was a lot of stuff.

BS: Why did you do political songs?

JD: One song was a love song. It was a single in Germany. Then I did “Ghetto of Soweto” which is a very political song. It [didn’t] make sense to sing [that] song in German lyrics. I wanted to make you understand what the situation is. I’m half South African. This is my country. The situation is very bad and people know about the situation with aids and everything but I know a lot more. I am in the townships. These are my peoples. The stories are true stories. My auntie told me those stories. Then there is the other song “Heaven and Hell,” that’s a new song. I wrote it three weeks ago with a Native American. I wrote it on the Raekwon instrumental Heaven or Hell.

BS: In terms of the music, the beginning of an American buzz, what are you planning to do differently than what you did in Germany?

JD: Heaven or Hell for example. Work with American producers for an American sound. I still work with my husband who [is] my producer also to have my own sound. We are German and we have another way to deal with the music. We don’t have the gospel school. I don’t have all that culture. You grew up with that culture because it’s here. I don’t see how you do it in your soul kitchen. I just get the end result.

Brook Stephenson is the Literary Editor of nat creole. He has penned articles for various national publications including King Magazine, XXL, and Black Issues Book Review. Brook originally published this interview on the industry cosign website.

Kurokobushi: Alright, sitting down with Tiago, Tell me what was concept for the Submission Grappling Science?

Tiago Molinos: I trained a little bit of Jiu-Jitsu in Brazil, but it wasn’t a great academy, I ended up moving to New York where I work as a fashion photographer. As a photographer, I always had the idea in the back of my mind to do something where I could express myself photographically. It developed naturally as I started training more with Renzo. It was like rediscovering Jiu-Jitsu. I had heard about the Abu-Dhabi and I was like Wow! I spent more time with Renzo and he started training for the competition so I just decided to capture that and see what I could do with it. That was the original idea, photograph him training, photograph him getting ready and then he said “Tiago, why don’t you come to Brazil for 2003 Abu Dhabi Qualifiers and take this even further.” I was like wow that’s amazing!

I went to shoot a tournament and it was a mind blowing experience. I mean it is photography but it’s not the type of photography that I was used to. In fashion I can control everything, the models, which light I’m going to use, and suddenly I find myself doing sports where it’s not about my decision on what’s gong to happen. It’s about my decision to capture what’s going to happen. It was incredible; it was the most liberating feeling in my life. It was the first time in photography where I didn’t have anyone telling me what to do, a client, or a person above me, an art director. I truly discovered freedom.

kkb: I heard that you have taken over 2000 photos?

TM: Actually, (long pause with a look to the right, accessing the left hemisphere) about 6000 photos, 6000 frames.

kkb: What was one of the deciding factors for what made the exhibition?

TM: My thinking is that submission grappling is really difficult for a person who has never done it to understand. Another thing is that people are used to the moving images, video, cinema. So I was thinking how I can set up the pictures in a way that people can see the movement. Even though the images are freezed, you don’t see what’s going on you just see the movement. I wanted to create a certain feeling and that’s why I developed this layout. It’s kind of like a collage with pictures telling a little story, it brings some sort of movement in the static image, in the freezed moment of the photography. It took me a long time, I didn’t use any computers, and I did it by hand. I drew the layout; I chose frame by frame which picture will fit the layout. It was wicked and liberating because it was another aspect that I wasn’t used to as a photographer. I ended up creating a whole different layout based on the ideas I had in my mind.

Kkb: Okay, looking at your work, why did you choose to open the exhibition in Japan? Why are we here now?

TM: It’s funny because I didn’t choose Japan. I didn’t choose anything. I feel like Japan chose me, I feel like Jiu-Jitsu brought me here, do you understand? It’s like the project had a life of its own. It was the Jiu-Jitsu connection, my friend Noda is a makeup artist in New York and he works with me, he didn’t know me but he saw my projects published in Id magazine, and we ended up meeting. We train Jiu-Jitsu at different academies in New York, he’s Alliance and I’m Renzo, but it’s all Jiu-Jitsu. In the end, he introduced me to Tokura, who knows Shinji-san. He saw my pictures and I received an email from him and he wanted to show my pictures. Shinji’s gallery usually deals with graffiti artists, and skateboarders. This is the first time that he’s done photography. I was thrilled with the idea, and that’s why I feel that the project has a life of its own. It has gone much further than I’d ever expected. I would go to jobs and take my pictures with me to show to clients because I have something to say. I do things other than fashion photography. I love fashion and I’ve dedicated over 12 years of my life to fashion. But, at some point I felt like I have something else that I have to say and that’s this project.

Kkb: What’s your message to people that don’t know anything about martial arts?

TM: It’s quite hard, but I believe grappling is an answer, a metaphor for life. Even though I’m only a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu blue belt, I consider myself a warrior. I use Jiu-Jitsu in my daily life, I use Jiu-Jitsu in difficult moments and it’s not a question of fighting, it’s mental, Jiu-Jitsu is cerebral. It’s all about fight, escape, or submission, it’s a way of life. I don’t know, it’s hard for me to explain, but it’s a grappling art and in my opinion it’s the answer, I don’t need to punch to defend myself. I use my brain. It’s not about how strong you are, how powerful you are, or your stamina, it’s about leverage. You know life puts us in weird situations, it’s like you always have an elbow escape and you can use that escape to put yourself in a better position.

Kkb: It looks we’re reaching one stage, what are some future doors you see opening up?

TM: Well, like I said before, the project has a life of its own and to be honest its way more than I ever expected. Definitely, I want to take Jiu-Jitsu with Shinji by my side to some of the biggest museums in the world. I believe its art, it’s the way a lot of people express themselves and why not show the world that. I would like to share the legacy that the Gracie Family gave us. I read before that once you hang out with the Gracie family, you’re life will change in many different ways, and it’s true.


Tiago's work has appeared in Another Magazine, i-D, and Sleek Magazine. But if you look around enough you may seem him all over. International photographer indeed.

lost and found:
thelonious monk & john coltrane
+laylah amatullah barrayn

On November 29, 1957 Carnegie Hall hosted a fundraising benefit to help the Morning Side Heights community center in Harlem. On the bill of the star studded event was the Thelonius Monk Quartet with John Coltrane, Billy Holiday, Dizzy Gillespie, Ray Charles, Chet Baker and Sonny Rollins. There were rumors that the show would be recorded for Voice Of America, a radio broadcasting company that broadcasts American music overseas, but there was never any evidence that the recording took place. Until now.

In February of 2005 the tapes from this historic night were found at the Library of Congress by Larry Appelbaum who during his routine duties of digitizing old tapes came across a worn box scarcely labeled "sp. Event 11/29/57 carnegie jazz concert" with one tape simply bearing the name "T.Monk.” And just like that, one of the most exciting line-ups in jazz history had been recovered. And although the line up of this Carnegie Hall event was spectacular, the Coltrane and Monk collaboration was the set that stole the show.

Thelonius Monk was a master pianist, and one of the architects of Bebop, whose compositions were so crazily complex, devotees are still rarely able to mine his style. "Monk gathered up the techniques of Ellington, Tatum, Jelly Roll Morton, Gospel and his own style of Rag Time and he came up with a new form of playing, his even blusier," says Rahsaan Morris Clarke of the Jazz Institute in Chicago, explaining Monk's style of modal piano playing.

1957 marked a pivotal time in the lives of the two musicians, signaling a rebirth. Monk had just begun to play again on the New York jazz scene. His Cabaret Card had been confiscated by the police in 1951 because he refused to testify against his friend Bud Powell, the legendary and tragic pianist, when narcotics were found in his car. And Coltrane, the self actualizing, tenor saxophonist, had just begun a major transformation: kicking his substance abuse issues after being fired from the Miles Davis band and devoting his time to studying various spiritual and philosophical teachings.

Their very brief time to together, a mere nine months, was immensely under recorded and resulted in only three studio recordings. Their legendary five month stint at the New York's Five Spot was barely documented except for a session recorded by Naima Monk, Coltrane’s wife, on her handheld device. So, with the release of Thelonius Monk Quartet with John Coltrane at Carnegie Hall (Blue Note & Thelonius Records) on September 26, 2005, nearly 50 years after the fact, jazz enthusiasts got the opportunity to bear witness to the brilliance of two jazz giants at their best.

"These live recordings of Monk and Coltrane together at Carnegie Hall are a kismet discovery of Masters casually at work.  The introduction to "Monk's Mood" with just the two of them is priceless," says A. Scott Galloway, Music Editor of the Urban Network

The CD features two short sets, nine songs in total, with much of the set list featuring work from Monk’s catalogue. Rounding out the personnel with Monk and Coltrane are bassist Ahmed Abdul-Malik and drummer Shadow Wilson. "Monk was one of my original cultural heroes," Amiri Baraka notes in the CDs liner notes, which has five essays from figures instrumental in jazz documentation and education.

"You can almost hear Monk ending one piece and plunging immediately into another thinking, "What will Trane play on THIS one?" recalls Howard Mandel, president of the Jazz Journalism Association.”Coltrane is noticeably more assured, having thoroughly mastered Monk's tricky compositions so that their two distinct approaches merge most beautifully."

"Many people are still looking for the next big thing. They haven't found the next Miles so it is a blessing to find these gems," says Bridget Arnwine, L.A. Based music writer for All About Jazz. "Find some more, I can't listen to another Kenny G Record!"

For more information check out Blue Note Records
http://www.bluenote.com/

For more on Laylah Amatullah Barrayn go to http://gotjazz.info. And for more on Laylah's work, check out her upcoming photography show Black and Tan Fantasy @ http://blackandtanfantasy.blogspot.com

It isn’t a secret that Chicago has been thought of as a town that loves and supports its music. And that was never more true than in the 50’s and 60’s. There was the Grant Park Bandshell, Orchestra Hall and Ravinia for the orchestral devotees; the Blue Note and the Sutherland Hotel for the jazz aficionados. And the churches, all over town, with their majestic choirs and organists gave even the most pious a chance to express feelings in response to slow, dark dirges or stomping, clapping spirituals.

And then there was the Blues.

Smitty’s Corner was on the intersection of 43rd and Indiana, just down from the Louis (as in Joe) Theater. Smitty’s predated the “ambiance” that the Illinois Institute of Technology would later bring to the area and was the “in-residence” home of Mr. McKinley Morganfield, otherwise known as Muddy Waters- the King of Chicago Blues.

Although not quite the “bucket of blood” it was thought of in some circles, Smitty’s was known for being prone to incidents requiring official (and/or medical) attention– except when Muddy was on the bandstand. At those times you got the impression that an “incident” was only imminent if something disrespectful and/or disruptive occurred during Mr. Morganfield’s regime. When Muddy played, his Subjects came out in force to hear the Blues, as rendered by one of the Masters. That was the focus of the evening. And as a Subject, you came properly attired and behaved in a manner that befitted the auspiciousness of the event.

You either got to Smitty’s early or you were prepared to wait for the next set. The space was a double storefront.

It was lit with the subdued glow of neon signs that adorned buildings facing the other direction and you sat knee to knee/elbow to elbow with the people at all surrounding tables. And, especially important, you took care of your personal needs – drink, cigarettes (yes, you smoked at your table), bathroom, visits to friends, or any other necessities – before the room filled up because once everyone was seated, you could not slide your chair back to stand up. There was a narrow path that led from the front door to the bandstand to a curtained backdoor. One way in. One way out. Period.

On this particular night that I was among the Subjects, the set opened with a few selections from a group of bluesmen headed by Clear Waters, Muddy’s son and a talented progeny of the faith. Although respectfully received, there was the usual chit chat, yuk-yuk and clink-clink of a club in full operation during his offerings.

After a short intermission, a Herald, in both manner and appearance, took the stage and announced that Mr. Muddy Waters was now present. Suddenly, the front door flung open in a dramatic fashion. The musicians on the stage struck a New Orleans style march tempo and the entire club stood as McKinley Morganfield strode along the little path to the bandstand through room-shaking applause. He was dressed in the revered Chicago tradition- brightly colored suit with matching gator shoes. On his arm (as much as the space allowed) was his “Lady,” a full figured woman of undetermined age with shoulder length, “water wave” hair and a satin, brightly-printed, low-cut dress. They were followed by his guitar, borne by another Herald (in both manner and appearance), and some other gentlemen who didn’t command your attention.

With his “Lady” seated properly, Muddy ascended the stage, took over his guitar and, without introduction or discussion, launched into one of his standards. Initially, there was a rapt focus accompanied by a communal hum. From then on in it was all Blues. Just the Blues and the responses of the audience- who became more responsive as the evening progressed. Crowd reaction ranged from boisterous laughs and wistful smiles with hands keeping beat, to bowed heads, obviously heavy with painful memories. The most interesting of these responses came from the couple of females that did impossibly salacious dance routines while hovering about 4 inches above their chair seats. The previously mentioned space considerations were of no concern when Muddy played. It was about the Blues.

The set ended with introductions of the personnel, announcements of future appearances, and some recognition (shout outs) of people in the audience. And then, through some signal that I missed, the audience once again stood up. And in the midst of thunderous applause, Muddy, the Lady, the Guitar Bearer and the rest of his entourage (which had grown considerably larger) took to the path again and sauntered out of the door.

Sunni Knight is a DC metro based writerand soldier in the fight against family violence. She is a regular contributor for which we are grateful. She can be reached at sk@natcreole.com

His Grandfather, a large man with the biggest hands he’d ever seen, met his maker forty-three minutes after hearing that Elvis Presley had passed on the little Quasar transistor radio he listened to the ball game and WLIB on. Mopping up at his custodial job at PS 219 in Brownsville, Brooklyn, he raised the volume to make sure he heard what he thought he heard with his hearing. Once validated, the news stirred a sentiment of amusement in Gramps that became more and more pervasive as the account of “The King’s” demise was revealed. They, his mother and her sister Aunt Theresa, were told that the Math teacher on the third floor thought it was one of the troublemakers at the back of the class carrying on like usual behind his back. After he singled out the suspect, he realized the child was actually innocent this particular time and had to look outside the classroom to find the true source of the commotion. A hearty grin led to a burst of laughter- that Gramps tried to suppress- that became teary–eyed hysteria and finally, a full-blown and fatal coronary. Students watched from the doorway as Mr. Tab slipped and broke his wrist on the freshly mopped floor trying to come to the old man’s assistance.

That same teacher would break that same wrist again, trying to break up a *sissy fight a year later between the grandson and Garnett Baker. His mother had moved them into Gramps’s house not long after he was laid to rest and, because of the change of district, he wound up being transferred to that same school.

Julian, who he also got into it with on his very first day of classes, would eventually become his best friend. Later on, the grandson and Julian both slept with Julian’s kid sister. But before all that, when the grandson’s Gramps died laughing, Julian recalled, “The out-and-out laughter got all the kids snickering and giggling.”

After one kid had imitated it in the class, room 312 became a den of cackling eight year old Hyenas. The teachers were so pissed that after the ambulance came, they sent everyone home early.

* Sissy Fight: When two combatants of Elementary School age forcefully push each other in the upper torso region repeatedly, until one is provoked into throwing an authentic punch; A feeble act of instigation with the expressed intent to not engage in fisticuffs but to simply save face.

The paramedics had covered him up and taken him away with that petrified, crazed look of hilarity on his face. And the boy had never seen his Grandfather laugh or even smile before, not even on Christmas or when Muhammad Ali beat Foreman in Africa that time when nobody but his Granddad thought that “that boy Clay” could do it. And that was the happiest he had ever seen him with that, “I told you so” grimace cemented on his face.

THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN
+click to enlarge

Twenty-five years previously, his Granddad had thrown a party and his Dad sat on Gramps’s lap, watching Elvis, the Hillbilly boy who sang Nigra songs on the Steve Allen Show, singing one of Granddad’s songs. The Colonel, the soon to be King’s manager, and Sam Phillips, the owner of Sun Records in Memphis, promised him in that same recording studio that Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash made their living doing the exact same thing, that he would make more money than any Negro in the business in that day and age “…cause no one ever seen nothing like that boy ever. Trust me. Trust me boy.”

They bought him a Cadillac when the song got national airplay and sent the Gold selling plaque special mail along with a check for a thousand dollars. Gramps hung that plaque in the living room where everyone could see, A Million Seller! And well, that was pretty much all he saw of that money because he signed away his publishing. He didn’t even know other people could have the rights to his songs.

He made a stink, a big stink and when he was done all the people holding their noses didn’t want to have anything to do with him afterwards. “Uppity Negro should know better,” they said, “This Negro should know his place.” Tried to get some session work afterwards but nobody would hire him. He was done with the record business and it was pretty much done with him. Gramps packed up his Rickenbacker guitar in its case and never picked it up again. He had to do what he had to do, so he had to go back to working a real job to feed his family and just go on with his life.

THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN
+click to enlarge

Daddy! The grandson never knew his father. He knew the pictures, and there were many around the house – in his bedroom primarily. And in every one of those photographs, he caught a sense of his father’s lanky frame, his swagger and his wide cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. They were there so the grandson wouldn’t forget, so he wouldn’t grow up without a father. There to frame all his mother’s stories that made him feel Daddy was there with them still. He repeated those stories and when he did, it was like he was right there with the Ole Man for every one of ‘em.

When his dad picked his mom up at her job he would get off the train though she’d plainly tell him not to ‘cause he’d have to pay an extra fare to get back on the train a couple of minutes later.' But his Dad didn’t feel safe with her walking the three blocks to the station at that time of the night, so he’d spend another five cents and hear it from his wife every time.

How they would sit on the 4 Train to Utica and he would try to prove to her his theory on how white people looked. “Most of ‘em look like cartoons,” he would clown. The sharp Dick Tracy nose, the Blondie eyes, Lil Abner’s hair, the fella in the corner with the Bruce Wayne chin. “There goes Fred Flintstone!” His mother knew it was wrong but how he made her laugh.

Still, he was known for being a pretty serious guy, his father. That was the thing. Quite famous in his line of work, he had the distinction of being the only other black man at Altamont who didn’t get stabbed the day The Rolling Stones played their version of “Woodstock West” at the Speedway. The giant of a man towering over Mick Jagger was his Dad doing his body-guarding thing. The next time you check out the movie Gimmie Shelter; the documentary of the Stones US Tour in 1970, make sure you check that out.

After being picked up by the Jersey State Troopers under “suspicion” because his car matched the description used in an armed robbery in Hoboken, he died of injuries sustained in Police custody while “resisting” arrest. Nine cops were hospitalized. One of them later became Mayor of the fine city of Hoboken. His administration was cited for the worst cases of racial profiling in, not just the state, but all of these United States. In his father’s obituary, they left out that he was once Sonny Liston’s chief sparing partner. Sonny Liston, the Devil himself.

THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN
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Nigger. If you asked the grandson, he would tell you that he’d been called Nigger two times in his life by white people, once to his face anyway. Two times is pretty good, considering. First time it was from a moving car on Glenwood Road while coming from the gym. The other time, by a guy in a club in Soho who didn’t realize that it was the magic word to get a trip to the emergency room at St. Claire’s Hospital in the little bus with the pretty flashing lights. But brothers! They called him Nigga all the time. Nigga - not Nigger! There is a distinct difference.

“Hey Nigga!”
“What up Niggah?”
“My Nigga.”

Called themselves, their people and each other Nigga all at the same time.

There came a moment when he just realized, like when you’re a child and you see the “Flesh” color crayon in the Crayola box, know that Band-Aids are “Flesh” colored and note that The Black Guy is always killed off first in a war movie. Uhura was the only black person on Star Trek so he wondered would there be any black men in the future ‘cause the way we were killing each other now… And when you saw Roots on TV in JHS and you understood why you hated White people. This is when he still had his “Government name,” before he’d ever slept with a White woman.

That word it was a put down, a compliment, a term of endearment and the last word before a fistfight. It can often be used as punctuation, a pronoun, an adjective and a verb.

“Don’t Nigger with me Boy!” he actually heard somebody say once.

He didn’t do it though, say the word much, save a couple of dozen times in his whole life. A few meaning three, a couple would be two. Most say it that much in a day if they get too talking. It’s not that he minded because even if he did, there wouldn’t be much he would be able to do about it. The conversation would go something like this:

“Maybe it’s not such a good idea to use the N word so often.”
“What?! What’s your problem, Nigga?”

He keeps having to refute that he had a preference for light-skin women. Something he vehemently denies to this day, but was hard to argue if you looked at his track record. All his girlfriends through grade school and University, Redbones with the exception of one.

When he was in third grade, his second year at PS 219, he met Nicolette. She was a dark young girl. Beautiful eyes, flawless beautiful skin, inviting beautiful lips, probably the most beautiful in the school; without a doubt, the whole third grade. She was such a nice person and everyone you asked would agree. But no one would hit on her, or look at her in that way. One thing he liked about her was she wore her hair natural. Everything she did was contrary to what he was indoctrinated to believe, what we all were really. To him it was like when you have friends and they expect you to like the same things they like, wear the same clothes, like the same sneakers, listen to the same records and if you don’t, there’s something wrong with you. The norm: light-skinned, the lighter the better; good hair (long, permed, straight); and light eyes.

Nicolette didn’t register and she knew it but it didn’t seem to bother her, or she never really let on. They would hang out together, and then one thing led to another. I know what you’re thinking, he’s some kid; but where he grew up, they’d grow up pretty fast, plus they were both far more grown than their peers.

THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN +click to enlarge

Truth be told, he would have loved to see more darker-skinned sisters but they wouldn’t give him the time of day because he was too dark. And their Mama or Grandmamma had already made it clear that they bring home light-skin men, the lighter the better, to lighten up the family. So they can have beautiful light-skinned babies so a generation from now, the family would be so removed from any part of their African heritage. Busy with pinching their babies’ noses so they won’t be flat and wide and straightening their little girl’s hair so it won’t be nappy or it won’t be hard to comb. On to an ambiguous, nonspecific ethnicity, not too removed from white but for the love of Jesus not Black-Black. Not down south Black or that street Black, Ghetto.

When you where told that Black Is Beautiful, you had to Keep on Truckin and James Brown was singing, “Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud!” They where still trying to be Negros. Blackploitation movies were like a nightmare to those types of Black people.

“Imagine people will think we’re all Pimps, Whores and Drug Dealers.” But it was still okay to watch Soul Train.

He always said, “Too many of our people performing for too many white people, for what-- who they trying to impress?”

Funny;the most pro-black, most afrocentric, militant Kats he knows were consequently the lightest Kats he knows. There’s a lot to say for the tragedy of the mulatto. The mixed-up mixed race, wanting to fit in, wanting to be defined. Not sure where they belong, trying to be accepted in the middle and displaced. But being black, having people look at you sometimes like you’re not even human, like you’re a straight up animal, treated like you have no soul, that’s everyday for most black people. Everyday. They’ll tell you, “God don’t like ugly.” But the so called ugly keep praying to him, prayin! They pray to him everyday.

He thought he was not black enough. He wanted to be so blaque he was blue.

He called white people Nigger— it threw them. They couldn’t hit that curve ball, Bob Gibson taking on Mickey Mantle in the 64 series, nasty. Don’t crowd the plate or you’ll get your feelings hurt. He had no behavior like that. They’d look around and then they’d look at him like, “I’m not Nigger. You’re Nigger!”

Like the song by The Band, The Night They Drove Ole Dixie Down, he remembered. Flying the Confederate Flag over the courts buildings downtown. Does it matter if American Indians are offended by the word Redskin used by a National Football League team? Because Redskin is basically the N word to indigenous people, “You know that right?”

Forty-five helmets with that distasteful image on every one of them. The name written across the field, on the graphics flashed on the screen, every Sunday. Broadcast to millions in a national audience. “It was not intentionally meant to be offensive.” Spokesman for the league putting the spin on it. How can you tell a race of people or any individual what’s offensive to them?

Reenacting the great battles of the Civil War which their great granddaddies fought, fighting against the Yankees and their ways. They relived them on the weekends in all their glory. Their noses up regarding interracial relations, railing against same sex marriage and immigration customs. Separatists and extremists fortifying their bunkers and stocking up on can goods and ammunition while there daughters listen to DMX in their rooms with the door locked. The Bible belt holding up America’s pants. All these white men waiting for things to go back to the way things used to be.


Arthur Alleyne is a playwright residing in Brooklyn. His stage credits include Tragady Tonite and Scribblin at the Automat, about the writer James Baldwin. The South Will Rise Again is from his short story collection Chickenscratch: short stories in alot of words. He has recently copleted his first novel
titled Gas.

For more info on Renaldo's work and activities email him at renaldoartstudio@rcn.com and check out his work on display @ Maroons Restaurant in the Chelsea section of Manhattan and MOCA in Harlem. HIs work also graces the cover of Ras Baraka's Black Girls Learn Love Hard (Moore Black Press/ 2005).

wanderlust: 14 erotic travel tales plume 2005

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