Special Report: Spoken Black

Spoken Black
How Black Youths Are Redefining Black History

               --by: Ashley Gallagher

Students from Universities around the country are speaking out: From Left to Right: Vinson Fraley - 18 - New York University,

Rae Lesperance - 18 - Agnes Scott College,

Center: Bronte Velez - 19 - Brandeis University, Adam Tolliver - 25 - Graduated from Florida State University,

Raven Gibson - 19 - University of Georgia, Natalie Cook - 20 - University of Wisconsin-Madison

Bottom Photo R, Bronte Velez Takes on Django: Unchained 

Photographer: Ashley Gallagher

(ATLANTA) Young black artists take on black history, their culture and the controversial Quentin Tarantino film, Django: Unchained.

Appreciating the heroic Jamie Foxx’s depiction of a black man who rescues the woman he loves, with help from his German partner a few years ahead of the Civil War, students like Bronte Valez, 19, of Brandeis University are saying, “Tarantino can't tell my history and he is not supposed to.”

In a recent Facebook blog post, Velez stated while she praised the creativity of the film, she’s aware of the criticism Tarantino received noting his “intentions were not to depict our people’s Holocaust.” Instead it was created for “comedy and shock value,” things Tarantino is known for.  She goes on to say she is disappointed black artists in today’s culture are not producing work which reflects a deeper and more honest discussion of slavery’s ramifications.

She calls the years of slavery on African Americans a “holocaust” because she says there was a great destruction of life – rape, murder, and torture and though over a slower period of time, unlike the mass ethnic cleansing during World War II of the Jewish population, she says it’s important to recognize the reality of history.

Her blog fired a discussion among a number of young black students who chimed in critiques of the depiction of Black America by their own community– namely screenwriters such as Tyler Perry. 

According to Adam Tolliver, 25, a graduate from Florida State University, Perry recycles “poorly thought story-lines” and creates “shallow characters.” For Tolliver, he finds it appalling Perry is thought of as a “De-facto voice for Black America.” He would like to see Perry produce less material and take on more challenging topics in the black community rather than acquire a “climbing net-worth” while creating less than average characters.

Velez stated in her blog, Tyler Perry perpetuates “stereotypes of the forlorn black woman and the ‘in the wrong’ black male.” She says she wants to see more roles where “black people are protagonists.” But she does think students can learn from Perry’s success and realizes they can’t “discredit his ambition.”

Tyler Perry could not be reached for comment.

But I sat down with the group of students to try and understand a little more.

Developing respective art goes beyond Perry’s work and should supersede the current status among black Americans, believes Velez.  Current stereotypes and “constructs” need to be broken down and made more relevant for the coming generations.

But Velez’s position isn’t without opposition. LaDonna Spivey of Pensacola, FL and Fitness Entrepreneur says young people may be missing something in their perception of the two generations ahead of them. She states one of the greatest contributions from both Gen X’ers and Baby Boomers “has been the breaking down of ‘glass ceilings.” She goes on to say these generations produced many of the Black “firsts” like becoming CEO’s and holding political offices.  Spivey said, “Even now, the most virulent racist can blather about black people on welfare, black people are victims...then he stuffs his gullet with a McRib from McDonald's which has a black CEO.”

While Tolliver states that someone like Tyler Perry is an “example of principle and passion and hard work,” he feels the older audience is missing the point. Young black students voice their frustration of what they say is a lack of education. As a result, they are not encouraged to improve on what has already been done. Raven Gibson, 19, from the University of Georgia says Black History is taught in a “passive” voice, “in a way that denies responsibility,” as though “it were not part of the human story.” Tolliver adds that students are given four key figures including Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, Martin Luther King Jr, and Malcolm X, who specifically, is portrayed as the "bad guy" in Civil Rights history.

They believe men like Reverend Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, media representatives and former Civil Rights leaders are muddling the picture of black America as it is today. Tolliver said, “They’re inciting emotion, not disseminating messages.” He says these men are “purposely provocative” and it causes “deep racial conflict.”

Students agree they struggle with their Black identity and their elders don’t have the discussions they feel are vital. Ironically, they told me, Tupac Shakur was a revolutionary. For them, despite his lifestyle not being one of example, his music bred new conversation, controversy and shined a light on the problems and the reality of the black community. They say their generation looks to him much like others saw Malcolm X during the 1950s and 60s. They believe people were not “hearing what he was saying,”  putting him in a box. Tolliver adds, “people are complex beings” and notes later interviews of Tupac where the rapper admitted to regrettable decisions.

While discussing how hip hop and rap are relevant in their generation; students were asked their opinion about the use of the “N-Word,” among popular artists. Their response was mixed. Gibson said, “I use it a lot,” believing it’s a way for her generation to reinvent themselves. She stated she did not have a problem with others using it toward her as long as she felt there was no malice intended by its use. Tolliver noted he wasn’t sure how he felt, “It’s there,” he said, “I acknowledge its context” and doesn’t have a problem using the word among peers. But Natalie Cook, 20, University of Wisconsin-Madison, retorted - she is no longer comfortable with the ‘N-Word,’ after experiencing a double standard in college she found herself dissuaded from using it, saying, “It’s a word so powerful, it’s different wherever you go” and it can be “confused.” Velez chimed in to say, “how much can you take it back?” referring to others who are trying to redefine the word.

The question is, then, how do they want to change what they despise?

They all agreed, Spoken Word and Hip Hop can open up doors for change.

Spoken word, students say, is stemmed from hip hop and rap, it’s the “art of talking to people” and allows for inter-generational conversation. They are trying create what the black person is about. They believe, as a generation, slavery isn't what affects them, Velez says, “our minds are enslaved,” believing the black community is mentally stuck and they are not able to experience inner-freedom. She believes Spoken Word is an art form which can bring healing and help others reduce negative thinking. 

“It brings hope for a common humanity.” says Rae Lesperance, 18, a student at Agnes Scott College in Atlanta, Georgia.

Toliver said the reason rap is often “more popular” over Spoken Word is because “it is easier to commercialize,” but Cook states, “rap revolution is a method necessary to be saved” and Spoken word is another participant of the “rap culture.”

Cook says “Hip hop and Spoken word are paying for my tuition.” She was a recipient of  the First Wave Hip Hop and Urban Arts Learning Community through the University of Wisconsin-Madison. First Wave is a program which collaborates education with the arts and encourages students to go after their passion through participation in “hip-hop culture.”

Each of the students attend “poetry slams,” nights advertised for local communities to come out and recite Spoken Word, frequently at an open mic night at coffee shops or small venues. Black college students use the opportunity to speak out and educate their audience about the current state of the black community.

In a recent piece, entitled Blackbirds by Bronte Velez, she recites, “And see how our mindsets are still being lynched /The faint leftovers of rope and friction..." she continues, "That birds born in cages/Think flying is impossible...Just because someone opens the cage/Doesn’t mean the birds will suddenly/Know how to fly out.” 

Velez believes it is possible for the black community to live up to their full potential as a society, if they are willing to be honest about their history, if they’re willing to open discussion and improve the state of their culture, which she says, is trapped.  

Cook, who is attending school for poetic arts, wrote in one of her pieces, “Don't fall into the trap of a barrel /I know it masks itself to be dark like the night /But don't mistake a gun's black face for your skin,” noting the influence of violence and guns among black youth, her hope is to encourage her peers to pursue better lifestyle.

While the new generation of college-black youth steps up to voice their concerns about black culture in America, they also want to create a message of positive identity, an appreciation for black history and help contribute a sense of freedom - from what they consider is a mental breakdown - in the spirit of the black community. 

Moving Earth

Even in error, it took the Ocean to see clearly the calling of the Desert. Again, I embarked on a road trip, across the country with BBC Radio and NPR News acting as infrequent companions, thankfully they lasted in Texas. McD's, Starbucks (for free wifi, of course) and gas stations occupied the trip's process. I can name the top 5 artists on pop radio (Justin Beiber, Taylor Swift, Bruno Mars, Flo Rida and Nicki Manaj (who, in particular, I'm really tired of by the way, but that's another story)) and I still managed to make it through the tumbleweeds of New Mexico's flat scenery. State by state, I cruise controlled across I-10 west with no real destination than the Pacific and frankly what choice did I have? Once you hit the Ocean, you don't exactly want to drown. 

Then again maybe it takes being held underwater to realize how bad you really want what you're after...breath. That which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."**

It's true -it seems time and fate can make one appear ill advised, unimportant and the mission a dead-end. Rather, I would argue, perhaps, every method has its madness and maybe, the strongest will see the end-goal to fruition, even it means an unexpected format. Sometimes, that's just how it works. Sometimes, it's all worth the risk.

So there I was, running along the sand with the nothing but the waves in my ears, bare feet and the morning air keeping me from breaking a sweat: it made sense. Time to double back.  

And back I went - across the the tumbleweeds - and weekend radio talk shows, gunning it through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana & Mississippi - made a pit stop in Birmingham and back where I needed to be...for today: Atlanta. The long drive exhausted me, but there were moments, when the sun peaked over the horizon, I thought, it might just be alright. 

To the nay-sayers and the gloaters, time hasn't been long enough to show you what you're missing out on. For the yay-sayers and cheerleaders, don't worry, keep pushing. It's all has been, is and will be worth it. That which we are...we are. We cannot change. I won't, so I'll fight to keep going and go again. 

Recently, while talking with a friend about mud racing, we watched the motivational promo for the Spartan Race. The video shows participants struggling through the ropes obstacles, paraplegics accomplishing the impossible and underneath is a track from a motivational speaker who tells the story of a man who sought out a guru in his pursuit of success. 

The guru told him, "When you get to the point where you want to be successful as bad as you want to breathe, then you'll be successful...," this after leading him to deep waters and holding his head under. 

Sometimes, that's just how it works, sometimes, that's just the way of it. The open road gave me an avenue, the open ocean was my guru - and at the end of the day: this first year isn't over and I'm still working. I hope you'll keep following.

**This is the poem 'M.' recites in the new James Bond film, "Skyfall" while answering an inquiry from the British government on the relevancy of secret agents.

Special Report*: Beirut’s Flower Children

(Beirut) I heard her crying on a corner of the street as I walked back to my hotel after dinner. It was 11pm at night and the girl looked no more than 10 years-old. She wiped a dirty tear from her face with the sleeve of a dirty pink sweatshirt and was holding onto a bunch of roses - sitting in yellow water of a used water bottle.  As roughed up as she looked, I could tell she had been outside for a couple of days.

I didn’t know whether or not she would understand me, but I squatted down and asked anyway, “Are you ok? What’s wrong?”

She could tell I was trying to help. She spoke quickly - in Arabic - and pointed to another bar down the road. I didn’t quite understand, but almost immediately, a young man noticed the girl speaking to me and came over to help. He translated, “Apparently, she says, some guy smacked her in the face with one of her roses.”

He walked toward the bar where the girl was pointing. I held out my hand to help her up. The man asked a group of three standing outside what happened, explaining in Arabic what the girl told us. After a back and forth, he turned to me and said, “They’re blaming her.” According to the trio, the girl knocked over a cocktail glass and broke it. I was horrified; she is just a kid, that didn’t give him the right to hit her. The translator agreed, but said there was nothing to be done. By the time I turned around, the girl was running back down the street.

She wasn’t the only child I encountered in Beirut, selling flowers.
They’re out every night, around the bars and streets, asking for money, giving people roses. One boy, I saw almost every night, 6 or 7 years old, maybe, understood me a little better than the girl, enough to sell a rose and say thank you when I bought one. He was short, shaggy hair, always in a jeans and t-shirt and a light jacket, he had pudgy cheeks and a shy smile. He seemed to be well known on Gemmayze Street, several bartenders and store owners spoke to him and waved when he walked by. He would sell his roses, hail a cab and move on.

One night, on my way back to the hotel, a tall lanky kid, he looked about 12 or 13 years old, walked up to me with a little "gangsta-swag" in his step, a huge grin crossed his face and he handed me one of the roses, "you want one," it was statement, not a question. I raised my eyebrows, smiled back and asked, "Shouldn't you be in bed?" He scrunched his face and retorted back, "Aw, c'mon!" I only had 10,000 Lira in my purse, I pulled it out and gave it to him and told him to keep his flower, give it to his sister, whatever. He face gleamed as he said, 'Merci!' I walked away shaking my head and smirking. Cute kid. He was with an older boy, probably late teens, drinking a beer and watching the kid like a hawk.

It was my soft spot, the small moments I let my guard down, just a little. They were kids. The one place I had no strength to say, 'no.' And yet this was common place. You won't find, really any, reputable news articles on these kids, NGO statistics seem to be scarce and what little I could find were a few testimonies of others who have met them: some reacting to children who acted out violently, others describing how the kids would talk about their 'boss.' Some of the Beirut locals I spoke with said the kids were Syrian, others from poor families, and others kidnapped - raped and/or forced to work. 

I kept wondering, how many of them will end up criminals? Picked by gangs, extremists groups or enter sex slave trade?
The Ministry of Social Affairs in Beirut released a commercial video earlier in 2013 noting the money often given to the young kids on the street don't go to them or their families, rather adults who are abusing the children's vulnerability. What more they are doing to prevent the children from being in the streets is unclear. And for now, without the help or sufficiency of aid organizations, rescue efforts from the government seem to be far from in place.

In retrospect, I wonder if my attempt to help the girl I met did any good. I never saw her again. Although, I wish I had.

*This story happened during the fall 2012, it was later updated to reflect the video mentioned in 2013. 

Syrian Stories Part II

Getting him to tell me his story was a little like pulling teeth. But I was understanding, I don't know if he saw it that way. The only thing that mattered was the story, right? Well if he was the story, then he is what mattered. He believed me enough.

He fled from Syria, at his father's request. He was from Latakia. And for the most part, so it seemed, it was a city that had yet to be bombarded by the civil conflict. But he didn't realize that even the Human Rights Watch recently reported government forces torturing male victims in the city's detention centers. He thought his family had nothing to worry about, but he didn't know that victims from Latakia were reporting their families were threatened and beaten. 

Initially he wanted to connect me with 2-of his friends, who he later said in a text message would refuse to give talk about their story. He didn't think his own was significant, but after assuring him I wouldn't use his name, he agreed to tell me more. Then he was afraid his English wouldn't be good enough. He tries hard and often looses the words he wants to communicate. I told him to communicate in Arabic. He did. 

He told me that he had money to get through the border, that someone he knew was able to get him across without any trouble. But he is continuing to borrow money from his father and doesn't know what he'll do next. He's been here a month, he said, and was staying at a hotel that he only had to pay around 300 dollars a week, but it was getting tiresome because he wasn't always eating. He got up and often wonders the city, walks by the Sea and then off to bar where he can get a beer before going back to his room. He thought about going to a church where they were helping Syrians and feeding them everyday but he didn't think God would like for him to be in a church. He only liked Jesus when things were ok, and right now? They are not. Going to the UNHCR frightens him to, no amount of assuring would rescue his anxiety. What if they were to send him back, he asks me. He's not sure he can go and ask for their help. 

He was waiting, he told me, for an invitational letter from his relative to France. Once he received this letter, he could apply for a visitor's Visa to the country. But it had not come yet, and he was starting to debate whether or not he wanted to go to France. What would he do there? What if he stayed longer than his Visa and got caught? He'd be deported, he would be forced to fight in the war. He doesn't want to, he's terrified. He's never been attacked, he's never been in trouble with authorities. Even so, he's afraid, more than he's ever been. 

He's a refugee without status, without a job, without hope, and time is running out. 

Seeping Cedars

"The land mourns and languishes; Lebanon is confounded and withers"

Being a beatnik in Beirut is a task not left for those who conform easily. It means managing your own while still being able to blend in, or at the very least, with the expatriate groups around you. It's a fantastic place to people watch and pick out the tourists, the locals and the wanna-be somethings. On occassion, there is serenity in the bustle and when the old man who sits on the street to smoke nods your way, you find yourself returning the courtesy not realizing it is the kindest thing you could do for him all day. 

The main drag is a torn specimen of remembrance for old things. Graffiti, bullet holes and cracks in the wall; even a trash pile at the edge of a construction site, it's all there along the street they say has the night life going for it, but the deprivation in the stone is evident. Remnants of war, conflict and high intensity are everywhere. The internal security forces, military minders all up and down the road ways, weapons in hand, watching, waiting and for the most part playing it cool because frankly they don't want to start a fight, they don't want to return one, they'd rather just watch. 

"Escapism" is only word that comes to mind while watching the Lebanese rummage through it's daily life. The women souped up in make-up, cheekbones and heels. The men light up one cigarette after another and since there is now a smoking ban inside, they're all outside, on display. The Sea is at their fingertips but as the days slip into winter, they hardly realize it's even there. The fresh air is just laced with smoke and chatter. 

I've heard some call it the 'Paris of the Middle East,' yet, I cannot agree. What I do notice is a desperation for Paris' return - or maybe they're hoping to keep the benefits while chiseling away its influence. Stores and boutiques are French. License plates are written in numerals and Arabic. 

Street signs still remain in both Arabic and French and most children start learning the language in grade school. Elders often start and finish their sentences in both tongues. While communication is efficient; it seems their tendency to slip from one to the other is an organized clutter of thoughts. There is pride in being an Arab, even a distaste for the French, yet they are marked with colonialism.

The distress of the city sticks. The struggle comes from within, but it is affliction from the outside invading their core refuge. The cedar tree is dried up and there are things masked among young locals who want to leave. Others revel more in their ethnicity and still they cling to a nationalistic spirit without any cognitive way out. The city stands as a hub and a place where people gather only forget the war next door and in some cases,3-blocks away. 

Standing in Beirut, what I see- is a downcast relic of extraordinary beauty desperate for a place to belong.

Syrian Stories

The stories below are from Syrians I have met in the last month, all of them different but all with similar perspectives on the conflict. They stay away and search of better. I have omitted their names and specific details for safety. Each paragraph is only a window to people who each want one thing in their country: peace. Please read on.

the U.S.

---He turned to me in the cafe and asked about my computer. I noticed his thick middle eastern accent and politely asked where he was from. He told me, Syria. He was from a small city near the Mediterranean that is majority Al-Awite, though he and his family were Shia. He said he didn't speak to his family about the conditions or their concerns in Syria for fear of their safety. He anticipates, though beyond the mountains in Syria, his region will eventually be affected by the conflict. We spent a significant amount of time discussing the conditions in the region and even why his cousin stepped down as a reporter. He told me he had come to the states nearly 15 years ago to pursue his Ph.D. in bio-medical research. His focus started on cancer, but now he is working stem-cell research from Lipo Suction for patients whose tissue and blood cells are deteriorating due to Diabetes. He hopes to be able to bring good to the world, still trying to be proud of the country he came from. 

In Turkey

---He sat in an office waiting to be paid for the work he did. He had acted as a translator and fixer into Syria and his work, regularly funded by foreign governments often included translation and training for other Syrians. We stood on the balcony and sipped over tea while he told me his story. He had grown up in Damascus - he loved it there, he never thought he could leave and then...he was forced out. Having been detained on several occasions for supporting protests in the city and questioned at various times in his life, it got to be too much, it got to be dangerous. So - he fled. A close friend of his, a commander and defector was chasing down Jihadis that would other interfere in what he called the revolution, often kept him informed on the latest inside Syria. I asked him when it is all over, if he thinks he would go back to live in Syria again. He told me, "When you've been forced out from something, it's hard to ever go back." There was definitely sadness in his voice when he said that, he lit another cigarette, looked over the main square. He was incredibly intelligent, knew Syrian history - knew his own and wants nothing more than the conflict to end in peace. He worries for his family and friends still there, but will do what he can to help push the revolution to completion. 

Beirut

---She is from Syria, a town that has yet to be affected and the same town as my contact in the US, in fact. Her fiance, from another country. He told he would meet her half way, and they would get married, they would get her a Visa. So, they waited, toured the country, made new friends and convinced her relatives this was all for the better. She worries for her family and her sisters. The fighting hasn't reached her home yet, but she fears it will soon. She is glad she is finally joining her fiance, she's glad to leave Syria for now. But she hopes it will subside, she hopes to return. She misses home...the good part. She great up in an Orthodox home, largely unaffected by sectarian disputes, open to everyone, embraced by everyone: Christian and Muslim alike - teaching English and working with her father at his store. She's a movie buff: likes comedy, horror and romance. She wants stability. Her mother came to visit her and her mother says, she hopes the fighting will cease soon. Her mother said to me, "the Syrian people don't deserve this."  

---Terrified of going back to Syria. He said he knows they'll force him to fight, whether it be FSA or the Government forces, he says, he knows they'll force him to pick up a gun and he says, he'll die. Mid-20s, he spent time in the army several years ago post secondary education. He's able bodied and young; they've threatened him, he's only wants to leave. But, he doesn't know where to go. He can't get in the United States, he doesn't know anyone and he feels hopeless. He doesn't want to die in Syria, but he jokes of suicide. He's scared, no motivation, no way way out. Right now, he says, he only smokes weed, but other drugs look appealing - trying them is a trip, an experience he says. 

---She's only half Syrian, and it's in her name, but it's also her passport - and she can't get anywhere. She didn't grow up in Syria. She grew up in Saudi Arabia, the United States, Lebanon and around the world. Her father's business took them places and they frequented the U.S. - particular during college, back and forth her studies were in New York and Los Angeles. Her history shows very few visits to Syria, yet getting a green card or a Visa long enough work is near impossible. At this point she says, it'll benefit her to get a passport of another country under her mother's name. But even that is a long process, because in the Arab world, things take time. She told me about being questioned at the university for nearly 6 hours because the administration was confused by her name or why she changed majors several times...though, this is not uncommon for the majority of college students. She's frustrated. She wants to return to the States, have a steady job, a more consistant life. She'd even like to work in hard-news again, misses her pursuit in it, but it would be too dangerous because of her name, she tells me, because it cause trouble for family members still in Syria. Canada she said, is helping Syrians. She doesn't want to go to Russia. Hong Kong looks promising, but I could tell, she loves New York. If only it were a little easier for her to be there, stay there and work there. 

Walking In Place

“I can’t believe I ate that whole thing,” I exasperated. I had just eaten a rather large personal pizza at a little Italian/Japanese Café in the Souks in Beirut.

“Eh, Enjoy it, you can eat whatever you want, here, because you walk everywhere.” Jamjoom smiled.

He was right, of course, only leaving out the running across streets and dodging cars that would otherwise run you over. The exercise was “all natural” in this city by the sea.

Having finally seen a familiar face, a dear friend; it made my day. I felt like I was really here, after nearly 5 days.  Somehow the possibilities got bigger and it just seemed to settle that I right where I wanted to be…in Beirut.

Only a day before I had walked down toward the Presidential Palace to see the remnants of demonstrations that didn’t seem to have any traction in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the work-week. Even so; Lebanese security forces were everywhere, though, they didn’t seem too concerned.

I ran into a team from local affiliate, Future TV, who had a tent set up, a satellite truck and were waiting for the call to do LIVE coverage if anything developed.  Ali, the cameraman, was a kind man; he offered coffee, juice, snacks and cigarettes. He told me stories about going to Ol’ Miss in the States during the 80s. He told me how Syria was affecting the land he owned and Ali even told me if I ever needed anything, to give him a call (Because, well..let's face it, I stick out like a sore thumb). 

The camp, itself, had several tents, Lebanese flags hanging everywhere and of course security had the area blocked off. If you didn’t follow the news, you may have never known there had been thousands in the square or tear gas released on the crowds just days before. The camp was quiet and there weren’t any more than about 8 or 10 people standing around. Mohammad Saad, one of the leaders of the protest told me they had been there for 11 days. He said he and the protesters were against the current administration, he thinks President Sleiman should resign and how it was all actually helping the Syrian regime stay in power – so to him, they were indirectly helping the Syrian people and of course, themselves.

Walking on, I thought, Beirut, so it seems, is a place hanging in the balance. They wait for peace, for the Government to hear them, they wait for war and they wait to see what will happen next. In truth? I am following suite. What will be tomorrow - I can only wait and see.