Hip hop has a vagina. - Brown University

CHANGING THE RHYTHM.
Welcome to the African Sun! The African Sun provides a voice for and
about the Black community at Brown University. The African Sun aims
to serve the Black community by addressing topics relevant to the
Black experience and exploring issues from the “Black perspective.”
Because mainstream media often ignores or discredits the complex,
diverse views of our community the African Sun serves as an alternative
public space for opinions, news, and creative expression. In recognition
of Black people’s shared experiences and the immense strength of a
community, the African Sun provides up-to-date information on national
and local issues that affect us as Black people. In honor of the power of
literature to bind communities, we maintain high standards of literature
and invite all people to submit literature of any kind: poems, short stories,
lyrics. All the ideas and questions published in the African Sun will
be a source of mobilization for the Black community towards action
when relevant. Our greatest hope is that the African Sun will promote
respectful, dynamic campus dialogue about issues affecting Black communities.
We strongly encourage all members of the Brown community
to read, react, and contribute.
The theme of this issue is CHANGING THE RHYTHM because we are
in a dynamic moment where all beats are changing. This is the moment
of the first Black president of the United States. A moment, also, where
in our Brown community we can celebrate the fortieth anniversary of
the 1968 walkout of Black students who demanded greater university
participation in Black admittance and Black achievement. And change
is forming and flowing in our student community with the revival of
OUAP, our Black student union, the creation of the Black Liberation
Project, and the reclaiming of Black spaces. We have been changing the
rhythm in all these moments. Changing through time, changing through
beats and rhyme, changing in silence. Listen to our voices...
Peace.
African Sun
2

List of Contributors
Basma Samira
Renata Sago
Seung Hwa Baek
Megan A. Smith
Elmo Terry Morgan
Courtney Smith
Marlaina H. Martin
Kristin Jordan
Emily Taylor
Yaa Sarpong
Max Clermont
Paula Kaufman
Ama Ata Aidoo
Mark Brown
Elvis Alves
Cristina Rodrigues
Lydia Sharlow
Michael Gray
Ana Lyman
Patrick Sylvain
David Elion
Cover Art by Lydia Sharlow
3

Hip hop has a vagina.
4
(A response to Yung Mike’s statement that women have no place in hip hop.)
Renata Sago
Hip hop culture is as saturated with female presence as your local hair salon on Easter
Sunday. And to my quasi emcees that think otherwise, may your albums go aluminum
instead of platinum. Then it’ll match that arcade machine jewelry you rock. It’s hard
enough for my ears to be assaulted by unoriginal hooks, elementary lyrics, and Garage
Band beats. For my eyes to be damn near blinded by pussy-poppin-weave-wearin-stilettostridin
ladies in music videos. And then to lose my voice listing the reasons why women
have maintained the market for hip hop–all the while making sure my hair doesn’t sweat
out. Just call me an honorary member of Crime MOB because I stay knuckin and buckin.
But come on now. Since when did I have to be so reactionary, and when did hip hop
lose its purpose? When did sexism become so stylish, and when did we embrace it? Yung
Mike may as well have slapped me in the face with a microphone than have denied
women a role in hip hop. We put the hip—hell, the lips, breasts, money, meaning and
everything else —in hip hop. And we get no love. Just a bad rap and a tell-all book from
Superhead. Damn. Hip hop is dying, and it’s time for a resurrection—of truth, substance
and recognition. And the truth is, hip hop has a vagina.
Women are the invisible men of hip hop culture. Their presence is ever true, but neither
valued nor recognized adequately—not even by the most dynamic shakers and movers
of the industry. And the women who are recognized are either hypermasculinized (Missy
Elliott before the weight loss), hypersexualized (any typical video ho), underrated (any
female lyricist), or crazy (Lauryn Hill). There is no market for women in hip hop; rather, it’s a
series of pigeonholes. Find a space. Keep the space. Get a little shine. Take the money,
and run.
You don’t need MTV, BET, a map or a pair of bi-focals to see that women are as ubiquitous
as a ringmaster hat and stunna shades in a T-Pain video. If they are not adorning ugly
ass rappers in music videos, singing the hooks on their songs, co-writing and producing
their tracks, designing their clothing labels, interviewing them, they’re purchasing music.
They’re starting their fan clubs. They’re buying their concert tickets. They’re catapulting
rappers’ careers. So thank a bitch, Yung Mike.
If anything, women and hip hop have a kind of Jay-Z-Beyoncé-“Upgrade U”esque
relationship. It is reminiscent of that part of the video when Jay Z is rapping and B is
sashaying around him in the background. Even though B is like Jay’s half nude Barbie doll,
she is his rock, as well. There is an implied understanding that neither can exist without
the other. It is a partnership. They complement each other (--yes! it’s something about B’s
natural beauty and Jay’s authentic swag!). But aside from this, we don’t see the positive
representations. We don’t see clothed representations. Intellectual representations. Nonsexual
representations. And if we do, it’s played out. It doesn’t peak our interest. Sure,
there’s businesswoman Kimora Lee Simmons who boasts a million dollar hip hop clothing
company. But there’s also model Kimora Lee Simmons who boasts topless pictures in
premier magazines as advertisements for her company. Combat sexism with sex? Hmmm.
Well what about when sex sells? Does the money overshadow the sexism? Sexy questions.
Sexist answers. Double standards.

It’s these ill informed understandings that
become impressed in the minds of young
women who breathe in mainstream hip hop
images like air. Fair enough, the impact of hip
hop culture on women’s psyche is as reciprocal
as women’s on the industry. There’s a huge
difference between what we see on the screen
and what goes on behind the scenes, and it
takes cultural critics like Tricia Rose and Scott
Poulson-Bryant to inform us of that gap. But for
the eight year old girl who is not precocious
enough to engage in such reading, there is
little hope. She sees booties flapping, bottles
popping, blunts blazing and music booming.
She doesn’t see a director telling the woman
to jiggle a little more; to smile a little harder and
show a little more skin. And as obvious as these
music videos should be that it’s entertainment,
it is not to her. Hell, it’s not even that obvious to
me. There is something about us as a society
these days where we aren’t able to distinguish
reality from fantasy. But I ain’t even gonna lie.
There have been times when I have danced in
the mirror naked, aspiring to be a video vixen
and have the eyes of millions on me. But where
does that come from? There is a disconnection
between the value of women and their
impact on culture. There is an even greater
disconnection between the value women
place on themselves. Women allow themselves
to be objectified. And we—women—support it
by purchasing the music. I know we’re all trying
to survive out here, but there must be a point
when integrity overshadows a $5000 check for
an appearance in Weezy’s video. Maybe after
Obama gets us out of this recession…
5

6
Holy
Prayer
Seung Hwa Baek
calm myself down put some anesthetic in
my vain friendship love such things in my
vein good food workout protein sweat
American dream in my vain stop thinking
stop wondering stop stop the war in my
brain
smoke some lucky strike watch some
American media i didn’t capitalize
America— Word did it always does it
always fucking does the same thing
because it’s made in America
smoke some lucky strike watch some
rap video I’m a demasculinized nerdy
foreigner my
sarcasm must be a turn-off and American
male dominant society tells me to go fuck
go fuck and if I do fuck you’re gonna
blame rap music ah this rap music’s gotten
this
foreigner dude crazy horny ah
calm myself down put some anesthetic in
my vain friendship love such things in my
vein
spitting poetry isn’t gonna do anything to
change the way you view the world
disingenuously appreciative audience
disingenuously appreciative parents
girlfriend
boyfriend and
spitting nonsense and not even poetic
lines and getting applause for it
kills
me
what who the fuck is me? me what the
fuck do I do? I study I spit I shit I shallow I
shadow I sex I sleep I do what you tell me
to do I am what you tell me I am I am I
am
what you think I am I
emotionally unstable volatile annoyed yes
is that me? no

content-less poem like this must be annoying to
you but that’s okay because you annoyed me
first
me first
me first
I’ve fully become American I say me first
calm myself down put some anesthetic in my
vain friendship love such things in my vein
ME FIRST no anesthetic please snort some coke
drink some godfather
Whiskey alcohol hate love emotions as such
Cigarette caffeine thank god for those drugs me
jittery very much me first me first
I go to church to thank the same god that
obama thanked
God…god…twelve disciples must have loved
him…
If I had twelve people truthfully loving me I
would’ve fucking become Gandhi myself
too
Yes
Yes
Don’t you just love spoken word?
Don’t you just love poetry?
The more foreign exotic and not fluent you are
the more appreciated you are appreciate me till
you die if I am the world as the daoists say if I die
you all die if you all die I die you and I must be
The same species. Hi
7

Herma Winegarten
8
One morning Herma Winegarten woke up deformed. She didn’t realize it at first because the day
started normal. Routine. Like clockwork. The blinds that hung in the bedroom cut the beam of sunshine
that came through the window. Bold, bright lines of shine warmed her skin.
Slowly she turned over in the bed to face her man. Her long fingers traced his face circling around his
almond shaped eyes, down his aquiline nose, through the swirls in his ear, and between his thin lips.
Herma laughed to herself. Imagine her ending up with this light, bright man –with his gray eyes and
wavy hair. Imagine. Herma admitted to herself that they must look strange together. A dark black
woman with long thick black hair courtesy of the Koreans on Richmond and this white looking black
man. But they worked. And after awhile she wasn’t as conscious of how they appeared to others.
Lost in her thoughts, it took Herma awhile to notice his lips encasing her finger sucking the blood to the
very tip.
“You bad”
Megan A. Smith
He laughed a deep grunting sound with subtle changes in pitch. His laugh reminded her of the cello
so much so that the first time she heard his laugh she imagined playing the cello, fiercely, furiously and
impassioned.
In unison as if reading each other’s mind, they moved into a hug. Thigh against thigh. Stomachs
touching. Arms over back. Forehead against forehead
.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Two days.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I love you, too.”
He smiled at her, and then slowly detangled himself from her. Hurriedly he pushed on his pants and
shoes. And while running around Herma’s small apartment gathering his things, he spoke excitedly
about what this trip to Chicago would do for his career. People will know his work. Feel his work.
“Especially the piece I did of you baby. That one will really get them talking.”
Herma hated that painting. No wait. She didn’t hate it. Just hated that everyone would see it. Her
exposed and vulnerable to the designs of his mind and the will of his paintbrush.
“Do you have to show that one?”
“Yea, baby. You know its my best one…my strongest. You see how you inspire me?” He laughed. That
deep laugh. And she turned over on her stomach.
With her eyes closed and her head facedown against the pillow, Herma refused to watch him leave.
She just listened. The water running over his toothbrush. The woosh of clothes being stuffed into a bag.

The smacking of his lips against her shoulder blades as he left two kisses on her back.
“Bye, baby I’ll be back.”
And without waiting for a reply, he was gone.
Herma hated to think of herself as a woman who couldn’t be without her man for a couple of days. She
turned over and stared at the white ceiling. The tiny cracks moved before her eyes forming shapes and
designs. They played with Herma’s mind. Hurriedly she closed her eyes in hopes of protecting her from
the ceiling’s dizzying effect.
There were these times when Herma’s mind seemed to be moving so fast that she could literally feel her
spirit shaking. It was at these times that Herma knew that her spirit was privileged. That everything about
her from her flaws to her talents were comprised within this inner part of herself –her soul. The importance
of her soul made her body secondary. Merely an encasing. Perhaps even a prison. Or a tomb.
Immediately her mind fought against the idea that her body was a tomb. A tomb. That would mean it
enclosed something dead. Lifeless.
Herma tried to reject this idea, but as she lay in bed she felt herself sinking into some sort of abyss in which
even with eyes closed the darkness that lay beneath her lids seemed impenetrable. Damning.
Her dead soul. How did she not notice? Not notice in time to save it…save herself. Not even notice to
give it the proper burial.
Herma opened her black eyes which were alit with the need to commemorate what had long been
gone. Running from her bed, she left her bedroom toward the wall that had been abused with the tools
of his art.
The first time he had painted her it had been just after they had had sex. He’d gotten up from the bed
to retrieve his tool box…his tools. His paints. At first, she laughed at the corniness of the situation. This man
was actually painting her. Yellows and Pinks. Greens and Blues. He said, “You’re my best canvas. My new
muse.” And again she laughed.
But as his paintbrush circled around her nipples….
Pink on top Pink.
One shade god given – the other man made
…she couldn’t help but cry.
When he noticed her tears, he stopped painting her. And laying back he pulled her towards him encasing
her between his legs and arms. He hoped that his warmth would dry her tears.
Later that night, as she lay asleep dreaming strange things…bodies without heads. Crying children.
Burning candles. He sat in front of a blank wall in her apartment and painted a picture.
A black woman –legs spread and stretched. Hair big and full. Skin deep and black.
He painted a black woman deformed.
Where there should have been nipples there was blood. Where there should have been a vagina –folded,
hairy, and pink…there was a hole. Black and endless.
So, as Herma raced from her bed to stand in front of this mural, she recognized a woman…absent of
dreams, absent of thought, absent of soul…
And she lay the knife against her nipples and let them bleed.
Herma Winegarten woke up deformed. Missing the one thing that was supposed to be eternal. A
deformation which she commemorated with the goriness of pleasure pain.
9

Pretty
10
a reminiscing
Elmo Terry-Morgan
Boy

Pretty Boy be sittin on bar stool not even knowin him be priddy.
AV’RAGE MAN be lookin at Pretty Boy n LIKE what him see! But Av’rage Man make NO
move! Him stay in corner suckin on Rollin Rock. Him be makin ass-sessment: Av’rage Man
leaf through him mental file n come up wid label for Pretty Boy; him JUST know he KNOW
him RIGHT bout wavy-haired-honey-brown Pretty Boy.
Pretty Boy payin rent on bar stool, blowin smoke signals, waitin-HOPIN-for-hit, wagons uv
love n lust t’circle, but Av’rage Man don’t Stop in Name of Love. Him just Walk on By.
Av’rage Man walk FAST, him breeze spin Pretty Boy round on bar stool. Him slap neon label
all over Pretty Boy face: “Pretty Boy: DON’T TOUCH! Him THINK him 2 good f’Av’rage
Man.”
Pretty Boy want to Reach Out n Touch, Somebody’s Hand, but him 2-2 weary. Him 2 tired
2 convince Av’rage Man that him not what he think he am. Pretty Boy sing that song so
many times it certified golden oldie. He wonder what him do, what him say what make
Av’rage Man skirt by him like plague. Maybe Av’rage Man see Pretty Boy on bad night
when Igor Man be UP in Pretty Boy face.
Igor Man be UNqualified ooo-glee. Him be ooo-glee from conception. Igor Man chiseled
handsome in no classical form. Beheld beautiful in no man’s eye. Be real aggravatin-Got
no sane conversation-No discrimination. Him E.O.P. Cassanova-Be in ev’ry man face. Igor
Man got mama what take fertility pills-Come from big fam’ly: Got uga-mug bruthas in
ev’ry state-united. Cannot be insulted! Pretty Boy piss in Igor Man ear n him think it Colt
45.
YES! Av’rage Man see Pretty Boy on baaad night when Igor Man pluck Pretty Boy HIM last
nerve!:
Pretty Boy splash good Jacky D in Igor Man one good eye.
Plug him gappy brown toofuhsizis wid stale popcorn.
Pinch Igor Man on hump n send him back to Quasimoto tower.
Maybe that why Av’rage Man think Pretty Boy a mean Narci-sissy-us.
Pretty Boy got him luck real bad n no good timin. Av’rage Man still be in corner ass-sessin n
slurpin on Rollin Rock when Freak Man glue hisself to Pretty Boy butt. Why him do DAT!?
Freak Man be snap-CRACKle-POP!-coke-no-Pepsi-widda-Tequilla-back. Him be wantin
Pretty Boy real bad. Him be wantin trinket fuh sale. Him got ass, cash n carry small bidnis.
Got big habit n heavy wife: Him got white Columbian mail order bride C.O.D. Freak Man
be real pissed when Pretty Boy turn him shoulder more froze than freshly sniffed snow. Him
want Pretty Boy to guard him coffin while him sleep. Maybe that why Av’rage Man think
Pretty Boy a cold hearted bitch!
Av’rage Man should be CPA. Him done moh ass-sessin than IRS. Him saw Pretty Boy at
Sunday tea dance when GWM be desp’rately seeking GBM for STMR (short term meaningless
relationship). Him MASSA LOOKIN F’MANDINGO.
GWM be real civilized liberal. Him give he full name n business card. Him got much plastic
gold. Him buy Pretty Boy drinks all day. Av’rage Man jaws be Kunta Kinte tight! He just
know him right bout PrettyBoyWhore. GWM look at Pretty Boy n just know him got mocachoca-latta-ya-ya.
Pretty Boy look over him shoulder for help from Av’rage Man, search
him eye - plea for Av’rage Man to save him from auction block, but him done finish audit.
11

12
Av’rage turn red, black n green. Him exile Pretty Boy, dunk him in milk like oreo cookie.
Pretty Boy turn back to GWM who bout ta swallow up Pretty Boy soul. GWM be tall,
light n interested. Pretty Boy get mad wid Soul Brutha #86, stage him own boycott, him
go blonde lavender; leave wid GWM. Maybe that why Av’rage Man think Pretty Boy
a color-struck slut!
Pretty Boy survive Mandingo-izin by GWM. Him fall back into bar, perch on stool. Him
ass hurt. Him spine starta curve. Him balls dragging floor. Him mushroom-tip got chafe.
But him Pretty Boy genes still holdin up; him still lookin good, but him done give up on
Keepin Hope Alive. Av’rage Man see Pretty Boy reach for him armour to protect hisself
from Luv in Midnight Hour n What-da-hell-did-I-do-mornin-aftuhs. Pretty Boy nurse on
Jacky D wid Heineken chaser. Him might be lush, but him got standards.
Time tick…tock….tick….tock….tick/tock/tick/tock/tick away. Pretty Boy pluckin
gray hair outta him moustache. Him ass don’t stand up so high no moh. But him
still Discoizing, Old-Schoolin’ to Hip-Hop beat. Folks call him SIR – Him look over him
shoulder. Who dey talkin too? Den he see HIM!!!!!!!
Before Pretty Boy can remembuh what year it am... Married Man ElectricSlide down
aisle ... blind Pretty Boy wid him Colgate smile.
Married Man not act like him happy-in-wedded-bliss wid pregnant Covergirl wife at
home paintin white picket fence. Him wear charismatic shit cologne what hide orange
blossom scent. Him speak muzak poem in Pretty Boy ear. Touch Pretty Boy on tremblin
thigh, plant him moonlight kiss on mouth, tongue’im down to gut, while go-home-lastcall-lights
be glarin. Him not care who see him lovey-dove Pretty Boy like proposal at
SuperBowl. Married Man STALK Pretty Boy: Him come back night after night. Pretty Boy
feel Married Man 2 good to be true. Him TOO Knight in Shiny Armor. Pretty Boy scared.
Him not want to give in. Don’t want heart to crack n be served like rocks in Jacky D.
But Married Man break down Pretty Boy, carry him off to castle in cloud. Pretty Boy
say, “Fuckit!”. Him give in. Him Savin all Him Love for Part-Time Lover. Married Man
make Pretty Boy LUV him. Pretty Boy tell Married Man him in love. Married Man tell
Pretty Boy No Can Do, I Can’t Go for THAT! Pretty Boy feel convoy of Mack Truck run
him over. Him emotional road-kill splattered all over evuh-place. Pretty Boy try to be
sophistikit. Him bear up, shrug off hurt. Think him can play by Married Man Rule: Live
in London Tower waitin for visit, waitin for second-hand kiss n left-over dick. But London
Bridge done falldid down. Pretty Boy beat hisself up for bein asshole, try to walk away
from Married Man. But Married Man block Pretty Boy way out, suck on him lip, lick him
neck, squeeze him butt, break him own rule. Time TICK-TOCK-TICK away – Pretty Boy
find MOH gray hair in him pubic hair. Him still stupid ass waitin f’midnight booty call.
Married Man still got it goin-OWN! Him got new technology; Him got Viagra-Love.
Him push-me pull-me selfish muthafucka. Pretty Boy run for tower window, scream for
Lancelot, but him got no Rapunzel hair not even no cullid lady Korean weave. Him
jump n PRAaa-AaYYyy!! Him go splat. Married Man moonwalk back down aisle to him
til-death-do-us-part . It’s Cheapha to Keep Huh... n f’git the stupid faggit...
Pretty Boy wake up under bar stool. Him chipped up like saw dust on floor.
Av’rage Man be watchin-WATCHIN damnit!-watchin drama not so damn mellow.
Him got confirmation: Pretty Boy stuff what flush down toilet. SWUSH/SWIRL/GURGLE/
Whish.....
Pretty Boy drag hisself up, dust off dirt, rub off shoe prints. Look in him Jacky D, try to
chase it wid tears, but him ducts all dried up. Him wonder what wrong: Is him breath
not minty fresh? Him underarms not lemon scent? Him skin not lanolined? Him ass not
tight enough?
Perhaps him AM 2 priddy.

But Pretty Boy no run in Pretty Boy-Sugar Boy pack! Him oppressed minor minority. Him be
lookin for protection in Bill of Rights. But him got no coalition lobby. Him got not even no
Pretty Boy Association. Him be by hisself. Him see Av’rage Man in corner outta corner of
eye. Hey There Lonely Boy... Don’t him see that Pretty Boy need him/that him need Pretty
Boy? Av’rage Man be by hisself too, but him just got moh crowd round him.
Pretty Boy get mad wid world! Him be in Gaydom DAT not be so gay. So him do what him
spected to be: Get on auction block f’blonde GWM; Climb bell tower n give Igor Man
charity nut; Take suicide dive wid Freak Man; Play Camille for Married Man. Pretty Boy look
real hot n easy. Him suppose to be easy n hot. YES! BUT HIM HOT FOR AV’RAGE MAN!
Pretty Boy ready to explode/Him dilirious/Him wild! Him so CRAZY him speak not even no
good Anglish...
Just as Pretty Boy ready to make date wid right hand, vaseline n amyLnitrate...
Blue Moon come!
Light’nin STRIKE!
Av’rage Man got 4AM madness.
Him got nuttin t’rock n roll but Rollin Rock.
Him see Pretty Boy drainin down last o’him Dr. Feel Nuttin. Av’rage Man slink up on Pretty
Boy. Take chance-mayB him jingle on tingaling. AFTUHALL, him ColdBloodedBitchUvaSlut;
ainthim? Him be Av’rage Man Toilet.
Pretty Boy caint believe him luck!
Chorus o’ Angels sing “HAAa-lay-LU-yah!”
Pretty Boy take Av’rage Man to him bed; Be a Lady in the Streets/You-Know-What in the
Sheets! Hey-Hey! Hey-Hey! Black Men Loving Black Men is a Revolutionary Act! ... ain’t
it?
Pretty Boy give Av’rage Man good Tango-Tang-O!. “Mmmm-Hmmm, Baby like DAT!” Pretty
Boy know genuine hoochie-coochie. Av’rage Man like peppa-salsa samba on him Hip-
Hop-Cha-Cha-Cha. Him Talk in Tongues, Hollar in SpangLish, Shout Holy Ebonicals!: Oooo,
bakabuchaka! Bailar bitch! Dance on the johnnie! Pop it popi! Who owns DIS shit!? Yes
Jesus!... Av’rage Man make back-alley/sugar-field/bacco-road luv. Slobber on Pretty Boy
mouth, go to ZZZzzz.............
Pretty Boy linger after dance, do him own ass-sessin, soak up Av’rage man while him snore.
Wonder why Av’rage Man not see him own beauty. Him blow soft whisper breath on Av’rage
Man face, flicker-lick him strong neck, honey-suck him full lips, nestle on him chest, dream to
da thump-thump-thumpin... Ahh...yes...
Pretty Boy rise early; Gone Be All Dat Him Can Be! Kiss Av’rage Man on eyelid soft. Wake he
up. Ask how he like him eggs. Pretty Boy in kitchen harmonizin wid Aretha, Day Dreamin n
I’m Thinkin uv You; Puttin Mammy to shame!
Pretty Boy must have brains fucked out: Think him hear Santa, Donder n Blitzen.
Christmas did come early; ain’t it?
Silver Bells-Silver Bells... SLAM!
Jingle-Jangle-Jingle-Jangle....
Pretty Boy hear jingle-jangle of spurs.
13

14
Av’rage Man done turn nta Deadwood Dick. Put on boots n mosey on down
trail.
Him not want nothuh dance. Pretty Boy only good for one Tango.
Av’rage Man now Ghetto Cowboy Man. Homey, Homey on da range...
Pretty Boy make a.m. o’clocktail. Cry wid Miz Butterworth n Aint Jemima.
Him fry bacon in freezer, crack shells in eggs, scorch grits, put salt in coffee.
Maybe that why Av’rage man think Pretty Boy a bad cook.
Last Call! LAST CALL! Last Dance! Last Chance for Romance! ...
Pretty Boy still be sittin on bar stool. Not want it to fly away.
Time tick-tock away. Pretty Boy 2 old 2 still be pretty. Much 2 old 2 be boy.
But him painted by master on good canvas. Hold up damn well!
Pretty Boy see hisself in bar mirror. It not crack.
Him still got nice style, good color, strikin composition.
Light bulb flash! over Pretty Boy head! In next life, him goan come back as Da
Mona Lisa. Make good portrait in frame ... next to exit sign.
Elmo Terry-Morgan is Associate Professor of Africana Studies, and Theatre, Speech
and Dance; and is Artistic Director of Africana Studies’ Rites and Reason Theatre.
His course Black Lavender: A Study of Plays with Black LGBT Content and the
Africana Studies Department is convening The Black Lavender Experience,
presentations of works by Black Queer playwrights, FolkThoughts and panels in
April 2009.

16
are you a man?

Basma Samira
i told you that if we went any further
i could never go backwards
we jumped into our kiss and
you
said nothing
are you that man
determined to drive through the
snowstorm
so
we could be together.
are you that man
enjoying
my natural medicine
are you like any man
or
are you the man
i do not sense if you ignore me
or
if i regret
i do want you
so
what are you up to
I write
speak
run
by any means necessary
to
the nearest word
that is honest
but if you want to be cowardly then
mail your words
and
be done with me.
17

Pensamientos de Cuba
18
Courtney J. Smith
If someone were to ask me how is Cuba, I would not even know how to begin to answer
that question. One thing for sure is that it is a very beautiful, complicated place
to live in. My time here so far has been a mix of joys and frustrations. The privileges
that I am afforded here, as an American, are at times difficult to think about. Cuba
runs on two economies: one mainly for tourists and the other reserved for Cuban citizens.
I try my best to “do as the Cubans do”, but at the same time my $5 “splurge” on
lunch one day is equivalent to half the monthly salary of many people I know here.
On the other hand, my experience here as an individual has been greatly different
from most of the other Brown students here. When I am out on the street people think
I am Cuban because I am Black, so I have been given some social access and privilege
that my peers don’t have. But even though I am American, being Black here
does not immune me from the racial problems of this country. Especially within my
school (Casa de las Americas), I am constantly targeted as not being as intelligent,
healthy, or capable as my peers. I have been called several names including “Amazon
woman”, “LaWanda” (I really don’t know what that means), or simply negra as
I walk down the street. I have had people within seconds of meeting me ask me if I
danced “African Dance”. I have been at clubs and had to push away white foreigners
who try to take pictures of me dancing because they thought I was a jinitera (a
loose term for prostitute or a woman who tries to hustle foreigners for money or marriage).
I have witnessed several incidents of police brutality against Black men. From
the little statues with disfigured butts and lips that we have all seen in Anani’s office to
white foreigners chasing Cuban women, I have seen many forms of the exploitation
of the Black and Mulatto body. I have seen one of the most famous male dancers in
the world, Carlos Acosta, play the “black brute” on stage as hundreds of people—
mainly Europeans—scream and applaud. I have met Black and poor families whose
roofs are literally collapsing on them as they sleep.
People may read these incidents I just described and think: “So what? This shit happens
in the U.S.” or “Of course this happens, Cuba is a third world country”. And I
have definitely received those responses. But this is a country where someone who is
the head of a major educational institution and a member of the General Assembly
told me, “Racism simply does not exist in Cuba because the mulatta is our national
symbol”. This is a country where the Revolution supposedly eradicated all forms inequality
and everyone has equal access to education, healthcare, and their monthly
rations of food. I am constantly wondering: How can you maintain a 99% literacy rate
when there is a tremendous shortage of teachers? When checking out books from
libraries is almost impossible and everything is dated from the ‘60s and ‘70s? How can
you eat when you are rationed five eggs a month and a few pounds of rice? How can
you live in your house when you make about $10 a month and the six bags of cement
you need to fix your roof cost more than three times what you make? Of course this
happens in other countries, but this is Cuba! This shit is extremely contradictory to the
rhetoric of this socialist Revolution that you see plastered on every billboard, every
wall, and every classroom—liberation, equality, human rights, justice, solidarity, and
altruism. Everyday I walk around and it does not make any sense.

Photo by
Ana Lyman
19

20
Of course, no form of government is perfect and I have seen how the Revolution has
beenvery successful. Education is free. You don’t have to pay to get a degree. Healthcare
is free. Doctors practice preventive care and whatever ailment you have they will treat
you. You never have to feel unsafe walking down the street. Food is scarce but people
don’t die of hunger. If there is a hurricane, your government won’t forget about you. All of
these things are important, but I am constantly wondering what all of this means when you
were historically marginalized before 1959? What does it mean when your entire country
constantly tries to erase your racial identity? What happens when opportunities open up
for you like they did with the “triumph” of the Revolution, but you still lag behind from a
historical disadvantage that stems from racial, class or gender affinity? Although the Revolution
was meant for those who were on the margins of society, it was something that was
created by—and continues to be run by—white men. Blacks, women, people who identify
as LGBTQ, farmers, workers and the poor are still trying to catch up. And since there are
no social programs for Blacks (because the act of publicly recognizing racial inequalities
is socially dangerous or “counter-revolutionary”), they are even further from reaching the
finish line.
Although I have read so much about the shortcomings of Red Cuba before I came here, it
is hard having such a romantic idea of the Revolution and being forced to face its reality.
At times I feel I do not even have the tools to address social issues here. Being in Cuba has
allowed me to realize that Cuba cannot be preserved as a moment of revolutionary possibility
to which we fondly like to refer. Yes, it is an example of a sustaining political and social
movement that has big implications when we think about the ideas of anti-capitalism, and
anti-imperialism, and Third World Unity. But I am constantly thinking: what is going to be
this “Third Way” that we talk about creating? What is going to be the new example of revolution?
These thoughts have especially been on my mind when I see what is going on with
the failure of the US economic system and how it is affecting my family and community.
Despite all of my frustrations I have found some amazing people here and a supportive
community. I have hooked up with a Black Nationalist who is in political exile here from
the United States. She has been wonderful in helping me look at my experience constructively.
I have also met so many people who have found ways to fight the shortcomings of
the Revolution and have created mechanisms for collective survival that I feel at times we
lack in the United States. Through music, literature, art, and religion many people have
found spaces to be resistive and critical inside the Revolution. Meeting these people has
made my experience truly wonderful. I cannot wait to share all my discoveries with you all.
Clearly, I am very critical but I guess it is the “burden” of being a conscious person.
In solidarity,
Courtney J. Smith
November, 2008
Havana

Michael Gray
21

22
To
See Me
Marlaina H. Martin
I’ve been told that my eyes…
These gorgeous orbs…
These captivating jewels beset by mocha skin
And arches of sienna whiskers…
Tell stories when gazed into
Stories of my ancestors
Of Sojourner’s rousing orations and Harriet’s risky travels
Of Ruby Bridges and her courage beyond her years
Of hardship, of struggles, of victory
But have you ever felt that, even though you couldn’t
see them, someone was staring at you?
Well, I can’t…
I have felt the opposite though, when people are
looking
Yet never truly seeing
A rotund, nineteen-year old black girl with large
almond-shaped, brown eyes
A nineteen-year old black girl with large brown eyes
A black girl with brown eyes
A black girl
Black
People are always trying to simplify me
Wondering how my home and school life are both
happy,
As if melanin makes either poor grades or violence
mandatory
…Newark and LA flowing through my veins
Stammers evolve as associates tiptoe around the issue
of political correctness
Making situations more awkward with frequent pauses
which with to think if a phrase is ‘fair’ or ‘polite’ to say
But to answer your question, it does not hurt when
you use ‘black’ to describe me. It only hurts when this
aspect engulfs my whole being in your eyes, dwarfing
individual traits
…like personality for instance
Sensationalized, black women lie in the realm of dual
stereotype
They are to be submissive yet obscene
Headstrong and materially insatiable
Just like those black women on television, the media’s
psychosis on what I should be…
With Ms. New York used as a standard instead of a
dramatization
My battle must be, not in reinforcing the assumption,
but in proving the exception

Michael Gray
23

24
Mahogany
Unicorns
Kristin Jordan
Us: Mom, why are things brown?
Mother: what’s brown?
Us: like chocolate and dirt
Mother: they are kissed by the sun
baby
Us: and me and mahogany
wood?
Mother: you are kissed by the sun
too
I think I knew, always, that those
kissed by the sun were blessed.
I wasn’t born with these words
though. Mom encouraged it.
She encouraged my search for
mythical answers and my desire to
be royal.
Our home was mahogany wood
because mom loved this tree. She
carved this wood to put in our
bedroom, to give as gifts to family,
and to sell as a last resort when
money was needed. Of course all
of this could be false. I don’t really
remember what it was. At the time
my dreams mixed with the literal
words spoken to me and about
me. I could be one second on an
island and then in a rainforest and
then in the sky. See I was young
enough to fly so nothing was real.
The creatures were my favorites,
and as much my family as anything
else. Baby sister was sometimes an
elf and sometimes a baby. I liked
her better as an elf. As a baby
she would only cry but as an elf
she would put pictures all down
the hall or go visit the chocolate
man next door. Mom didn’t know
about these missions outside our
room. They were secret missions
and for my silence I got part of the
chocolate that was brought back.
I never would have told though,
even without the chocolate.

The first time I was a unicorn, I
knew I would never be anything
else again. There was nowhere
that was not home as a unicorn.
I could go anywhere and my
magic would protect me and
make me feel I was home. That’s
the difference between being a
child and being a unicorn. See
that horn broke down everything,
could do anything—did you know
I could fly? Back as a unicorn I
could fly if I wanted to. Nothing
was real.
Once when I was a unicorn and
baby sister was an elf we stopped
for water. We should not have
stopped to drink. Real unicorns
don’t need water and real elves
don’t have to fetch the water
from the kitchen sink. And real
unicorns don’t drink from glasses
and real elves don’t slide on
mahogany wood floors. Real elves
don’t turn into babies who cry at
their arms colored in red stains
and shredded glass. Real unicorns
don’t scream for their moms who
are not home. Who are never
home, but who are always out
selling mahogany wood. And real
unicorns are magic and they can
heal if ever wounded and they
are powerful and they don’t hug
their bleeding sisters in their arms
as their fantastical worlds crash
around them. And real unicorns
are pure…and white…and not
kissed by the sun…and not like
me.
25

26
Not
Just
Breathing BUT
SHOUTING
Emily Taylor
Emma takes only five minutes longer than she says she will, but Molly and I are so jangled, circling each
other on the sidewalk, that we debate leaving her behind. We’ve been away from the news for too
long, even though we know the first polls have only just closed; there’s nothing to see yet. She comes
and we take the 6 train to 116th St., then walk to Jacon’s, where there’s a TV. When we get there,
CNN is colorful and dynamic and terrifying. We distract ourselves by baking brownies and paging
through course catalogs, willing the minutes to pass, the electoral vote counts still meaninglessly low
on both sides. Jacon and Emma have their laptops open, clicking on states, reading out statistics. We
laugh at the overdone graphics and the holograms. What strange era are we living in?
“We should go to Harlem,” says Emma. “Shouldn’t we go to Harlem? We should go to Harlem.” We’ve
been sitting for too long. I’m sinking into the couch, and the beer and a half I’ve drunk is making my
eyes tired. When we step outside, we discover the night isn’t cold. The M101 bus stops around the
corner. It comes at 11:02 and will take us straight to 125th and Adam Clayton Powell, where there’s a
projection screen and people gathered. I exchange smiles with a black man and woman, the only
other people at the bus stop. There’s honking in the distance and people are shouting. People are
shouting. The taxis going by are honking, quick short bursts, over and over and over. There’s no way,
we say to each other, to the man and woman. It’s too early. He only had 207 when we left the house.
They can’t have called it yet. I dial my house in California. Mom, they didn’t call it yet, did they? “Yes,”
she confirms. “Yes. It’s a projection, but he’s won.” I call out the news to my friends, to the rest of the
bus. I hear my words take hold around me, and I try to translate them into something solid like the
metal pole my hands have found to grip. Is it real? It’s not real. It’s real. I tell Mom we’re on our way
to Harlem, and she tells me to be safe. I feel safe. I don’t know what the world looks like right now but
I think that we might be safe.
More and more honks and shouts ring out around us as the bus rolls forward through the night, west
and then uptown. Dani calls. I cover my eyes and answer the phone “Oh my God.” Molly tells me later
that I screamed. “Brown is crazy,” Dani says. They’re running and dancing in the street. Someone’s
climbing the flagpole. We get off the bus a block before 125th because it can’t contain us, our joy
and disbelief, our unknowing and our relief. People line the streets, their smiles wide and real, highfiving,
raising power fists out the windows of their cars. We reach 125th and Adam Clayton Powell,
where the square bursts with people facing the projection screen. We move past a drum circle, a
line of news cameras, so many black faces. We find a place and cheer for everything, every mention
of hope and change, of new days and turning points. The crowd hums. When will he speak? Isn’t it
time yet? And finally, his face on the screen, he’s walking out on stage, one hand raised, waving to
the Chicago crowd, the other holding Sasha’s hand, Malia and Michelle next to them. Later this will

e the image I can’t take my eyes off of, the four of them all looking like each other, all wiry frames
and model cheekbones, and I could swear their skin tones are not one shade different from mine.
We’ve been waiting so long. They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I could cry like
Jesse Jackson, all stoic teary eyes.
There’s a roar here in the heart of Harlem, then the most reverential of hushes as he reaches the
podium. “Hello, Chicago,” he says, and of course he’s so composed. Part of me wants to see him
cheer, raise a fist, laugh incredulously and slowly shake his head. But no, his speech is measured
and his word choice flawless, as always. I’ll watch this over and over in the following days. Never,
though, will I need to be reminded of the inflection in his voice when he told us, when he told me,
“This victory belongs to you.” I’ll remember how he repeated himself, the absolute gravity of his
tone. We’ve been waiting so long.
What strange era are we living in? Everything that’s happening, onscreen and all around me,
occurs and becomes history at the same time. The present and our history and the future are
indistinguishable, inextricable. And this history, this moment in which I’m better than alive, not just
breathing but shouting, will not be told by the oppressor because there is no oppressor tonight. Isn’t
it time yet? There are only the voices and faces and moving feet of people, people who cast ballots
and crossed fingers and watched the news and held their hope safe but heavy in their chests. And
now it’s midnight, like some kind of perfect New Year’s Eve, and I am more than a witness.
We drift downtown. Tomorrow’s New York Times headline will be only his name, the next line
proclaiming the fall of the last racial barrier in politics. I’ll buy the paper and place it carefully in a
drawer of things to save. A man in a bar tells me after we toast to the victory that people will see
black men differently now, that there will be no more fear. I can’t bring myself to agree but tonight
there is no reason to be anything but happy.
My grandfather chooses the word “overdue” to describe the event when he speaks to me by
phone from a hospital bed. My mother writes to me of her newfound pride. And my fourth-graders,
they are Dominican and black and white and Asian. They are too young even to be a part of
the generation accused of apathy, too young to remember September 11th, but this, they will
remember this. Aracely, whose writing needs work, whose face is always worried. Katherine, with
her pink backpack and teenage attitude. Randy, with his impeccable handwriting, who wrote ten
scientific observations when asked for five. Oh, we’ve been waiting so long. Their president, my
president, is black. All of us together have lived to see the day.
27

28
A Post
Yaa Sarpong
Brazil
For most people of my generation, November 4, 2008 is one of our most memorable days, but not
in the same way that 9/11 or the invasion of Iraq is memorable. We have seen something that our
parents and grandparents had never envisioned. One hundred forty-three years after the end of
slavery and forty years after the peak of the Civil Rights movement, the United States elected a
black president. I had the pleasure of witnessing the election as an outsider on the inside. What
I mean when I say that is I watched the intense final days of the 2008 Election as a student and
foreigner in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. I first visited Rio in March 2008 during the height of the primary
battle between Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton. In Brazil, the support was overwhelmingly in
Obama’s favor because, as one man proclaimed to me, the US did not need “any more blue
eyes.” As the battle raged on between Obama and John McCain, Brazil was no different from the
rest of the world and majority of the US citizens hurt by the economic crisis and the selfish policies
of the Bush era, desperately wanting to end the Republican reign.
Most of the world sees the U.S. as an empire on its last breath, but with this omnipresent global
era on our hands, the decline of the United States means the economic collapse of most the
industrialized and, subsequently, unindustrialized world. On the morning of November 5, 2008, my
black housekeeper told me the results of the election as I rushed out of the house. I could see
that there was genuine joy in her eyes to see the realization of a black man in charge of the most
powerful country in the world. In Brazil, being a housekeeper carries more baggage than most
occupations. She is next to nothing, on her feet more than twelve ours out of the day, and held
behind the strict line of worker—not family member. And she works for a kind boss. I can distinctly
remember her telling me, and a little bit after I thought, “She probably never held the same hope
for her own country.”
Since his election, there wasn’t a day in the month of November when Barack Obama was not on
the cover of some magazine or newspaper or a headline on the evening news. Brazilians, especially
of the American baby boom generation, never hoped that this day would come because they
witnessed first hand the atrocities of the 1960s and mass killings of black male public figures, and
for them there is no difference between Martin, Malcolm, and Barack. What struck me during
the aftermath of the election was when everyone was congratulating me on the US living up the
promise of its democracy. But Brazil is accountable to that same democracy; yet, it has a larger
and more subjugated black population than the United States. No one—not even my educated
professors—holds any hope for a black president in Brazil. But as I am constantly reminded, there
is no racism in Brazil. The persistent idea is of the other in Brazil. The other country can have these
great leaps and bounds, but these things are impossible in Brazil. My exchanges with black people
can fill a book with their reactions when they find out that I am from Africa or when I tell them I live
in the US. They are filled with varying reactions from envy to blind questioning of my upbringing. I still
have not figured out the reasons for any of these reactions and might have to move a mountain
of research if I am to do so.

For the most part, I am surrounded by white people of my age group. I have the pleasure of
attending one of the most pretentious—I mean, prestigious—schools in Rio de Janeiro: Pontifica
Universidade Catolica (PUC). It is one of the few private institutions here held in high esteem
because most of the private schools here have a reputation of catering to the spoiled brats of the
rich and famous. PUC is not really any different, but it attracts better professors and slightly smarter
spoiled brats. The reaction of the spoiled brats—I mean, students—to the American elections is
taken straight from their parents’ financial advisors. Due to Brazil’s incredible disparity of wealth,
rich Brazilians have a lot to fear when Democratic president—black or white—takes office. These
men tend to implement policies that help close the gap between the rich and poor, which means
that the rich have to give so that the poor can receive. And no one wants to give these days.
But I don’t necessarily blame the upper class because the state of economic relations over he
last 500 years in this country has made the cost of living incredibly high for anyone who wants
to buy quality products. It was a shock to my system when I arrived here, and people who have
money here are unwilling to scrape to afford the same standard of living. The students at PUC
were unwilling to put the same faith that most young people in the world put in Barack Obama,
who was fighting for the presidency against a man who was 25 years his senior and apart of
an antiquated retiring generation. Obama’s candidacy spurred the United States away from
representation by people in this gray area between their ideology held over from youth and the
disenchantment of middle age. Obama still held that ideology and had a very young family to
promote that change.
So of course most Brazilians made it their business to keep up with every twist, debate, and new
promise during the election season.
Before the economic down turn, I found it surprising when a Brazilian said he was an Obama
supporter because, unlike most of us, Brazil benefited from policies of the Bush era that John McCain
was more than inclined to continue. Brazil is a great tourist attraction, a large ethanol producer,
and more than willing to play ball with Bush’s plans for its natural resources, letting everyone win
in the game of partisan politics of the last eight years. Then I thought about the image of Obama
himself. It is the same image that the Brazilian government has been perpetuating (successfully)
to the world at large. A post race, post division, harmonious perfect blend. His election signaled
that the Brazilian way is the right way, and that the Americans finally opened up their eyes to the
right way.
I’m glad I experienced the elections from abroad because although I missed experiencing this
historic moment with my family and friends, I have more clarity than most people in the US. Barack
Obama is facing one of the steepest uphill climbs that any president in recent memory has every
faced: a multi-front war both abroad and at home; a capsizing economy; discontent at home;
and talks of the end of a Roman Empire size downfall will not be fixed in one year, and it might
not be fixed in four years. It’s time for the country to stand behind this man that we have put into
office, but let us not lose our objectivity because, after all, he is a president and not infallible.
He will make mistakes because he is young, and being president is not something for which one
prepares.
With that being said, I join Brazil and welcome the Obamas years into the White House.
29

Si ou te ka wè andedan nanm mwen,
wè andedan kè mwen,
ou tap konnen kòman mwen bezwen ou
nenpòt lè nou pa ansanm.
Si ou te ka wè andedan tèt mwen,
si panse se te yon bagay nou te kapab wè avèk je nou,
ou tap konnen kijan mwen renmen ou,
sa ou vle di pou mwen.
Tout jan ou rekonfòte mwen,
jan ou kenbe’m pre ou,
jan ou konnen kisa pou fè
pou kapab kouri dèyè tout sak k fè mwen pè.
Briyans ki nan bel je ou yo,
souri ou, ri ou, jan ou manyen m’,
sa se yon ti kal nan tout rezon
mwen renmen ou anpil konsa.
Jan mwen konnen ke m’ ka pale avèk ou
de nenpòt bagay ak tout bagay,
lè fini jan mwen konnen ke n’ap toujou
kapab pèsevere nan tout obstak ke lavi a ka pote.
Mwen ka chèche nan tout monn nan
men, mwen konnen vrèman,
mwen pa te kapab jwenn yon lòt lanmou
tankou lanmou mwen jwenn avèk ou.
Menmsi avèk chak nouvo jou, chak solèy leve,
nou pa kapab konnen ki sa k’ap tann nou,
gen yon sèl bagay mwen konnen tout bon,
chak jou mwen renmen ou pi plis.
Donk, si ou te ka wè andedan tèt mwen,
si panse se te yon bagay nou te kapab wè avèk je nou,
ou tap konnen kijan mwen beni
pou’m genyen ou la avèk mwen.
(Haitian Creole)
30
Andedan
mwen
Max Clermont
Gedes’ Mirror Effect by Patrick Sylvain
Photo of a Vodoun ceremony celebrating the Day of the Dead. © P. Sylvain, Nov. ‘04

The Hegemony
of Language
Paula Kaufman
I have nightmares about people kidnapping my teachers. I wake up screaming. I wake rubbing my
eyes as they are being carried away. I too am bound, though my arms are free, my mouth is open. Are
there others for whom learning is the binding, the casing, the joinery? Axis on which the world spins—this
goes far beyond geography. Are there others who want to unseal the casing from this planet, and pour
the steaming guts out on the grass and listen to the sound it makes?
I am a knowledge thief. My want is so strong it will tear you. This is knowledge-hunger. Babies wanting
as much as needing milk. Babies curl their fingers around that original hunger, awake in the night,
screaming because they are curious. This is the genesis. The heartwood of our longing.
We had to steal a little learning, hungry, greedy for language, tucking dictionaries in our pants. Learning
almost assumed militancy. To be crazed/ bewitched by it, to have no other life than this, no sight, to be
bug like, 10,000 eyes that won’t stop snapping, clicking to education, that word tenuous—sinuous—as
any river. Why does learning become radical in its difficulty to possess? It is like gripping the sky for air,
catching fireflies with an open mouth, not fireflies. Your asking me to go back to a uni-dimensional
mind? All I hear is music. “If you want to get a PhD you must really want it. It’s living at near-poverty for
a while” a student says. I’ve stood on the rooftop with birds. Because my soul did not die with the end
of Russian literature. My soul is tuned by thought like a guitar. The primary source of Jill Scott.
Education is like tree-bark: nothing to climb but up. I believe in the democracy of paperbacks, their
light-weightedness. My best life is when I rove with a knapsack. We map the mind as we travel, not
before.
My Professor Tricia Rose says you’ve got to know history, otherwise you’ll be rolling the bolder back up
the hill instead of starting where that damn rock started, maybe half way, or 2/3 up. Instead of Europehopping
I class-hope, dropping in on Universities until teachers tell directors and directors tell teachers
and it gets back to the hegemony of language. We flat-role history [some .] But then there are a lot of
us trying to prop it back up, puff air into deflation of souls.
The weight of categories. Fucked up. The hegemonic use of English how one language [Queen English?]
becomes blue-ribbon standard. And there are never enough words I know how to pronounce, but use
anyhow. I’m friends with people that use the dictionary. It’s the act of turning pages--want. Motherhunger,
word-hunger. I don’t care which word (what?) word sticks.
The weight of the category of the American empire hardly registers into our intellectual teaching. The
languages of empiricism. Change does not necessarily mean reform. Frantz fanon. Colonialism is a
totalizing system, it impacts all. “Talking about indigenous people in the abstract, but murdering them
in the concrete”—Dr. Cornel West. The United States does not even think of itself as an empire, we had
manifest destiny….our island colonies, Hawaii, “What, you think we were just out for a swim?”-C. West.
Notion of collectivity: give it up, put your hands in the air, the striking unity of so many, one motion, one
voice, one beat.
31

32
COINTELPRO. Ever heard of it? (FBI’s covert actions against America.) We could talk about this at
Harvard, Yale, Brown and Princeton if they wanted too, a student says in our class. The FBI wrote
Dr. King telling him to commit suicide: “King, there is only one thing left for you to do. You know
what it is…You better take your filthy, abnormal fraudulent self before is bared to the nation.”
(COINTELPRO documents online. www.icdc.com) But like American Indian history, they just
don’t. This is blockbuster material, says the prof. I know more about Latin American coops than
this illegal activity—murder, bugging, fractionalizing—that existed in my own gov until someone
stole and released the documents out of the FBI’s office.
I know about McCarthyism and not this, Watergate, and not this. Dwight, who says he’ll be
a history teacher—a damn good one I think—teach for America, says history is written by
the victors, and the Black Panther Party were not victors. Cointelpro; Hiroshima; Japanese
Internment; Guantanamo; spying. A patriot Act 90% of the country has never heard of? But
touches all. Dissent was the seed of the first amendment, Jessie says. It was created explicitly so
colonists could dissent without fear of retribution.
In our class Camille asks why there is not a national voting standardization, policy with equal
rules. Is it undemocratic that some states polling places close at 7? Others 8? And, tell me again
why we are angry about more people voting, why we want to make the heart of our democracy
harder to implement? Call and response. put your hands in the air, raise your voice, passing the
MIC around, balance of power, interaction between performer and audience, democratic
culture behind it. Equality implicit in all of this. That is democracy, unity, power, individuality, too.
If there is no response the call falls flat, fails, the artist is mocked by the masses.
A deep love, a radical love—by this I mean. What in your life are you eager to fight for? Be
as variable as constellations, change with the months, minutes. We are not running from laws,
but finding them, finding our own print, own history, what is primary, primordial. Never so much
answers, but the source of our answers, the fulcrum of longing, fire-hunger to read a primary
source, feed a primary source, feel it live.
And so we come to today, on the precipice of something as promising as opportunity. Someone
said we can take the horror of the last years and make a change for tomorrow. We will never
forget on whose shoulders we stand. But we will march on. This generation, whatever letter you
give us will not be stupid or passive.

Politically-Correct
This region is
Arid
Barren
Cold:
hospitable
as the ruins of a burnt-out home
charred,
forlorn.
Water sizzles here over baked stones,
then drips away to nourish nothing,
other sustenance ‘disappeared’
–like those our tyrants deemed to be their enemies-
Uncountenanced.
And visions?
Ah, as for those they are not born,
but happen
with the precision of newly-minted arrow-heads.
that fall to strike at our feet,
or
wee boomerangs ricocheting into our heads
doing their damage
as they rush out and bang back in.
This place, I swear,
will be no good for anybody,
or thing,
if
it was not also so
imperiously commanded, and
majestically essential:
a strengthening
must-space to sojourn
to ward off decay and despair
every now, and every then.
Ama Ata Aidoo
Hunger
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Mark Brown
There is something quite relieving about going abroad. It sharpens your senses. Things become new
again. Society becomes deconstructed and we become free of a bunch of our baggage. Living in
Australia has been one of the best times of my life. I don’t mean that in the typical “Oh my God,
I went abroad and it changed my life” way but actually in a sincere manner. Not because I saved
the word from poverty, or alleviated child hunger, or helped in a volunteer shelter – not that those
things are not important and that unnecessary. However, I went abroad to save one person: me.
I would like to take the time to reflect about my experiences about the land I so fondly call Oz.
One of the things that I had forgotten about my experience at Brown University was the agency that comes
with visibility. I feel that in a lot of situations we that we are powerful just by being a presence in someone’s
life or being in the world. Here in Australia, I have been living in Whitley College. Living here has been an
eye-opening experience regarding the ideas of agency and power of visibility. I am queer. I am biracial. I
am black. I am Puerto Rican. Now, although those may not seem so interesting to the Brown community,
consider the fact that, at Whitley, I am the first African-American, the first Latino, and the first queer/gay
person that people have met. Most people are at least given the chance to ease into my complex identity
by meeting a black person, then a queer person, and then a black and queer person. Not all of these at once.
Australia has yet to rectify its issues regarding colonialism with Aboriginal people. Most Australians
only perceive black people through US media (and we all know how great that has done for our image
– not that I am arguing for the idea of “respectability”). There have been so many discussions around
the dinner table where people have asked me, “Are black funerals really like in the movies?” or, my
personal favorite, “Do you all really eat all that fried food?” Now, I know these are stereotypical questions,
but I know that I was able to change the way people think about African-Americans and queerness.
Another interesting aspect of this experience has been the moments in which my blackness has been
highlighted. However, I sometimes forget that I am black when the world allows me. Not in the sense
that I “lose myself,” but sometimes my different identities overlap and I find myself simply in a state
of being. However, being here, being around people so interested and ignorant about black culture has
made my race even more apparent to me. There is another black male in the program with me and his
name is Chris. One time Chris and I started talking about black music, rappers, and the American dream.
After talking to each other for about ten minutes, a white Whitley-an friend of mine said, “I have no
idea what the two of you were talking about.” Another friend told us that he and I talked differently
to each other than we do to other people. Now, I had not been conscious of this but upon reflection
of our conversation I realized that the American accent is already hard enough for Aussies to understand
one can only imagine what African-American Vernacular English sounds to them. It literally is
another language to them. Another moment in which this same hyper-visibility of my race happened
was through a moment when I discussed my hair with one of my friends. Australia is going through a
drought (I know, its an island – surrounded by water – how can it be in a draught?) and so the city asks

for people to take 3-5 min showers. When I was discussing this with one of my Australian friends they
mentioned that they could shower and wash their hair in that amount of time. I explained to her that I
can taka a shower in that amount of time but washing my hair requires some serious time and labor. She
looked at me because she did not understand the texture, curliness, and thickness that African-Americans
must deal with when washing their natural hair. Needless to say, I was a light bulb in her darkness.
Regardless of all of this cultural dialogue, I must also mention that this educational process has not
always been beneficial. There have been moments in which I have been objectified and trivialized.
Returning again to the issue of my hair, one of my friends told asked his colleague if he had
touched black hair before and when he said no, he told him to touch my hair. When he told me that
he had done this I had to then tell him that what he had done was offensive and explained to him
the issues around objectification. Another moment was the fact that one of my friends said, “If Obama
messes up he will be lynched.” Although my friend did not mean anything offensive in an overtly
racist way due to his ignorance of the issue of lynching and African-American history, I had to then
educate him on our violent and brutal history. Moments like these remind me that although learning
from others is always a valuable experience, sometimes boundaries and ignorance go a bit too far.
In total, my time in Whitley has been amazing. Learning from others, picking up the Australian vowel patterns,
and just hanging around has been great. My presence has had one of the most interesting impacts on
both the people around me and myself as well. Australia has reminded me just how important it is to meet people
and to be a body in the room -- a reminder of a world and experience outside the normative and their own.
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A Conscious Road to Recovery:
Talks of Sex and the Collective
Psyche of a People
Elvis Alves
Introduction
I had the opportunity to visit the market place on a recent trip to Guyana, a small country located
in the northeast portion of South America. The Market place is an open, and therefore public, space
where goods are sold, and naturally people gather. Expanding on this point, one can readily argue
that the market place is unique. Everyone must come to it out of necessity of survival. Simply put, if you
want to survive, you need food and food is sold at the market place. It can also be argued that the
market has a life of its own—adding to its specialness.
Healing of a Nation
It is reported that there are more citizens of Guyana living abroad than are actually living in Guyana.
This exodus of the people is primarily due to the high rate of poverty and the lack of opportunities for
social mobility currently prevalent in the country. Regardless of this reality, the people find ways to
survive or at least make sense out of what life offers them. The market place offers a canvass as to how
this behavior is put into form. More specifically, talks of sex (playful or not), and as put on display at the
market place, point to one way that the down-trodden attempts to empower themselves and can
indicate the collective psyche of a people.
Young Girl and Two Drunken Men
A grand public play that involved the intrigue of sex centered on a conversation that I over-heard in
the market place between a pregnant young woman and two drunken men. The young lady looked
to be at least 17 years of age. Upon the encounter, the two older male acquaintances, who seemed
to have been drinking alcohol for quite awhile prior to the meeting, chided her for getting pregnant
again. The men loudly mocked her for not being able to control the sexual prowess of her man (no
mention was made as to if she was married). They told her that she needs to be more assertive in
making sure that her man does not ejaculate inside of her during the act of sex. This warning served
as prelude to the grand scale of the nature of the conversation. More exactly, the two men began to
boast as to the number of children that they fathered.
One of the men was very vibrant and characteristically inviting as he described the different “wines”
that one can perform in the act of sex to not only ensure impregnation of the female partner but also
predetermine the sex of and number of children involved in the pregnancy. He mentioned that in
order to create twins, the male partner while in the act of sex, needs to wine a certain amount of time
to the left, to the right, and then ejaculate in the middle of the vagina. His drinking partner vehemently
chimed in with his agreement throughout this portion of the conversation. They became louder and
more eager to talk as they noticed people in the market place paying attention to them. They relished
in the role of entertainers.
The young woman seemed not to mind that the men were addressing her in such manner and in so
doing called attention to her situation. She affectionately smiled at them throughout the process as if
to show gratitude for the attention that they and others around were paying to her.

Slow Progress
The livelihood of the act and desire to leave the country underscores the falsity of some of the positive
sentiments (i.e. of pride) Guyanese show toward the projects instituted by the government. Citizens of
Guyana know that their government is not doing enough to better their lives. Many are not ashamed to
admit and plainly talk about this fact. Expressions of gratitude toward the projects (that are in actuality too
small to be impactful) are a way to deal with, and therefore survive under measures that are oppressive
in nature.
A similar inference can be drawn as concern why people feel the need to talk about sex in the market
place. Guyanese cannot control many things that negatively affect their lives. This inability is mostly due
to the crushing nature, psychological and otherwise, of poverty. What they do have control of is their
bodies. Talks of sex in the market place can be viewed as a way to publically affirm this control. The
practice as a coping mechanism needs to be investigated via critical lens. On one hand, it allows for
self expression in the midst of social ills that encroach on daily life. On the other hand, such talks prevent
constructive evaluation of some of the sources and consequences of the social ills.
As depicted in the story above, the two drunken men warned the young women against constant
pregnancy but did not make mention to the use of contraceptives as one way to prevent unwarranted
pregnancy. In addition to preventing unwarranted pregnancy, the use of contraceptives (i.e. condoms)
is an effective way to prevent contracting (and spreading) HIV. Thus, there is the dire need for the talks
of sex that occur in the public market place to develop educational leanings and not simply be a form
of empty entertainment. Progressive talks tend to lead to constructive actions—and the government
cannot be relied upon for this happening. Progress depends on the will of the people to bring about
change. The market place offers a public space for the awakening of consciousness in the lives of the
citizens of Guyana. This opportunity should not be wasted by vain talks of sex.
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A Conversation with
Dr. Michael Eric Dyson
Cristina Rodrigues
On January 29, 2007 renowned scholar and author Dr. Michael Eric Dyson spoke at Brown University
delivering a convocation speech for Black History Month. Due to her tenacity and will, Cristina
Rodrigues, a member of the African Sun, was able to sit down with Dr. Dyson for a conversation about
black women, class, and hip hop. The African Sun thanks Dr. Dyson for granting us an interview.
Cristina Rodrigues: You have spoken of the Afristocracy or “Black blessed” as having a history of
detaching itself from the poor, which is reminiscent of DuBois’ talented tenth. Does this situation exist
today? Given we’re at Brown, what type of relationship would you encourage us to build with poor
people? (7:30)
Michael Eric Dyson: First of all, to get as good an education as you can so that you don’t join the
ranks of the economically oppressed. It’s a huge advantage. Don’t take that for granted. Go to
school, study because there’s a correlation between higher education and having a decent job.
Number two, in terms of the representational burdens, I think it’s important for Brown students to
be sharp about these issues that complicate the lives of Black people. So many of the insights and
ideas of the poor people, we take them for granted. We take what we think of as common sense
as the basis for making judgments about their lives. While you’re here at Brown, I would encourage
the Black blessed to study as hard as we can, especially about issues that confront poor Black
people. There are big theories out here that say people are poor because they want to be poor;
they don’t work hard. Is that right? I believe that people can exercise the ultimate form of personal
responsibility and still be poor. You can be well-behaved and not have a job. People do the right
thing and have the right values and yet you’re still locked out of the economy. We have to look at
the rate of the movement of work overseas. If we live in a global economy, it is unfair to blame poor
Black people for economic trends that are much larger than their design. What is it we keep saying
about people? “You’re poor because you want to be poor”. When Bill Cosby assaults the poor with
a jumble of stereotypes and misinterpretations, why don’t we challenge him? Why don’t we say
that’s simply not right? It makes you feel better as a Black elite to throw off on poor Black people.
Well, we should all be responsible. No doubt about that. However, how does that responsibility take
shape? How do we hold people accountable who don’t have the same measures of economic
wherewithal that others have?
And Mr. Cosby’s poverty by the way wasn’t the same as my poverty. My poverty isn’t the same
as young people’s poverty now. Poverty undergoes tremendous transformation over space and
time. The best new work has suggested that most Americans at some point in their lives are going
to move in and out of poverty. Most Americans are going to be poor. Are most Americans lacking
in fundamental elements of human decency and striving that would render them poor? No. There
have got to be explanations located in the political economy in which we live. Or how about
persistent racism? How about when studies are done in New York by sociologists from Princeton who
say you can be a Black man never having gone to prison and the job for which you compete will
sometimes go to the white man who has been to prison. And you’ve studied hard. You’ve done the
right thing. What’s the difference there? It can’t be preparation and it certainly can’t be behavior.
There must be external factors that intervene on the job Market place. Racism is one such factor.
Economic inequality is another. The aversion to poor Black people- how they look, the generational
divide. When you put that together, it’s a more complicated picture. I think Brown students are
obligated to know that and learn that. Don’t take hook, line and sinker what I say or what Bill Cosby
said, but to study for themselves. Your obligation as a Brown student is to figure that stuff out, get
deeper into it. Sometimes old people who are professional scholars haven’t done that, but as an
elite, as a privileged person, we have a vested interest because these are our people. How they are
being examined and scrutinized has a lot to do with our community and how racism operates.

CR: Given that personal responsibility may not be to blame for the situation of black people, how
much of the solution will be institutional reform or an attack on capitalism. How much can be solved
by a fundamental shift in our society and how much is just reform?
MD: Both. Given the fact that we’ve backed off of both, I’ll take either one. I don’t have to go
for the radical reconstruction and redistribution of wealth along an axis of progressive and creative
realization of social goods and civic democracy. I’m down with that but I’ll just take the reform. Of
course, my ultimate is the radical distribution but even reform has been backed up off of now. In
reference to this notion willy-nilly that personal responsibility can solve all your problems. Now we (the
rich) don’t have to be responsible anymore. The dictators of social responsibility no longer have to
pony because, after all, it’s your fault you’re poor. It’s not structural features. It’s not political decisions
made by elites, distributed through the system. No, no, how convenient! It’s your fault you’re not rich.
Minimum wage has nothing to do with it. The depression of wages has nothing to do with that. The
persistence of revolution to Black men in the marketplace has nothing to do with it. Other sociologists
have determined that stereotypes about Black men’s disinclination to work have no bearing on
this at all. That’s ridiculous because we live in a society where stereotypes alter people’s behavior
towards vulnerable poor. Structural pieces play a big part in that. You can see that it’s very seductive
to conclude that it’s the responsibility of the poor for lifting themselves out of poverty as opposed to
pointing the finger at those of us who put them there or the structure that reinforces their position to
be dealt with. Poor people didn’t invent the circumstances by which they’re poor, over one, two,
three generations although most people would believe that they did. Although most people would
believe there’s something destructive about their behavior or cultural values that is transmitted over
space and time that explains why they’re there- in poverty, in the ghetto. I would never deny that
there are traits that are self-destructive, that there are pathological features of any peoples’ culture,
community, tribe or tradition of social organization. I would never deny that but that’s true of every
class value, but now some people have enough money to absorb the pathology or to be able to not
allow their deficits to overrule them or they got mommas and daddies with big enough checkbooks
that they can cancel them out.
One of the reasons I’ve embraced hip-hop culture over the years is because this is one of the arenas
where the ugly truths and bitter realities are articulated that others would rather sweep under the
carpet. Having said that, there’s enough social criticism that blows through the rhetoric and the lyrical
intensity of the best rappers that reminds us of the lives of the poor. Some of the lyrics that testify to
poverty, long before America came to grips with it (and it still hasn’t), is found in rap music. This is
informal ethnology. Radical reconstruction is the ideal but even social reform would be preferable
to the utter disregard for the conditions of the poor. The refusal of those of us who benefit from social
inequality, because even charity which is given to the poor is a result of economic inequality. If we
had radical social justice, charity would no longer be necessary. Charity is possible when a Bill Gates
or an Oprah Winfrey gives money, which is beautiful when they do, but the very realities allow certain
people to acquire enormous amounts of wealth. The reality is that economic inequality allows the
accumulation of wealth by individuals who then because of that radical economic inequality chose to
give some of that back. Charity rests upon radical economic inequality. Ironically enough, the radical
economic inequality that creates the possibility of charity to address radical economic inequality is
a failsafe program generated within the logic and lure of capitalism to maintain the inequality while
creating the appearance of helping the less well off. It’s not all about cash but that’s important.
CR: In your speech, you mentioned a breakdown of four types of oppression women face:
femophobia, sexism, patriarchy, and chauvinism. That was fascinating. Can you break down these
issues a little further?
MD: If we see sexism as the sentiments against women because they’re women. If we see misogyny
as the hatred and revulsion at the idea of women and the sustained effort to subordinate women in
social relations. If we see patriarchy as the conscious or unconscious belief that men’s lives should
set the norm by which others are judged, then femaphobia, for me, is the fear of women’s lives, the
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utter horror that one recognizes when in the presence of a female that generates a nervousness that
comes out in all kinds of nefarious fashions. When I see it in hip-hop, it comes out in the naming of
women, epithets that are thrown at them. And it’s not just in hip-hop. It’s everywhere, because in a
patriarchal system where masculinity is premised on strength and brute force and upon the ability to
be superior when women appear as a challenge to all the myths that we’ve been told about what
it means to be a man, who don’t accept the conditions of patriarchy as a part of their existence,
that strikes fear and horror like white racism. Sometimes just being there, just your smell, your presence
creates fear.
The example I pointed out last night of the example of white slave masters who had the leisure to call
working Black slaves lazy. One of those paradoxes happens when we exploit black female strength
so much and at the same time we want to characterize them. We have this distinction between the
good female and the bad female, the hootchie, the hoe and the bitch, chickenhead over here and
good sister over here. Even that is challenged. A woman is a bitch if she doesn’t give in evenly to your
sexual advances and if she does she’s a ho. There’s no space imagined and created within so many
domains of the culture where woman can occupy as an agent of her own sexual design. If men go
out and get with many women, they’re “the man”. If women do it, they’re cast aside morally, seen
as incapable of being a mother or loyal wife. In that sense, femaphobia is rearticulated as a means
to keep in place a hypocritical system that privileges men. I’m talking about the folklore about male
dominance and female independence. And the fear a strong Black woman represents.
CR: Is grand-scale progress possible within the Black community without a reconfiguration
of gender roles, given the distinctive nature of gender roles that can be seen in the Civil Rights
Movement, considering the downplay of figures like Ella Baker and iconization of figures like Martin
Luther King Day?
MD: I don’t think so. And gender is about men and women. Men think gender is about women
like white people think race is about Black people. In the Black culture, we have failed to grapple
with the fundamental elements of gender while dealing with who we are as a people. What Black
people often fail to see is that gender balance is going to help Black men be more constructive to
each other. Some of the stuff we do is to prove how “bad” we are to everyone else and to please
the women in our lives. But what the women in our lives actually want is us to stop acting like a fool
and treat me right. That withstanding, men perform in some embrace of an ideal and a norm of
both masculine behavior and believing that that will impress the women they seek to conquer. If
we gave up all of that madness and brought real gender justice to bear into our communities that
would help us to stop harming each other and treating each other with deep disrespect. Gender
justice would relieve Black men of the responsibility of performing in self-destructive behavior in many
ways. It’s not just good for women, although that’s primary and constitutive. Gender reform isn’t just
good for women; it’s a relief for men just as the civil rights movement began to relieve white people
of their burden, of the messy obligation of trying to uphold the myth of superiority when they knew
it wasn’t true. Black men, we know male supremacy is a joke. It’s not true, but we have to hold it
up and reinforce it. Maybe gender justice would relieve that responsibility and release the healing,
redemptive quality of domestic existence that Black feminism would bring into the world. Coming to
a more progressive ideal between genders and within genders will usher in true, civic democracy.
Short of that, it’s not going to happen because Black women are over half of our community. They
certainly represent upward mobility and attainment in Black culture. Black women have brought
virtues that would behoove the rest of us to obtain. There’s so much about the nature of our existence
as people that is contained there.

The Staff
Dayna-Joy Chin
David Elion
Cynthia Eleanya
Sharon Makava
Renata Sago
Marsella Kachingwe
Keturah Webster
Cristina Rodrigues
Folashade Modupe
Philip Glenn
Elvis Alves
Amie Darboe
Megan Smith
Design by David Elion and Dayna-Joy Chin
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