The Cypher

Cipher-Definition cy·pher n. & v. 1.) A cryptographic system in which units of plain text of regular length, usually letters, are arbitrarily transposed or substituted according to a predetermined code. 2.) The key to such a system. 3.) A message written or transmitted in such a system.

Sunday, April 08, 2007

Do Not

Don’t make me mask my pain
Act like life’s okay
Or give me reason to apologize for who I am

I wear the shackles and chains of my ancestors as precious heirlooms
Their wounds; I wear on my feet
Never treading lightly
Cautiously moving
I bask in the freedom they once hoped for

Don’t make me mask my beauty!
Contrite for my color
In despair for my thighs
Overly self-conscious for my wide back side

I carry the hips
From which nations were born
Full lips beget kisses
Or to release venom and scorn
This voice sounds off
Like trumpets and horns
How dare you attempt to silence me?

Don’t make me mask anything!
My joy…my pain…my beauty…my essence
My past…my future…my present

I stand before you unconditional
And unapologetic in this vessel designed fearfully by God

Who am I to cover his master piece?

Untitled.

Somewhere inside these Blues eyes
My young sorrow thrives

I hold my pains captive
Like the winds that blow east on Tuesdays

I know I’m 60 years too late

I play
Not for you…but for me

Because I still get Dizzy
Speaking this language most can’t decipher

I live my life longing for:

Long riffs
Smoky notes flowing through the air
And cool brass on my finger tips

(Written about a Young Ohio boy that can play the Jazz Trumpet like no other.)

She Sings To Me...An Ode To Billie

Sultry songs sooth seconds as they pass
My flag
Is at half mast for her
Who?
Lady Day
Melodic notes resound in the back of my mind when her presence graces my thoughts
She left me too soon
To the tune
Of Blue Turning Grey Over You…
Had to see her
To believe her
She didn’t wish on stars
She wished on the moon:
The only thing that could keep her grounded
Because she stayed higher than the cost of living
She could no longer foot the bill
Still my mind drifts to her every now and then
Getting off the train
At the same place where my mother began

Sunday, December 03, 2006

Kool Like That

Kool Like That

Before today, I had only heard the name, I had only seen the face, but never had I put the two together. He was the man, the myth, the legend. I, being born in 1984 captured the last of the essence Hip Hop had before it transitioned into what we see today. And there I sat…second row, middle seat, facing a stage not knowing what I was about to behold would ultimately change my life.

His mother, a nurse, moved to the United States from Jamaica in 1967 when he was about 12 years old. His father, a mechanic and a body builder. His name, Clive. But you don’t know Clive, you know him as Kool Herc. And don’t dare call him anything but. Where he got his start? Spinning records at his sister’s birthday party on August 11th 1975. What a great gift to your sister. Creating Hip Hop.

They made about 300 dollars that night in the Bronx by selling franks and soda; And by charging twenty-five cents admission for ladies, and fifty cents admission for gentlemen. There was only one rule: “DON’T START NO SHIT.”

The Rock-&-Roll Hall of Fame auditorium turned into a time machine as every member of the audience traveled back in time to 1970s Bronx. Herc began by sharing the difference between today’s Hip Hop and what he created: “I didn’t put the money on my back (i.e. clothes and jewelry); I put the money back into the sound system.” If that doesn’t speak to what Hip Hop is today, what does?

Herc went on to talk about the difference between real DJs and the DJs you hear in the club. “(Most DJs) don’t take chances. They play what’s on the radio, and that’s where the fights start.” A real DJs, he went on to comment, “Gets you up, gets you together, and gets you down.” Most never consider the responsibility of balance a DJ must take on.

As far as violence in Hip Hop is concerned, Herc had a lot to say. Primarily on the sagging pants, to the so called “gangstas”, and the consistent slaying of the artists. Herc explained that the sagging of pants was a statement of the prison mentality. Relaying that belts and shoe laces were forbidden so inmates wouldn’t hang themselves. And as far as “gangstas” are concerned, he stated that “people hang around gangstas, write about gangstas, but they’re not real gangstas.” He made the crowd realize that nobody in other music genres is being murdered. Herc was stabbed three times (he showed the crowd the wounds) in his side. When he spoke about all of the senseless slayings of Hip Hop entertainers, he used the analogy of a train wreck waiting to happen. “Instead of their “friends” supporting them and telling them to let the bullshit go, people want to see the train wreck.”

During the question and answer session, a 35 year old man stood up and questioned why there were more white people than black people at a Hip Hop festival. The first thing I thought of was that he should read Bakari Kitawana’s book: Why White Kids Love Hip Hop. But what can I say; I am not the innovator of this culture that has ultimately taken over the world. Herc’s answer was simple and to the point: “White people come out to have fun; we come out to fuck each other up. (White people) don’t want the element, they want the music.”

Kool Herc is a part of a clothing company named Sedgewick and Cedar. The main purpose of this company is “educating kids through fashion.” The name was coined from the two places Hip Hop originated; Sedgewick (the street of the apartment complex where Kool Herc and his family lived, and threw parties), and Cedar Park (where the first “park jam” took place).

The most beautiful part was that Herc and his entourage handed out these thirty dollar shirts to people in the audience (You know I got one). Yet another difference between the infancy stages of Hip Hop and now; its not about the money, its about educating and expressing. Many people can be found wearing this vintage chic garb including; Mos Def, and Jay-Z and even Russell Simmons and Kelly Osborne.

Kool Herc, also known as THE FATHER, concluded his time by blessing the audience with a demonstration on the turn tables (record players for the Hip Hop illiterate). He proceeded to take off the sunglasses he wore the whole night and put on his traditional eyeglasses. He took off his had that hid his dreadlocs that fell close to his waist and pulled them back with a Pan African wrist band.

Herc then took out a stack of 45s (if you don’t know what a 45 is, ask your mother, better yet, ask your grandmother). While preparing himself, Herc spoke of what made him different from other DJs. He was so awesome because he played the music that was not only new, but the music that the dancers wanted to hear.

The crucial component that Herc introduced to the world was the “Merry-Go-Round” which simply meant extending the break. The break is the part of the song that has no lyrics and is just the music. Most times the horn, stringed instruments, except the bass are eliminated also. It is the essential part of the song for dancers because the bass is increased and the drums stand out.

Herc played a mix of soul, funk, rock, and R&B blending records perfectly together, barely using headphones. Herc said “back in the day, they didn’t have headphones, so I had to know the record.” Herc played a song by Ray Charles that most had never heard before, then went on to play Kanye West’s “Gold Digger”. Herc then the crowd with a song by Inika Mosley which is the song that Damien Marley sampled for his hit “Welcome to Jamrock”.

Showing the Diasporaic power of Hip Hop Kool Herc concluded with a remix of “The Message” by Grandmaster Flash from Australia. As everyone chimes in with the lyrics, I look over to my left and see a little boy no older than 10 years old, singing the song right along with us. Giving hope to all that Hip Hop is not in vain, and that truly, as Herc said, “Music is food.”
© Eris Zion Venia Dyson
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Something New...Pull Up Your Pants

So...

Its been forever and a day since I've written a blog, and instead of just posting poetry (I deleted it all), I thought that maybe I should use this forum for its original purpose...An online journal. So where do I start? Right now, I am in my sophomore year of college and Notre Dame (it's in Cleveland...Not South Bend). Currently I am taking a newswriting class and its very interesting. I can honestly say that I am learning a lot. This class is what inspired me to actually write a traditional blog, so here we go!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday,

A friend of mines came to my dorm room just to chat while her laundry was drying. As we were chatting, two young freshman came by. One of the boys wanted to "talk" to my friend (as in date). She asked him how old they were, and both of the boys replied 18. My friend and I both laughed hysterically because we are both 22 years old. After my friend left the young men were still hanging around and he wanted to know how he could gain the interest of her.

The first thing I told him to do was to pull up his pants. He asked why, then said he like saggin' his pants. I told him to come over to my computer and spell the word saggin'. Then I told him to write the word saggin' backwards.

S-A-G-G-I-N

N-I-G-G-A-S

I told him the origin of that look was from prison. Men in prison wore their pants low when they were spoken for. The other reason their pants looked like that was because they were not allowed to have belts because prisoners were likely to try to commit suicide.

We as young black people have to be the ones to effect change. We are dying. The media has made a mockery of the Black American. Even our brothers and sisters from Africa don't take us seriously. Something as simple as pulling up your pants and standing with your head high could made the biggest difference in the world's perception of us. It is time to do right by ourselves. We need to love and embrace each other. No one is going to do for us.

It all comes down to perception. What people perceive, is what is reality to them. We have to change not only the media's perception of us, but we need to change the perception of ourselves. Remember all eyes are on you Black Man. All eyes are on you Black Woman. All eyes are on you Black Child. People are waiting for us to mess up. We have let not only the media, but the government and the world taint the pure essence of us. They have stripped our culture down to the point where we only believe we can become rappers and sports athletes. We are so much more.

To all my black men,

Its time to stand up. There are billions of Black Women who want to do nothing more than worship the ground that you walk on. We are so in love with your potential. We want to have your back, we want to love, support and cherish every ounce of your being. But with that you have to show that you are willing to be the head of our house holds. You have to prove yourselves worthy of our submission. We need you to be hard working...Not a hustler. We need you to seek higher education, to seek spirituality. We need you to stand! And trust us, we will have your back. We know that it gets hard, we know you get weary. Trust and believe that there is nothing that a Black Woman and a Black Man can't handle with God on their sides.

To all my Black Women:

It is also time for us to stand up. It is time for us to stop using our bodies as our primary form of communication. It is time to be that virtuous woman that Proverbs spoke of. We can not sit by the way side, while our men our dying by the masses. We are the epitome of Black Love. It starts with in up. We need to speak with conviction to let not only our Black Men know, but the world know that we are the Mother's of this world. We are so powerful. We are so beautiful. We need to love and embrace every blessing God has given us physically emotionally and spiritually.

For all My Black Children:

We need to love them. We need to teach them. We need to stand up for them. We need to protect them. We need to show them that there is not "get rich quick." We need to tell them that they WILL die trying if the submit to a life of crime and deceit. We need to teach our children to that no one will love them the way we can. And being a basket ball player, a rapper, or a drug dealer is not reality, its not realistic and a small percentage of people ever make it that far. We need to teach our children that we can be better than the rappers and athletes. We can be the owners of these sports teams, we can be the CEO's of our fortune 500 companies. We need to believe in literacy. I am almost certain if we were to look back to the 1930s and 40s, the literacy rates for Black American Children are probably still the same.


Ok...I am stepping off of my soap box now. Pull Up Your Pants.