My question is: Should the poem be bothersome? How does the title “Die Nigger Die” by H Rap Brown make readers – make people – feel? I know both phrases don’t inhabit the same intentions, but my issue with having an issue with the poem is the assumption that poetry is indebted to affirming (ostensible) moral conduct and propriety.

I don’t see poetry as didactic, or instructional, or capable of producing a message that can be retained or seen as relevant on a “personal” level. Those are the objectives of Scripture, religion, political groups and other kinds of advisory organizations. I do think poetry is to be taken seriously, but only insofar as it may be the subject of meditation, spiritual expression, interrogation, discovery – any kind of internal action and movement.

Poetry, to me, is not an impetus for external action. The “pen is mightier than the sword” because the pen will always bring people right back to themselves.

Poetry can only be a warehouse for poems along the lines of the “die negro dies.” It can only house the ugly, not incite it. If individuals can’t express their bigotry in a poem, how else would one rather they express it?

Poetry, in my estimation, has always been, is, and will always be a substitute for action, not a cause for it. Prosecuting scary poetry is, by implication, asking something of the art that it is not capable of providing: absolute security through the restatement of (ostensible) social values and standards.

Here’s the deal: In 1999, Stewart filed a lawsuit against Warner Brothers (film studio that released The Matrix), the Wachowski Brothers (the directors of The Matrix) and Joel Silver (producer), claiming that The Matrix was plagiarized from her book, The Third Eye. She lost her case after failing to appear in court for preliminary hearings, but her apparent negligence does not dissuade me from buying into her story. I do think there was some shadiness on the part of Warner Brothers, and, I’ll be frank, I do believe both race and gender played a role in the downplay of this case and the unwillingness of many to grant it any credibility. Not to mention, as Stewart says, Warner Brothers is owned by AOL-Time Warner, which owns 95% of all media. There’s no way a case disputing authorship – by a colored woman! – of one of a studio’s most megalicious blockbuster hits would be reported on by that studio’s parent company.

To me, the glaring problem (for many people that counted in this matter) is that Sophia Stewart wrote a manuscript that, not only a black person, but a black woman (double whammy!) had no business writing. Black women simply aren’t supposed to pen work on the cerebral, intellectual, and philosophical level of The Matrix or, for that matter, The Terminator. Consider this quote by Sophia:

“When you read “The Third Eye”, you will see it’s all one story [The Matrix and The Terminator]. You have to understand I am very subtle with the way I write, I work on the subliminal. When I write I don’t want people to be able to tell my race or gender. Look at Octavia Butler the most famous black female science fiction writer they never put her work on the big screen. “

And I think that is exactly what the problem was – the manuscript did not dictate the “race” and “gender” of its author as “black” and “woman.” Ooops. Hollywood isn’t interested in “minorities” doing anything too ambitious, but if they do, they are to do so with the assistance of the “majority,” or simply majority opinion. You know, they just have to make the story more consumable for the American public.

It is no secret that Hollywood, for all its progressive showboating, is racially biased and culturally confused. I can’t tell you more than ten “minority” actors and actresses, let alone “minority” screenwriters and directors, that are consistently designated important spaces on the big screen (the obligatory biographical role set aside). Hollywood, to say the least, is terrified of color unless it’s placed in a certain, comfortable context.

I don’t care how many more times Halle Berry or Penelope Cruz win an Oscar, and how often Hollywood puts on a puppet show to appease its cultural critics – the real test of whether or not Hollywood can relieve itself of its racial ignorance and fears will only be revealed in the positions it allots to people of color off screen, such as that of director and writer, and in stories that do not create Wikipediaed or Googled microcosms of their culture and narratives.

Anyway, the disparity of colored voices in Hollywood has already been well-analyzed and chronicled by people a lot more upset about it than I am, so I won’t go off on that right now. I simply want to bring light to the case of Sophia Stewart. Her story is particularly important to me as a black female writer who hopes to see her manuscripts on the big screen. I’ll be honest, I had never considered the obstacles that might face a woman of my ethnicity and my gender, coupled with my ambitions. So Sophia’s story is of unique importance to me.

The very incident of the case, whether well-founded or not, raises an awareness that suggests, as a general rule of thumb, your work must be guarded, and you must understand what you are up against if you release it, in some form, to a marketplace. Stewart originally submitted her manuscript to the Wachowski Brothers through an ad. What you may realize after releasing your work, in part or whole, is that, depending on your physical makeup and plumbing, the battles you may encounter may surprise you – even in the twenty first century.

You can read Sophia’s page on the Underground News Network here: http://sophiastewart.unn13.com/thirdeye.html

Now, I will say I have not read The Third Eye (found it on Amazon, but apparently as of now it’s not available), but I still find myself giving Stewart the benefit of the doubt, because that kind of shadiness on the part of big Hollywood studios is exactly what would happen in a situation like this. Furthermore, the FBI, itself, stated in their investigation of the copyright case against The Matrix “creators,” that “credible witnesses employed at Warner Brothers came forward, claiming that the executives and lawyers had full knowledge that the work in question did not belong to the Wachowski Brothers.”

Ultimately, the question that occurs to me after reflecting on this case is: What is originality? What is plagiarism? I think such determinations will always be for the courts to decide. I ask you, Reader: Do you think ideas, necessarily, recur? Do ideas, necessarily, overlap? In all honestly, I’m sure there are plenty of writers who have penned stories very similar to The Matrix, The Terminator, or The Third Eye. I guess the question is: Who gets the glory? And oh yeah but do we want that person to hold the trophy?

To be frank, if anyone had a copyright case, wouldn’t it be the Biblical writers?! Who doesn’t see the parallels between Biblical stories and The Matrix – or even The Terminator? But do parallels qualify as plagiarism?

Anyway, here is a last quote by Sophia that breaks down the relationship between The Matrix and The Terminator, and her book, The Third Eye:

“First these two franchises are owned by the same people or movie house. Ok, The Terminator and The Matrix are actually “one book”. That’s my “Third Eye” manuscript. It’s nine chapters but it’s all from the same source (no pun intended) Terminator starts from the front of my book to the back. Matrix starts from the back of my book and works its way to the front. They are moving in two opposite directions. My book was separated into two. “The Third Eye” is an epic, my book spans three time frames the past, the present and the future. Those films do the same thing. The child in the first Terminator who is born to the pregnant lady (Sarrah Connor) grows up to be the same as the grown man character in the Matrix called Neo, it’s that chosen one, savior concept. Matrix starts in the future, when technology has taken over. The Terminator was sent to kill the child who was prophesized to destroy the machines. That intersects directly with Neo as being the one prophesized to bring the machine reign to an end. One critic who is unaware of my lawsuit called the movies cousins but they are actually one in the same in the original.”

Again, you can read more about Sophia’s case, and see images of her manuscript, here.

Sources:
Sophia Stewart UNN Page,
MeetMyMind Blogspost
Playahata
Wikipedia

This is one of the many moments that stood out to me from the interview:

AllHipHop.com: To me, Hip-Hop is a cultural element of expression. It expresses lyricism, dance, art; it gives insight into our community. Why do you think Hip-Hop is losing that essence?

Here is Scarface’s response:

“Any two ways that you get a White boy singing the Blues; somebody’s lying somewhere. You know, the Blues—have you heard the Blues before? For a White boy to put the Blues out, and says what’s hot in Blues, it’s a lie; because, he doesn’t even have no idea. He doesn’t have no idea why this is done and why we feel how we feel. You cannot expect for a 45 year old 50 year old White boy to dictate what’s hot within the Black community.”

Really, I agree with him. It evokes an image of someone singing the Blues in a tuxedo on a grand stage with a full orchestra.

There’s a cultural relevance to the Blues, to hip-hop music, so when he says for a white person to be singing the Blues – “he doesn’t even have no idea,” there may be some truth to that. I agree that those whose narratives are most deeply embedded in the spirit of the music are those who should have the most influence over its direction.

Face’s quote also taps into why I believe, when people critique hip-hop, they don’t realize they’re critiquing the forces that commercialize and dissolve the music. People who critique hip-hop truly have not heard it, do not have access to it, or are simply critiquing “the man.”

Anyway, not to get off subject, but the interview is a memorable one. I think Face hits every point on the head.

By the time I finished watching this movie questions flooded to mind: How do you know you’re real? What does it mean to be real? How do we define real? I’m reminded of the movie Bug in which a character tells another character who’s gone off the deep end that none of what she is experiencing is real, and she responds by asking him how she knows he’s real.

The movie also reminded me of some saying I came across a while ago about there being few originals but many replicas. So one interesting thing about this movie was, as the viewer, not being able to determine originality. This difficulty seemed to speak to the movie’s theme regarding authenticity, and to what extent it even exists.

The movie only has Sam Rockwell, with the exception of a robot assistant voiced by Kevin Spacey. It’s a good movie, one I’d watch again. It’s a film that leaves us with more questions than answers, which is my kind of movie.

I’ll preface by saying I know that the title of the movie was originally “Push: based on the novel by Sapphire,” but was changed to “Precious” due to another movie that came out this year called “Push.” So, in an attempt to keep the Sapphire Push distinct from the Other Push, the title “Push: based on the novel by Sapphire,” was changed to “Precious.” With that said…

The title “Push,” to me, is redeeming because, at the end of the film, “Push” suggests that Precious has decided to use force in her life, meaning, she has determined she will mobilize herself on a journey of her choosing – not her mother’s, or her teacher’s, or her environment’s – that she will “push” herself from her obstacles to a life that responds to her desires and no one else’s. “Push” is a title indicating strength, assertion, possibility, anticipation.

In my estimation, the title “Push” alone would’ve made the movie better.

The title “Precious,” to me, does nothing to get under the movie’s skin. It merely cutely alludes to the motif of lost innocence. If anything, the title “Precious” tries to provide whatever positive characterization can be given for a character the movie itself seems to despise.

By the time the movie finished, aside from hearing sniffles from moved audience members and hearing a man sitting on a bench telling a woman, “That movie was so emotional,” the biggest talking point of this movie for my cousin and grandfather dealt with us having to witness yet another movie that shows black people not being any better than what they are in the eyes of a condescending observer. Well, at least dark-skinned blacks not being anymore than what they are to a condescending observer. If you’re light, there’s more hope. But that’s for later.

I’m becoming less and less moved by black people being in these “rose from concrete” narratives that rarely feel triumphant to me. Precious, to me, feels infused with self-hatred and self-disgust. It’s a story that, to me, is enamored by its own misery. Watching the movie, I couldn’t help but think Precious wasn’t even a character indicative of a person, but rather a character indicative of caricature, some exaggerated portrayal consistent with what “outsiders” are comfortable with thinking.

I agree with the endeavors of realism insofar as it attempts to mirror what seems immediately knowable. But this movie, in my estimation, doesn’t mirror the tragic situation it takes on. It mirrors and mocks it to the extent that, for me, the director becomes sadistic, taking pleasure in portraying the agony of its protagonist. Precious is not given the chance to claim herself. The movie only shows us what she is as the story sees her and tells her to deal with it.

My cousin who accompanied me to the theatre was not a fan of the movie at all. Her main indictment: All the actual uplifting characters in the movie didn’t look black, though they were. They all “looked like white people,” or, in other words, were fair-complected, looked distinctly different than (whiter than) the troubled black people in the movie, who were all dark-skinned. I thought that was a good point. What this this tells me is that even black people – the director of this movie is black (Lee Daniels) – can, whether consciously or not, succumb to racial (or colorist) attitudes that foster self-hating and self-defeating narratives.

As for the performances, I liked Mo’Nique (somewhat) – she did a solid job. To me, she wasn’t great because I think great acting has to involve being inside a character, not just replicating what likely might already be at the forefront of the personality you have. I’m not judging her, I’m just saying thatMo’Nique didn’t totally seem to be acting to me, lol…Her final scene, though, was great.

I do think the movie was too judgmental of her. Her meanness was the stuff of hyperbole. If not that, then I certainly felt like the director was trying to manipulate my stance towards her character. I feel I didn’t have a choice other than to despise her. Villains are usually interesting. Okay wait. Villains that you are actually given an opportunity to become interested in, rather than just be repulsed by, usually prove to be, indeed, interesting characters. Mo’Nique’s character, to me, is not interesting. What you see is what you get. The movie pretty much forces you to be repulsed by her, dare I even say laugh at her craziness. (My cousin told me her friend laughed at Mo’Nique when she saw the movie. That sort of reflects what I’m talking about when I say her character is what it is – nothing more, and her performance isn’t great. It’s just…her? Sorry.)

The explanation at the end of the movie as to why she is so mean to her daughter, Precious, fits in an odd psychoanalytically weird kind of way. I would’ve preferred the movie without her explanation, because explanation, to me, should serve to open the audience to a character’s situation. To me, ‘Nique’s tell-all scene, though well-performed, made the movie more ridiculous because, at that point in the film, I really didn’t care what she had to say. The movie did not warrant her having a monologue, because caricatures don’t have a voice, and her character was complete caricature to me. I’m sure she’ll get some kind of award for this performance. She’s already been nominated for a Golden Globe at the time of this post. I’m less concerned with the accolades she may or may not get, and more concerned with what those accolades always represent for black actresses who take on roles that put themselves in the good graces of their industry: staying put.

Well, what is good about the movie? I guess it wants to teach self-acceptance, if I can even call it that. In my estimation, the movie actually doesn’t teach that at all since it has this recurring theme of Precious wanting to be white or light-skinned (all the people “better” than her are fair-skinned). At the end of the day, I do feel this movie is about Precious accepting who she is, but not necessarily wanting to be who she is and “pushing” to become something she feels is superior to what she is now.

Issues of racial identity and colorism can certainly be evaluated in this film. One of the very first things Precious says in the film is that she wants to have a light-skinned boyfriend. She also says she desires to be light-skinned. At one point in the movie, she looks in the mirror and her reflection is of a white woman. The movie, I don’t feel, quite makes a statement on those desires. They are just left as they are. She does not want to be what she is, and, for all that she is, she certainly doesn’t want to be dark while being those things.

One thing I will say about Precious, and what interests me more than anything else in the movie, is the importance of language. Precious reminds me so much of Celie from The Color Purple. Both sort of write themselves into existence, find rites of passage in writing, create themselves in words, and at some point, insist on their own narratives. So I find it particularly interesting, then, that the teacher in the movie frequently tells Precious to “keep writing, write, write, just write…” to keep yielding herself to language. Precious never really situates herself until she begins to write, and as she does, her story begins to unfold.

Anyway, I know many people adore the book and the movie. I haven’t read the book, and, thanks to the movie, have very little to no interest in doing so. I will be frank: I can’t see how anyone would enjoy this film, or find much of anything admirable in it. If you’ve seen it, what are your thoughts?

It’s actually the first movie that made me cry, and that was while I wasn’t even watching it. No, wait a minute. Father of the Bride was the first movie I got misty on, followed by Boys Don’t Cry, and then Black Hawk Down.

Boys Don’t Cry messed me up, though, meaning it “stuck” with me, was constantly present in the back of my mind providing thoughts for consideration. I think it had such an impact on me as a viewer because I have a soft spot for “love stories,” and even more than that, I’m deeply intrigued by what a “love story” is. Movies that don’t make assumptions about the nature of pursuing love, and assert rather than absorb ideas about that pursuit, are movies that affect me the most.

I’m reminded of a scene from Boys Don’t Cry in which the protagonist tries to explain to someone a dilemma she feels she needs to be privy to, and stating, at one point, “it’s complicated.” That statement, to me, stands as a symbolic comment on not so much the nature of her perceived condition, but rather the nature of attempting to fulfill the concept of love. It is complicated, involved, ambiguous, uncertain. What does it entail? Is it a continuous pursuit? It is ever really fulfilled? Can the journey be completed?

And I don’t think a love story is a story about someone “falling in love” with someone else. I guess those are more like romance stories. I think a love story involves a character deeply affected by the idea of valuing someone so greatly, so deeply, so humbly, it supersedes his humanity. The love story is the belief in such a vision, and having the heart to pursue it. It’s about the idiosyncrasies of the journey.

Anyway, ten years later I look back on this movie, understanding that I like it because it recognizes the protagonist as someone who made an honest human endeavor to embrace that journey. That’s all I really ask of any movie – be honest.

As a viewer, I’m simply interested in the pursuit.

Mysterious Skin a somber narrative about the ramifications that can extend from child abuse. It genuinely shows how such circumstances cause the main character, played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt to, in turn, abuse himself. In this film, Levitt really got me noticing what an incredibly gifted actor he is. He gives one of the most outstanding performances I’ve seen. To me, it’s the performance of a lifetime and shows him coming into his own skin as an actor.

The movie is pretty heavy dramatically, and will make those uncomfortable watching work dealing with child abuse to turn away from it. (The movie was almost banned in Australia). What is compelling about this movie is how convincingly it deals with the repercussions of abuse, and without desperate hyperbole. What happens to Levitt’s character actually seems more like repercussion than condemnation. It’s not judgmental or angry, only honestly affected, which I think allows the movie to be as moving as it is.

And Motion’s purist attitude of wanting to keep the hallowed halls of poetry sterile from anything that won’t inch its way into the good graces of his poetic definition is indicative of a problem that will continue to deepen the schism between people and poetry.

Again, you can read the article here.

So now here is the argument: Sometimes, you can steep too low when trying to make poetry appealing to teenagers. Apparently, hip-hop music, while being the closest rendering of poetry at its roots and staying true to the art’s most formal, original forms, is still, somehow, the lowest pier for teaching poetry.

I’m not afraid to say that, again, those who stick up their noses at hip-hop have never listened to a hip-hop album in their lives. It’s the idea that that man, with the sunglasses and pigtails can, no, should, actually write something that can demand our analysis in the same way the rosy-cheeked guy can, that sickens many of our beloved elitist superpoets. Any time you start separating art, suggesting that you can’t look at exhibit A to learn an appreciation for exhibit B and, in turn, learn about their familial ties though unique in their individual elements, you push the stake harder through the heart of that art.

Rap and poetry are akin to me, anyway. So, my issue with Motion and this John Lundberg of the Huffington Post: How is excluding Snoop from poetry lessons maintaining the integrity of poetic study? Rap, to state the obvious, is pure, formal poetry – spoken, metered, rhyming.

So says Lungberg:

“But Motion is right that artists like Eminem, and even Angelou, only scratch the surface of poetry’s power.”

Look, I agree that Angelou isn’t the best American poetry has to offer (as a matter of fact, I don’t care for her work at all), but Eminem is a very worthy writer to study. I did a presentation on one of his songs in a Meter & Rhythm class, and realized what a great lyrical composer he is. No one writes like him. I’ve studied his rhymes, like, sat there and not only broke down the unaccented/accented nuances of his songs, but also broke down his rhyme schemes and the musicality of how he writes with the words, alone.

This article by Lundberg is afraid of what poetry is. (And don’t ask me what it is!) So, what Motion and Lundberg are telling us to do is vociferously rehash the same old voices and keep seeing where they take us, because it is only through their voices we will understand all stories.

Frankly, I love Poe, but I’m all for introducing Jay Z, B.I.G, Aceyalone, Eminem and Diamond D into our poetry classes. Teenagers need to know that poetry doesn’t have to be up there, somewhere far in the distance of the clouds where they need a pedagogical ladder to climb to be able to touch the bottom of the words. Let’s start with what’s right now; stop harking to an eighteenth and nineteenth century poetic past and demanding its relevance at every twist and turn, insisting on making it unconditionally important to minds that may be more interested in the poetry of the culture that appeals to them, the poetry of their generation that they feel coincide with their voices in these times in their language.

Why must we always say, “Well, let’s try to show how Shakespeare’s sonnets can be compared to rap”? I mean, that’s fine and all, but why can’t we start with here? Why can’t the bar be those of this poetic present? Hip-hop is a starting point – more teenagers have taken in poetry from listening to hip-hop than from choking up Shakespeare. The fact that, to me, more teenagers can “bust a rhyme” by their favorite emcee than “bust a sonnet” by Shakespeare reveals, to me, that folks like Snoop, Fabolous, Joe Budden, Cam’Ron, represent the bar by which this generation finds its poetry. Why can’t these little literary cults wrap their minds around the fact that, yes, Shakespearean poems and Snoopian lyrics have plenty in common, and that either can be the stepping stone for engaging in each others’ works?

Why must the poets of this generation be pushed over because of a dire insistence to listen to the voices form the graves from which all living poetry must be measured, from which all of today’s experiences must find validation?

Photo Citations: http://www.nlcphs.org (Shakespeare); http://www.babble.com/ (Snoop)

The article is on ethnopoetics, a term coined in the 1960s by anthologist Jerome Rothenberg. I had heard the term ethnopoetics before, but did not know much (or anything) about it. I had assumed it referenced the study of poetics from “ethnic” cultures, but realized that definition implied a kind of centrality that I was sure the study, itself, would likely reject.

Ethnpoetics is, at heart, the study of primitive poetries and song. In a broader sense, research Professor Dennis Tedlock states that the study of “any poetics is always an ethnopoetics.” And one of the most valuable commentaries, to me, on the usefulness of the study is also provided by Tedlock: “It is precisely by the effort to reach into distances that we bring our own ethnicity, and the poetics that goes with it, into fuller consciousness.” I like his use of the term “distances,” avoiding the suggestion of an alienated other, and, instead, suggesting a place of possibility.

Anyway, the article by Noriega is really informative and fascinating. Be sure to take a listen to the soundclips, without which the power of the article may not be fully realized.

What I admire most about ethnopoetics is that it seems to be an attempt at unification through translation. It’s not an estranging kind of study, but rather an interactive one in which primitive work is, in a way, reborn, in the hope of discovering not only the circumstances of its origin, but also the capabilities of our own poetic craft as well.

I can say that I like the endeavor of ethnopoetics, reflected in Noriega’s suggestion that it strives for transformation more so than transparency. I especially like how he shows this in his citation of Pound, Ginsberg and Blake (going back to the idea that ethnopoetics is a unifying practice).

After reading the article, I’m reminded of the old adage that there’s nothing new under the sun. What we do, even when we feel we’re discovering new information, is merely translating preexisting information. So, I’m confronted with the question once again of what it means to be original, if anything of that nature can be accessed without supernatural intervention. The title of the article, in that regard, strikes me as intriguing: The Original Performance Poetry. Didn’t that happen in the Book of Genesis?

Anyway, the article was a great read. Again, you can find it here.