Posts tagged as:

death

No More Heroes

by Jose on March 8, 2010 · 2 comments

in life

Superman Dies

Last week, the whole world found out that Guru a.k.a. Keith Elam of the world-renown hip-hop duo Gang Starr had (ostensibly) died of a recent heart attack he suffered the day before. Entertainment bloggers reported it. Wikipedia reported it. Celebrities who are usually in the know said it. Then, I typed up a dedication to the man, thinking these three had become relatively credible sources.

Ten minutes later, the news of his demise was squashed.

I was crushed. Hurt. Distraught. A bit angry, especially after my apology and subsequent redaction.

Then, happy the man was still alive.

His music is a big reason I made it through college to begin with. Songs like “Royalty” and “Moment of Truth” infused awesome street symphonies with super-tight poetry in ways no one’s mimicked since. He isn’t superlyrical or completely braggadocious, but his street tales and messages of peace and reflection carried me through some tough times and even some awesome times. I never had the fortune of picking up his albums early in my youth, but as I got older, I recognized Preemo (DJ Premier) and Guru’s melodies from a mile away.

It also made me think of the people I valued as heroes, people whose names sparked chatter in their respective fields, whose work made people quiver with excitement, whose passion put them just a notch above everyone else I looked up to. During college, I met many of these folks and gathered many more heroes along the way, learning more about myself as a person through their works and my reflections upon those. Whether it was education, activism, writing / poetry, or just life as a whole, I sought these figures actively as a source of the proverbial light.

Meeting them in limited spaces gave me and others the impression that they’re somehow on another level of “avatar” than those of us acolytes. In many ways, that still holds true: when one is still learning and finding their guide in life, one needs those role models to help guide their personas and spirits.

As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve become acutely aware of my heroes’ faults. Starting from my extensive research of the long history of Muhammad Ali’s womanizing and Malcolm X before he became we semi-deify now, my ever-expanding knowledge began to deconstruct the images I had of them, and as I got older and saw my more current heroes more regularly, I saw the griminess, the discontent, the shiftiness, and the inexplicable. I also found myself at a loss for words at the indirectness and secret society rules many of them played by.

In a fit of poetic rage, I metaphorically killed every single one from top to bottom, in rhyme and meter. Like those movies where the one guy finds out his boss / government has been deceiving him the whole time and decides to abandon their rules and go guerrilla.

Except that Guru almost died.

And then it took me back to a discussion our African-American Studies department at Syracuse University had about leaders like MLK Jr., wondering whether his less savory acts devalued what he did as one of the greatest civil rights leaders in the world. One of the younger professors in the panel argued that, because he had these blemishes, he was more closely reached. Before, the MLK standard was so hard to reach for him but now, in a backwards sort of logic, he now felt better about getting to that level.

In my current position, I look at those who I consider role models and that I certainly consider myself a fan of, and have to remind myself that, for all their inner divinity, they are human. They’re every bit as emotional, insecure, wavering, and contradictory as I am. That’s what makes them possible.

Why not pray for peace with them while they’re still on Earth and not when they’re six feet under or ashes spread across a plot of land?

Everyone is on a path that’s asymptotic to 100%. That’s why I can’t blame them. They’re somewhere down the road from where I am.

Jose, who shouldn’t be this popular, you’re far too kind …

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Augmented Reality

by Jose on November 22, 2009 · 1 comment

in life

Heath Ledger

Heath Ledger

In the latest edition of Esquire Magazine (yes, I read Esquire, at least once a year, particularly their end of the year specials), Stephen Marche has an article entitled, “A Thousand Words About Our Culture: Aren’t We Enjoying All This Death A Little Too Much?” In it, he analyzes this idea of celebrity death, its permutations, significance, and manifestations in 2009. In general, his point is two-fold: we make celebrities in large part to celebrate their fall / death and in death, celebrities find new life.

I gave it some thought with a critical eye, and I realized just how right he was. While we may have noted more famous names dying, we also know that the names of notables recognized at any given award show won’t change by much. We so just so happened to have given each and every one more analysis.

I don’t remember much about Heath Ledger before The Dark Knight came out other than his pretty-boy charms and the buzz of his role in Brokeback Mountain, a movie I never watched. I became more intrigued by this man, not so coincidentally, when I heard about his role as The Joker in The Dark Knight and as the details of his death slowly trickled out.

Almost ironically, his role as a demented, tortured, and purposely ugly man hellbent on destroying the psyche of all around him made him most notable to a society that let the affable, incredible, and handsome actor behind the role die silently and with no one to save him before he became a tragedy. Everytime I watch The Dark Knight, I still think about the dichotomy between our culture’s dual isolation and community.

And if it can happen to Heath Ledger, it may certainly happen to any one of us, no matter what we bring to the table.

This year’s even stranger in that now we not only have 24-hour news channels highlighting every ambiguity and angle possible with people who may have had an experience with the recently deceased delivering some off-kilter and semi-unique eulogy to their sibling / friend / acquaintance / former interviewee / co-worker, we also have floods of messages from the Internet controlling our opinions and giving us different dimensions, some warranted, some not-so-much.

Now, celebrity deaths become more than events, but memes ingrained into everyone within a few feet of a keyboard.

It’s to the point where we want to have first dibs on the breaking news of failure and inevitably telling the world how they stuck by that person through their travails, whereas we take our time celebrating successes while people still live. Everyone’s a Michael Jackson fan again this year, whereas before his death, people hid. Everyone’s naming their babies Ted or Edward [Kennedy], but only nodded while his name came up for the last 20+ years. Everyone pontificates on the merits of John Hughes movies, but only caught the ones with commercial interruptions on TV.

Still ruminating over Marche’s article, my thoughts went out to those who currently sit at their deathbeds that matter to us, whether visibly or not, and I thought about how we, as a whole, could remind these folks that they matter before and after they’ve passed on. Thus, when that person passes, the procession of memories don’t pain us as much, and we get to keep those pillars of our lives exalted before our human instinct to knock those individuals down overpowers our rationale. With our impermanence so inevitable, we owe it to ourselves to do so …

Jose, who gives thanks for life daily …

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Patrick Swayze Goes Ghost (RIP)

by Jose on September 14, 2009 · 6 comments

in life

Patrick Swayze

Patrick Swayze

As many of you heard by now, sources have confirmed Patrick Wayne Swayze’s death a few minutes ago, to the shock and chagrin to many of the people who follow my writings in various information sources. While I find myself semi-numb to the idea that famous people have died left and right, I grow rather irritated with the idea that Patrick Swayze died. It’s not because it feels like some of my childhood’s prominent idols started to die this past year, or because I had a certain affinity for Ghost, Dirty Dancing, or his random appearances of Saturday Night Live. What irks me the most is that people already called him a dead man walking and he almost seems like he beat the cancer. Even at 120 lbs. dripping, the life sucked from his skin, and the roles dwindling to shows like The Beast, he still had that signature smile and demeanor that said, “I don’t plan on dying.”

But he did. For some, it won’t matter anyways since to them he was dead already. He fought to prove them wrong. G-d bless; may he find a partner to dance with to a sand castle in the sky …

Jose, who just wonders why …

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Against All Odds

by Jose on June 16, 2009 · 0 comments

in life

2Pac In Backwards Hat & Chain

2Pac In Backwards Hat & Chain

Today will mostly be remembered for 2Pac Shakur’s birthday. The once and still prolific MC carried on a legendary life, evidenced by his persistent legacy and demigod status within multiple communities. He constantly ranks amongst the most profitable dead celebs, and his style continues to pervade some really popular MCs. People like me were also captivated by the man’s intelligence and his allusions to some of the most sacred and revered text we know to this day, and his profound understanding of the plight of the average urban Black male. Yet, we always found him such a contradictory figure, from his misogynistic lyrics to his thuggery, a reflection of his hopelessness in many ways. My late cousin could relate.

Those of you who know me personally also know that last year, my cousin died from an apparent drug overdose. (Even the details of that are shady). My thoughts turn to all the photos in his house, from graduating my same elementary school, to getting his high school diploma. I remember our fights, and the time he came back from jail after almost a decade, swearing off his previous lifestyle, only to walk away from his house when we dropped him off. I remember the random visits to my house, asking for money, or him calling from another small jail stint. I remember him coming to my house and doing little jobs for a few bucks, but suddenly disappearing once when we gave him a $20 to work on something. The next time I saw him was under a sheet, with his mom crying over him, and his brother checking under the sheet to reaffirm what he already knew.

It’s not that these men have some need for friends. Both were handsome in their days alive, and quite popular in their respective fields. My cousin had 2 beautiful daughters, and 2Pac left plenty of disciples and wannabes. They didn’t lack for intelligence, and their toughness is unquestioned in most sectors. We who are social polemicists and “thinkers” often criticize people like Pac and my cousin because they’re somehow “wasting” their intelligence when they spent the last year of their lives almost wishing for death. We can hear the tears seep through Pac’s music, where at once he’s forgiving enemies and wishing death upon everyone in his way, including himself. With my cousin, I saw the rings under his eyes and his facial expressions, tired from the crap the world had to offer him.

This is where many of you will be tempted to say, “Well why didn’t your cousin get a job and make something of himself?” My reply now, and will always be, “What are we doing for these cases when that’s not possible?” And when will we realize that the American Dream doesn’t look the same for everyone? When do many of our prophets, living or dead, get their props for booming their voices for the losers of this capitalist society? We can always be positive, but eventually, we also have to see the ugly, even from brothers so handsome.

Their deaths always give me pause in a way very few of us can understand. Even with such ostensibly different lives like my cousin and Pac’s, it’s almost like the way they met the end of their respective roads converged upon death. Ironically, on the same day my cousin died, my heart almost failed on me. But like today commemorates for so many of us, I chose tehse two men as inspiration to keep living.

A small part of me knows that I gotta keep a message of hope alive, against all odds …

Jose, who wants you to know I ain’t mad at ya …

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Even Pac and Big Wished for Better Dayz …

by Jose on March 9, 2009 · 2 comments

in life

Biggie and 2Pac

Biggie and 2Pac

I wrote this sometime in October 2008, but for whatever reason, people who I sent this to never actually published it. Some of the stuff I wrote in the original blog I’ve edited to fit my more informed views now, but the message remains the same. Please read and discuss below. Also, for more Biggie goodness today, read here for a posthumous letter from the BIG man himself, courtesy of yours truly.

12 years ago, hip-hop and the music world in general still strongly felt the eeriness that all the tough talk on record between Notorious BIG and 2Pac came to a head so quickly, resulting in as-of-yet 2 unsolved murders and, secretly, a slew of other related deaths, firings, back-room deals, and posthumous fortunes for anyone willing to emulate their styles, even if just for the sake of commemoration. Murals, movies, album after album after album, and yet, I don’t think society’s learned from the lessons left behind by our legendary wordsmiths.

Anyone who’s ever taken a brief look at contemporary Black history knows that these schisms have existed for every generation: WEB Dubois vs. Booker T. Washington, Martin Luther King vs. Malcolm X, and 2Pac vs. Biggie. On the surface, they all had ideological differences, and often it led to their believers getting into serious scuffles. In 2Pac and Biggie’s case, it wasn’t just about who slept with whose wife or even East vs. West Coast, but whose lyrics were more relevant. 2Pac may not have had the lyrical wizardry that Biggie did, but for what he lacked in acrobatics and maleability, he more than made up for in depth and topic coverage. Every dude out now replicates Biggie’s image: new social class but still very hood.

I guess the reason I’m writing this now is that I wish we would have seen Biggie and Pac alive now. I still get chills listening to Pac in “I Ain’t Mad At You” (that third verse was definitely about BIG). I still get irked when I see people on Twitter emulating the rappers’ images, but ignoring that the conflict preceded such an ugly period of a once joyous and uplifting form of music for people of my generation. As we mourned, hip-hop somewhat returned to its roots, celebratory and happy to a fault even.

Even with all that celebration, we forgot to reflect more profoundly on the catalysts for said celebrations. We still have a few unsolved murders (Jam Master Jay comes to mind immediately), and an accompanying No-Snitch movement, even where we keep mum about our hood heroes’ murders. We’re willing to “rep” them on record but won’t say a thing even anonymously. Conspiracy theories (and theorists, including myself) abound. 13 year olders refer to people who disapprove of their (often misguided actions) as haters. Everyone remembers riding or dying but can’t remember that the rapper who called for changes during those desperate times in the 90s. Everyone can site the greatest of a Brooklyn king’s party lyrics but only vaguely remember his suicidal tendencies and the pathos that drove him to success.

I’m not one to put words in any of these legends’ mouths (though I’m known to have the spirit move me), but would we really see them beefing still? Many indications show that they certainly had a rift in real life, but no one wanted to see anyone really die. Christopher Wallace and Tupac Amaru Shakur were young men just navigating their way through a tumultous (and often instigating) music industry with enough people in their ear telling them all sorts of nonsense about who they should go hurt to get their respects up.

And I sit here, 12 years after Biggie’s death, knowing that these two men by now may have reached their true potential, not just as rappers but as human beings. They had to have wished for better dayz …

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A Eulogy for Ruben (If There Ever Was One)

by Jose on February 24, 2009 · 21 comments

in life

Ruben

Ruben Redman

“I often wish that I could save everyone, but I’m a dreamer.”
- Scarface, “Smile”

Ruben,

As one of my first students, I remember you as a portly one.

Always dressed in funky colors, and had style for days whenever you weren’t in uniform.

Never really in a gang, but had a tag name (think I didn’t know about that, Trons?)

I’m almost certain, though, that you wouldn’t get into that other mess others were into. You had dreams of doing really great things. Maybe a lawyer, doctor, or whatever other profession your parents encouraged from you. Both of them were there.

And I remember my first year at your school, thinking how nervous but idealistic I was about the prospect of teaching my first batch of students. I remember cultivating that sense of urgency with all of you, that time was of the essence, and that what you’re doing and see around you doesn’t necessarily have to be yours. With that, I learned to push you hard, because I wanted to extract the best out of you.

We battled, and battled hard.

All in the name of seeing you reach your highest potential.

Even though I didn’t get to teach you your 8th grade year, I’d see you on my floor, on the block, with your friends, always with the nicest kicks (sneakers), hanging out with girls.

Being young.

But graduating. With parents in tow. Parents who I got really familiar with, as I called them about twice a month (once for you, once for your sister). So proud.

They say life’s short, but no one ever defines what short is. You never expect that this would pertain to someone like you, Ruben. You weren’t supposed to have this happen to you. You were supposed to mature out of this phase. You, more than anything, were caught up in the wrong place, wrong time.

And now you don’t even get a chance to be at the right place. You’re not getting that second chance. Hopefully you give your other friends a chance to see their lives as indispensable.

Ruben Redman, rest in peace. Stay good.

Mr. Vilson, who seriously hasn’t had the greatest week ever …

For Ruben

For Ruben

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The King’s Labor of Love

by Jose on September 30, 2008 · 10 comments

in life

Who gets to say their real last goodbyes?

Late in August, right before school started, the week that my mentor and friend left to another school for a more prominent position as a math coach, one of the eternal spirits of the school, Mr. N, died, and in surprising fashion. With the vast changes in our school, Mr. N’s death rung like a four-alarm blaze across those who worked at the school presently and in the past. No one could have known that he would have passed on to another dimension, especially in light of his proclamations of “55/25!” so close to actually retiring and never reaching that age.

He was known as the “troublemaker,” an affectionate term for the feisty and cantankerous spirit in him. He’d tell stories of the battles he’s fought in his homeland, his excursions across the world by sea, by land, and by air, his decades of teaching, and often anyone within earshot of his voice knew that he wasn’t even telling us the half. The man demanded a certain attention only few mastered. His swagger and audacity often caused administration fits, children to run home and cry about the mean old science teacher, and fellow teachers to take a few steps back before approaching him.

Inside, though, and this became very evident once you spoke to him, he had the heart of a warrior. He was a true champion of the people, often standing up for the very teachers he’d fight with, and looking out for his most troubled students knowing that they could reach their full potential. Nothing was ever good enough for him, and he made sure the students knew that. His signature stroll in the hallway and thunderous growl could be heard in the hallways sent out the alarm that, yes, he was here, cane, daishiki, golden chains, and all. This king was not to be messed with.

He was a social delight, imparting his wisdom with anyone who wanted to share a drink with him, dancing with the prettiest women on the floor because he said so, and speaking his mind whenever he felt like it, and even principals just had to take it because they knew what he was about. He loved his job, and he fought even harder when he saw others fight just so they could be at peace.

And I’m still having a hard time reconciling his passing. I still expect the man to be there, and even on the train home with my girlfriend reminiscing about him, I was overcome with emotion and tears reminiscing on this African king. He brought many a man and woman to their knees, and embraced them just the same as part of his kingdom. He’s survived by wife and kids, yes, but also thousands of students whose lives he affected, who still scream his name when they see him years later on the street, and science labs that almost feel empty without him there.

Mr. N, your labor of love still reigns …

jose, who made sure I told people who I thought were doing a good job that they were …

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Jail’s a Revolving Door; The Casket’s Not

by Jose on June 15, 2008 · 16 comments

in life

There I go, quoting another rapper again. I consider myself a rap fan by most standards, but today especially, I recognize the power of their words. When Jay-Z speaks of the “genesis of a nemesis” when telling of the birth of a drug dealer, when 2Pac speaks of hopelessness throughout most of his records, and when Joe Budden points out this blog’s title, discussing just how hard it is out there for people who don’t see a way out, I hear it and have been exposed to it for decades. Yesterday was the first day, though, that a foregone conclusion of the street soldier / thug lifestyle hit this close to home.

My cousin Richard was a young, handsome, charismatic man who frankly got caught up in the life. I don’t want to put all of his business out there, but over the last 10 years, he’s spent more time in the clink than out of it, and in some ways, it hurt. It’s family that’s in there. He was the first guy who made me a Yankees fan before 96, teaching me about Don Mattingly, Bernie Williams, Paul O’Neill, and Jim Leyritz. He made it cool. He was always winning the sports trophies at the local Boys’ Club, and he always had the hottest girl in the class. He had a drive and a way of selling himself that made you an instant believer. And of course, he always had the latest rap mixtape in his crib.

But I also know of the fights we got into in our youth, the trouble he constantly got into, the secrets he told me that shook me for almost a week, his 2 daughters by different mothers that he loved but he couldn’t always keep up with, and the habits that he got caught up in were hazardous for his mental and physical health. Despite the disappointment I felt about how his life turned out, seeing his cadaver yesterday reminds me why I do what I do. He had just gotten out of jail, but like so many of our troubled youth, he predicted his own death, and in timely fashion.

I’m loath to call him a rat, a piece of shit, or a worthless vagabond, terms that have been used for him. That was my cousin. I knew something was wrong with him when I felt my heart tighten up the night before. He’s one of the primary reasons I do more than just worry if my kids are scoring high on their state tests. In the position I’m in, I find myself conscious of the effect I have on some of my own children, especially when I already see some of them turning into my cousin. When your life expectancy is “any day now,” investing in your own life is really about the short term.

And the rain yesterday washed over us like a baptism, carrying his soul to a place where he doesn’t have to worry about these Earthly things …

RIP my cousin Rich …

jose, who has no idea how he’s getting into school tomorrow like this …

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Colossal Collisions

by Jose on May 26, 2008 · 1 comment

in life

I went with my girlfriend a week ago to the American Museum of Natural History near Central Park (NYC), mainly to watch the movie Colossal Collisions with the voice of Robert Redford (wondrous, really). and it just got me to thinking about our place on this Earth. For all that we clutter our lives with, the politics, debates, bills, social life, anger, hate, and yes, even love and / or lack thereof, we also forget how really infinitesimally small we are compared to the rest of the universe, and even the galaxy. Thus, it’s imperative for us to also keep everything in perspective, even whilst the universe changes all around us.

I think of this today in light of my cousin’s mother’s death. Though I don’t believe I’ve ever actually met her mother, my heart sank when I heard the tragic news. Death is as serious as it gets for us, and what’s more, my cousin came to celebrate life (a birthday) rather than death. This cousin’s been like a sister to me, and to know that this long-time struggle with her mother’s health has come to this, hurts hard. It’s put my own relationship with my mother in perspective, with the tension we’ve had. In light of this recent death, the overall feelings for my mother is that I love her; none of our clashes can compare to that understanding.

Something Robert Redford said caught my attention somewhere between me wondering how they put this production together, and that’s the fact we look at all the major collisions that have happened in our universe, some insignificant and routine while others looked disastrous and cataclysmic. Yet, these collisions also produced Earth, and the Moon, and the universe around us, creating beauty and life all around us. Maybe we can take something away from the much larger celestial beings, as we too clash and burn, and how often, even when it seems the stars above us seem distant, they’re just like us in our rudimentary behaviors.

jose, who often theorizes on humans’ gravitational pull …

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All She Could See Was Her Mama’s Eyes

by Jose on February 12, 2008 · 13 comments

in life

2Pac


No one knows my struggle, they only see the trouble
Not knowin it’s hard to carry on when no one loves you
Picture me inside the misery of poverty
No man alive has ever witnessed struggles I survived
Prayin’ hard for better days, promise to hold on …

Now that part of “Thug Mansion” by 2Pac feat. Nas and J. Phoenix is the only tune that replays every time I see her. At first, I thought she was as dopey as some of the other students in her class. She rarely participated, and her attention lied elsewhere, and I was a bit frustrated with her progress or lack thereof in my class. She didn’t have any points of entry where she and I could have a good conversation about something other than math, as I seem to have had with my other students. Yet, in my eternal optimism, I decided to move her to the front.

Since then, she’s been doing very well for me, even more recently opening up and scratching on the 90 she’ll soon earn when she steps it up on her participation. Her writing is more meaty, and her math skills have shined brighter. This might even be the case in her other classes. She’s grown a little taller, too, almost eclipsing my own height, and for a girl her age, that might make others around her nervous …

… and it does …

She’s constantly picked on. People start problems with her for no reason. People diss her for her height, making rumors up about her body odor (of which I’m not aware) or her lack of girly qualities, whatever that means. At first, I tried to monitor how she handled it. Her demeanor doesn’t give anything away, so there was no sense in prying since there were no inherent “symptoms” of any social problems. Then, her other teacher read an excerpt of a poem she wrote, and my heart dropped.

For the first time since I was in 5th grade, I was privy to someone who seriously considered committing suicide. While suicide attempts have even become eerily viral, many of these pronounced wishes never come to fruition. With this girl, though, I knew she was serious. And I knew because I know of someone who wanted to commit suicide, too, back in that grade. The signs were there: honest and brutal poetry, anti-socialism, concentration on school to detach oneself from their problems, and problems concerning their parents.

If the teacher doesn’t do the right thing and refer the student but also speak to the child directly about their observations, then the student becomes a victim of his or her own suicidal thoughts. In many underrepresented communities, suicide is thoroughly looked down upon as a selfish and cowardly act. Nevermind that suicide is really a call for help, and the last resort in a list of options the person had in their cry for love. So I fear for the girl, knowing that the parents might blame the suicide on her and not on the circumstances that led to her feeling like there was no way out.

In this day and age, when people quip about committing suicide sarcastically or really just as a teenage hyperbolic social indicator, it takes an awful lot of understanding and listening to know who will commit suicide. And I fear for her, since when I look into her downtrodden and detached eyes, I …

… I see me …

jose, mr. v, and all the other entities I’ve assumed over the last few decades …

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