Epitaph for Poppa (Because I feel like you're dead)

They say that humble beginnings are when you've began in a deprived situation,
So I must've been humble since I came out of the womb,
Because here I am,
Yearning for the day we’ll be together again for the first time,
Thinking about your stick and stone of a love that led to words you didn’t have,
that are still hurting me,
My forgiveness for my father has gotten lost between the lines of a sad poem,
Written after my ears bled the words after being stabbed by a voicemail that was too late,
And too fake.

Mom always said you weren’t shit.
Probably couldn’t even make it in my pampers,
Maybe that’s why you weren’t there to change my pampers,
I ask, where were your fingerprints on the bars of my baby crib?
Or on my stroller,
Or kindergarten and grades 5, 8, and 12 graduation diploma,
Why were your hands never cupped around my back so I could pour into you,
When I needed to,
When I needed you,
When I hugged myself on Christmas mornings because mom worked overtime making sure that her boss’ children would receive presents for the rest of their lives,
Believe me when I say Santa Clause came to town just as many times as you did,

And it’s funny how the dryness of your soul is what created my damp pillows,
I even dreamed about crying myself to sleep,
After doing it enough to choke on the reality that you didn’t want me,
Had enough nightmares that they would become synonymous with my dreams,
For twenty years I have watched my disappointment sprout,
Your weeds have been the thorns in my flowery quicksand of a life since I was just your seed,
Watering it with my tear ducts,
I’m tired of walking on spilled tears that you never bothered to clean up,
Tired of mourning over broken promises that were never fixed so you wouldn’t have to construct a relationship,
And here you are today.

Again where you won’t be tomorrow,
You are cheating on with yourself because you are quitting while you're still behind,
Two hundred and nineteen pictures that I have taken without you,
And had you been there for any one of them,
You would’ve learned that your son has a photographic memory,
But remember this.
Every poem that I have written about you, you have written for me,
And the only time I’ve felt apart of you was during preconception,
I hope that you live long enough to wonder if I treated your grandson the same,
And if I haven’t grown up to be a man,
Know that it was through your absence that I learned that it was best to just be human.

Better Get Hit In Yo' Soul

It is a matter of record,
That the records that have been recorded are recording the writings of writers who have written themselves into a coma,
Green pieces of paper, larger green lawns, and fake green eyes with voluptuous bodies of all colors have made these writers drowsy,

And despite the need for visually capable human beings to lead the blind,
These writers are journaling their songs through dead consciousness,
And the recipients are receiving substance from writers who are dead, alive.

The Black and brown proprietors donned in platinum and gold insecurities shelling out silver CDs and mp3’s have unevenly distributed their colorless garbage to the white community,
Therefore allowing the Anglo, to construct an angle, that narrows their perception so acutely that they miscalculate our shape as a people,
Somebody get them a protractor, so they can realize, that not all Black angles operate with the same degree,

Somewhere the unknown is whispering that you cannot buy freedom.
Instead we buy bullshit when the real shit is free.

Supporting victims who lyrically celebrate the demise of all who have fallen with them,
And these victims,
Are winning Grammys while disrespecting our grannies,
Neglecting the strength it took be mothered by their mothers,
Through songs they sing about our daughters,
And while little Sasha cheers because no one has taught her,
Michael slays his extended next of kin because he has been swallowing their metaphors for so long that when it is time to show real guts,
It’s their bullshit that he coughs up,
And his brother that he knocks down,
All because he could only bop his head to sounds with not enough love and more than enough frowns,
All to just be down,

And aren’t we all?
Down…
With more than enough empty dreams of ascending up to go around,
While our informal music instructors teach our women to dance and get around,
For too long we have constructed our own burial grounds,
With shovels covered in hot beats, hot chains, and hot clothes,
Digging the holes while professing hot words that couldn’t be more cold,

So somebody send an open letter to our people,
And tell them,
Do not let the untrained drummer control the drum of your heart.
Because it is not worth falling that far off-beat.

The words are dancing off-beat.

Stage fright.
A few shakes evolve into a tremble. Nervousness becomes visible.
Fear of judgment multiplies and seems indivisible.
Far from tranquil.
Heart beats beginning to speak a language that’s inexplicable.
I want to get rid of you.

Fight or flight responses warranted.
Flight chosen.
The heart beats have won.
The shakes are dancing in victory.
No shoe laces in my Chucks but my tongue is tied.
Throat is choking white flags.

Feel my feet crumbling on the ground like the separation of cookie from hand.
I don’t understand. This was never the plan. Still ran.
Got damn.

Next time, my head and my heart will have a meeting.
One of them forgot the words on the page.
The other remembered that I was human.
Lost between a memory, blue horizontal lines, and hesitation.
Frightfully forgetting scripted scribbling detailing dead consciousness.

I want to die, alive.

Homophobia is Human Phobia

All of the hysteria surrounding homophobia is ridiculous. It's surprising that the most liberal state in our country, California, couldn't even pass a law allowing homosexuals to get married. In my opinion, I don't think anyone should be forced into having their relationship publicly and legally acknowledged through marriage. Marriage is a sacred institution whose origin is rooted in religion. It's in the Bible. And so if marriage is a sacred religious institution, then only religious people should be allowed to get married. If Biblical text says marriage is for a man and a woman, then let that marriage be for the men and women who are committed to that religion. Everyone else should have civil unions, hetero, bisexual and homosexual folks included.

The government should not be so irresponsible in assuming that everyone in this country is religious and for those who are not, their relationships should be publicly and legally be recognized through civil unions. I could care less about people's opinion about homosexuality. If you refuse to believe that there is no gene for heterosexuality or homosexuality and that there's only a genetic trait for sexuality, and that human beings who choose to engage in homosexual/bisexual activities opposed to their heterosexual counterparts are just like people who choose to favor ketchup over mustard, then that's your problem. If your religious text states that having an affection for Black people, or tall people, or poor people, or nonetheless someone of the same sex is immoral and an abomination by God, then that's a problem that you and your religious constituents need to deal with. Or, if you believe that homosexuals are human beings just like everyone else and that homosexuality and bisexuality is a lifestyle choice just like extravagant/Bohemian living, promiscuity or being a part of the Ku Klux Klan, then that's ok too. But don't let your beliefs affect the lives of people and their happiness. There was a time when White folks said interracial marriage was an abomination and tried to justify it with religion, and there was another time when the same people who fled Europe because of religious persecution, went to an "undiscovered" country called America and spawned slavery and justified it with religion and then there was another time when....you get the point.

Allusion. "Examination of What" by Digable Planets
Time: 1:22
Lady Bug Mecca addresses the issue of the government, and more specifically men, who arbitrate the use of a woman's womb.
"How can I get comfortable when the Supreme Court is like, all up in my uterus?"

Well, how can homosexual couples be comfortable when the Supreme Court is like, all up in their relationship? It is embarrassing for our government to be one of the few who refuses to dignify the relationships of human beings who choose certain lifestyles because of their own religious ideals. What happened to all that hoopla about a free country? Homosexuals are still human beings and the ones who are American citizens deserve and have the inalienable right to have their relationship publicly acknowledged, just like the heterosexuals who live foul lifestyles, corrupt human solidarity and are responsible for divorce rates being the highest they've ever been. Whatever.



One more thing.

Get free.

My First Directorial Project!

This is my first directorial project. It is a performance piece by Ari DeDeaux of Ebony Readers/Onyx Theater. Enjoy.

National Poetry Month (Poem #4)

Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.

Epitaph by Kuamel Stewart

Dear Writer,

The lamp shone on me last night and I was made aware that my death is imminent,
I’m running out of my life’s blood and our rapport is coming to the end of it
From the haiku's’ to the memoirs, it has truly been a pleasure,
From the first the time I saw you through the plastic, to this last letter

Took my virginity in the third grade,
And when fiery arguments left smoke in your house, I let you scribe your rage
Filled books and books, and left anecdotes of raw truth in between the lines of the page
It’s comforting to know that for eight years, I was being held by a budding sage

Remember back in the day when we reminisced about how that girl who used to doubt you,
Despite her pessimism we made journal entries about how the challenge was ideal for arousal,
Had unrequited love in your adolescence, and although that youthful purview was present,
From what we put down, it seemed like you suffered from unadulterated love in its essence

Conjured thoughts on nights when the clock read a.m. and the heat from the radiator had ran
Became nocturnal beings attempting to put a moratorium on the asinine thoughts of man
Went from vowel to consonant that morphed into syllables and became words
Leaped bounds of hate and became constant tidings that evolved into phrases of hope pregnant with nouns and verbs

Saw your truth and light with each and every day that you used me
Swelled with pride after you signed journal entries and prayed that the next day you would abuse me
Just knew that your recordings would be an inspiration to many
Just happy to be the device of your choice and submit to you the liquid that runs in me

Some days you went without me and you lied hopelessly on your bed void of thought
Knew that the block infected in your mind, but trusted your soul not to get caught
When those gloomy days loomed on the horizon and the sun hid from our window
The source of light emitted from what we created and I was proud to see the words glow

Glad you never stopped because a pocket can become lonely
Pushed ball-points out of your Levi’s because I wanted to be your one and only
Though it is impossible for us to always be together
The infinite amount of pieces we devised will be etched in the lore of history forever

So this is one last letter and this time its you being addressed
Quite different from when I was being used to imprint an address
I love you writer and after all that we’ve experienced I can finally put my heart to rest
Just so glad Ms. Wright gave you that pack when you had nothing else to use for the test

Signed,
The Pen

P.S.:
Tell the paper to be still.

National Poetry Month (Poem#3)

Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.

Re[noun]ed by Kuamel Stewart

When I was eleven.
I met her one late night while discovering that I had a penchant for writing good poetry,
I found out everything about her that evening,
She gave me a feeling that I felt I had never had before,
I went to bed that night dreaming about having her when the school bus halted in front of my house the next morning, just in case the water from the curb rained on me,
I walked down the halls of P.S. 319 with her,
She inspired me to have an infectious smile, and I carried her with me to sixth period,
Everyday she was with me until,
The school bully,
Thomas,
Embarrassed me by haughtily harping on my ever-increasing paunch in front of my crush,
I ran home without her, and landed in front of my mother’s mirror screaming for her while I grappled with accepting that I was burly,
But I sought refuge at the desk where I would scribble my ruminations, and she hastily returned,
From that point on,
I went to school with her,
And while my ominous peers made me the highlight of their parody,
I blocked them out and she stayed with me.
She was pretty coquettish at times, and I didn’t mind,
It would only be some days when I wished that she wouldn’t play with my feelings and tell me that she was here to stay,
Like that one fateful night when my daddy told me I was his favorite accident,
Gave me a sullen smile and a hug,
And left me feeling more empty than a bottomless pit whose depths descended into a black hole,
Or when I couldn’t find the courage to tell Stacy that I wrote sonnets about the potential of our consorting and the affable life-long bond that it could lead to,
Or when I stepped on stage into the eye of the beacon above the balcony preparing to deliver my first poem and Stacy sat anxiously awaiting my rhetoric in the mezzanine,
I cried when she wasn’t around, I didn’t feel like my life had purpose without her,
But I aged,
And the more I began to understand that seeking happiness in others was a futile effort,
The more I became appealing to her,
And she blessed me with her presence,
I began sauntering down avenues with my head perpendicular to the ground,
My voice suddenly had base and the thoughts that I used to whisper now escaped from my mouth in intoned orders,
I was eloquent,
I had more control over my interpersonal relationships,
She kept coming back and back,
I would face my nose to the sky, and with her, I believed that the source of my spirit still lied inside of me,
My stature no longer had significance, and my mind and soul became hegemonic
And this was all thanks to her,
And throughout all of these years she still won’t commit to me,
She still flirts with me from time to time,
And that’s ok,
I’ll be happy just as long as she keeps returning,
And although I know she only wants me for my mind, I want confidence to know that she was the best sexual partner that I ever had

National Poetry Month (Poem #2)

Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.

The Nearness of Truth by Kuamel Stewart

The mostly highly anticipated match up of the year.
Thoughts stepped into the ring with its narcissistic flare dripping with hubris.
Not fazed.
Prepared to go to war tonight.
Left, right, left, right.
The superego sauntered around the ring preparing to preface the bout with the reading of the sponsors.
Introspection and vagrancy seemed to have provided the subsidies.
But none of that mattered to me.
Focused, I was.
If he throws a verat at you, hit ‘em with denial.
That unyielding truth of his can’t handle this repression haymaker. No sir. We’re going to win tonight.
He had “mores” embroidered across his waist line.
Not fazed.
His training team traipsed around the ring with their jackets that read, “The truth hurts”.
Not fazed.
I could hear the announcers, “Do you think he has any chance Bob?” “Well I don’t know Chip. You know this guy’s moniker is the conscious assassin. And he said he’s been waiting for this one all night. But we’ll see how it goes”.
Not fazed.
The perspiration ran from my pores.
I wiped the sweat from my face and approached the center of the ring.
I shook his hand.
Thoughts looked confident.
He gave me a look resembling that of a matron scolding her son with her eyes while knowing he was trying to cajole her with a sly smile in his attempt to evade her discovery of his mischievous shenanigans.
Not fazed.
Rings emitted from the bell.
I came out displaying my dexterity with an unwavering fury.
But Thoughts was so calm.
Not fazed.
Throw a left, and a right.
Hit ‘em in the body.
I feverishly threw punch after punch utilizing every tactic that I had learned over the years to elude him
Gluttonous left.
Alcoholic right.
I then delivered a blow that was so hard, I could’ve sworn it would’ve left an indelible imprint in his chest that read, “conformity “
But he seemed impervious to it all.
And while I attempted to reinforce my courage, strength, valor, and pride by saying to myself, “not fazed” yet again,
He came.
His decision to become offensive had been made.
What followed the lie I told myself was a flurry of attacks that became increasingly clear I wasn’t prepared for,
Thoughts pummeled me,
Beat me into a submission so gruesome that I couldn’t even cry out that he was killing me.
My limbs fell asunder.
I succumbed to the duress of his truth and landed on the mat with a thud that seem like a cacophony given that I was hit so hard that I simultaneously acquired a heightened sense of sound.
As I lay helpless on the ground, the brain stemmed referee counted off at the tune of my demise,
Sidled next to me outside of the ring was a photographer, and I could hear him profess, “wow, now that’s a lurid image”
I fell into a coma before the ref got to 4.
In my reverie I dreamed of tomorrow’s newspaper, and an article read, “It seemed like he was over-matched in this one, and boy did he go down quickly. After the fight, I asked Thoughts if he’d like to say anything to the screaming neurons in the crowd who so ardently supported him and he retorted, “Yeah, not fazed”.

National Poetry Month (Poem #1)

Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.


Poem #1
The Plan by Kuamel Stewart
(Inspired by "Berta, Berta" by Branford Marsalis)

Berta, Berta - Branford Marsalis

The Plan

Lower the anchor.
Upon arrival, scour the land.
Guard yourself with your eyes. You have been warned. Their dexterity is uncanny.
They can win.
Begin your pilgrimage to the social dominance we have sought after.
Remember your roots to fuel your search. We praised Him, and they tried to kill us.
It is our time.
Rummage through the forest and find her.
When you finally see her, stare at the body that you could never fathom to exist.
Its locks will disgust you. Yes, I know. How could God create such a creature?
Blessed be the damned.
Appreciate its curves. The pigment will be infuriating, yet pleasing. Indeed, they are supple.
Now is not the time to be lecherous. However, if the call from your loins does not subside, quickly, do your business.
Grab her by her ankles. About face. Head back to the vessel.
Along the way, force her into submission.
Raise her higher. Take the nail and pierce it through every vein that circuitously makes up her hand.
Laugh at her cries. Mock her pain. Smell her blood and let her know that it tastes better.
Make her struggle to rise after she trips over your feet. And call the name that you’ve given her.
Stop by the wall where the hieroglyphics are drawn.
Know that your ire will be raised upon understanding that they worship the land.
We all know that Christ frets upon their practice.
And they will soon learn.
Drag her through the mire.
Let the Earth’s fecal matter finds its way through her skin.
Drown out her screams with intoned exclamations about the fortune that will soon be ours.
Make her realize that hell is envious of the experience that you are forcing her through.
What is she saying? We don’t care. She will speak our language, soon enough.
Strike her with the vengeance that God has divinely told us that they deserve.
The humidity will tire you.
Exact your frustrations on her body. You will be calmed.
Once by the shore, make her gather with the rest of her kind.
Make her look at her home for the very last time.
Tell her that the sand, rocks, trees, bushes, forests, and springs of this land are what she will see no longer.
Push her onto the deck. Drag her to the nadir of the vessel. The smell will be foul.
But the future is promising.
Join your brethren. Drink water from the beautiful ocean.
Calculate the time it will take to get back.
It may be best to wait for night. The stars allow for more precise navigation.
The series of outcries will annoy.
Pour water on the lot to quell their expressed suffering.
My brother, it is time, to return.
The takeover has just begun.
Expedite the night by singing our favorite hymns.

....And Down Goes Machismo

Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry



So, I recently attended a writing workshop that was hosted by an organization named EROT( Ebony Readers/Onyx Theatre). The members of the organization wanted us to understand that when writing poetry, one can write from many different perspectives, a fairly trivial concept. So, they told us to look at the picture to the right of this blog post and to write a poem from the perspective of anything illustrated in the composite including body parts, clothing, sneakers, the ground, the blood etc. I chose to write from the perspective of the wall in the very back and this is the piece that I composed. Also, we had only fifteen minutes to do this exercise. So take one more look at the photograph before you read my piece.






Seen by Kuamel Stewart

I see you..........misogyny,
Taking your lumps for every impressionable mind that you've imperialized,
You're finally receiving a punishment for limiting the potential of debutantes, mothers and wives,
I see you,
Being delivered near fatal blows for being the catalyst of a sexual revolution that would not have been so necessary had not men forced you to exist,
And maybe in that oppressive mind, that upon this very beating that's making you blind, you're starting to realize that that women inferiority shit was just a myth,
Come on,
Tell me what you're thinkin',
Why won't you stop blinkin'?,
Is it because social equity is beginning to infect your God awful God-complex or is it just because her fist ain't shrinkin' ?,
Oh you thought everyone was going to become chauvinist patrons?,
Well, you stumble corrected because I stand firm on the side of matrons,
I see you,
Being destructed for making Sigmund Freud believe that women were just men turned inside out,
So as your nose goes outside in I hope you turn your thoughts inside out and some "I am for solidarity" goes inside your brain and comes out of your mouth,
Hey misogyny, this is the wall speaking and I am a staunch supporter of the matriarch and you shall fear thee,
Do you hear me?,
Oh I'm sorry, it seems as though you can't answer questions right now,
Because she has finally made up in her mind that this gendered society has sexual standards that need to go out of style,
I see you going toe-to-toe but I doubt how long you can last,
I'm sorry for being so brash but its finally nice to see justice hash,
Yeah, I see you ,
Being dealt a physical punishment that does not equate to the mental and emotional exhaustion that you've caused since time was born,
And it's about time that your power driven disillusioned thoughts were torn,
You know, they say you were the first oppression, and now I'm just guessin',
But it seems the very population that you've forced under suppression is now showing its aggression,
And the witnesses that are standing by watching your beautiful demise are now wondering if you can now see equality with swollen eyes,
I see you,
With your bloody wifebeater that overlays the very skin that deep inside,
believes that infinite opportunity and privilege for the sexes cannot coincide,
Well it looks like the people are sick of you being timeless and are ready to see your influence subside,
Yeah, I see you,
Takin' a vicious haymaker right to that androcentric chin that's leaving you stumbling into the egotistical mire that you will soon fall upon,
Look at you,
Weak,
Defenseless,
But I thought the pedestal that houses masculinity epitomized the very essence of strength and valor?,
I'm not surprised that her "strength" is of a superior caliber,
Didn't think estrogen had such a potent repertoire, huh?
Oh well,
Tell that nose of yours to say hello to justice and goodbye to bullshit because your ass is going down,
And this may be a small battle in a raging-but-never-ending-war, but this time,
as once said by the auto-tuned voice of a man named Kanye....

Ending to Poem.mp3 -

Parting Thoughts:

1. Midterms....need I say more?

2. Perfume by Rhymester. Dig that.

3. I'm suffering from severe loneliness and my sleep playlist isn't helping. All of these freakin' love lyric-laden songs keep coming on and it mars my ability to get to a peaceful sleep. I guess it would make sense to just take them off the playlist huh? Yeah...

4. The rain is back and I love it. If I were home, I would drive on the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Drive in the rain listening to Quiet Storm by Smokey Robinson, Last Day by Teedra Moses, and Music by Eric Sermon in repeating rotation.


Oh Yeah,
I'll be footing it to the park where the swoon units walk. Hangin' with musicians. Diggin' on Phoenicians. Hangin' with the rebels. Sippin' on a Snapple. Buggin' with my crew just trippin' in The Apple.

Acting Your Color

So, I haven't posted in the "I'm Mad as Hell and I'm Not Gonna Take It Anymore" section of my blog in a long time. That means that I've been pretty content with things or the Black Panther-esque militancy part of my temperament has been suppressed into my sub-conscious for far too long. Well, it's back again. But my indignation doesn't have remnants of the Black Panthers. Why? Because my dissidence and anger is not being directed towards White people, but rather Black people, specifically Black people who use the word bourgie to slight other Black people. That's exactly why I have a picture of the Cosby family here. Black pundits and thespians have argued that the Cosby family was/is the quintessential bourgie Black family and that they did/do not accurately represent the generic sub-cultures of African American culture. First, it's pretty sad that the pundits believe that the masses of Black people cannot identify with the Cosby family because they live in a Brownstone, have an income higher than 100,000$ and tend to behave as if their members of the affluent socio-economic class. Are there that many poor socio-economic African Americans in this country? Well, if they aren't accurate representations of the Black family, why can't they be a model Black family? Is it wrong to aspire to have a family that expects all of its children to succeed academically and go to college, or to have a dual-earning home with lucrative incomes or to simply have a nuclear family which is the antithesis of what the generic African American family has now, which is having 76% of our homes void of a parent. That's ridiculous. This is not one that you can blame the system on. "The man" is not holding anyone back from being a parent to their children and so often is the case that parents are leading lifestyles that prevent them from being able to be with their families or are making conscious decisions not to be in their children's lives. That's unacceptable. Period. Now on to this word, "bourgie".

It upsets me that just because the masses of Black people who were not born in this country with the privilege of enjoying specific parts of the American culture, such as learning the English language and living in healthy socio-economic areas, that now in modern times the people of color who articulate themselves considerably well, live in suburbia and listen to classical music while having a sweater's arms tied around their neck or the white people who prefer to listen to Rap over Rock and wear Sean John jeans and fitted hats are maligned by the rest of their respective communities who think they aren't "Black" or "White" enough and are selling out to be a member of another racial group. First and foremost, before we are male, female, or born of any race, we are human beings. And aside from the cultures that are generally associated with gender and race, there is another kind of culture: the specific culture that each and every human being chooses to exorcise for themselves. I may be black, but there is a culture that is unique to Kuamel because of the mere fact that I am a human being that can think and reason. "Kuamel" is a culture all to its own. When I was conceived, I wasn't black or male before I was human. I was human first. And so as a human being who is identified as Kuamel, there is a singular culture that is appropriated by the humanity and identification of Kuamel. So before I choose to adopt sub-cultures of race-specific cultures, or geographic specific-cultures, there are intrinsic attributes of my personality and preferences that are going to lead me to want to try certain things and behave in certain ways. And those things have absolutely nothing to do with race and holistically to do with innate qualities. There is a strong chance that I'm going to adopt certain race specific sub-cultures (Black) because of my socio-economic pedigree. But, I will definitely adopt sub-cultures of different societal institutions that are a product of visceral interest. So I guess in this case, I'm siding with nature against nurture.

However, I'm not going to argue that there aren't people who adopt certain generic behaviors and interest of other cultures because they want to be accepted into that culture's group like, White people who try to "act Black", vice versa and so on and so forth. But, I think that it's wrong and extremely presumptuous to think that a Black person who has many White friends, or who's individual dialect is always utilized with proper grammatical English, and enjoys certain cultural things that are not generically or holistically associated with or representative of African American culture is, "selling out". Maybe there's a possibility that they're actually being themselves, which unfortunately in our society, not all of us do. And it's even more unfortunate that someone who is possibly being themselves are being stratified into a "bourgie" demographic. So calling some African Americans bourgie or some White/Asian Americans, "White/Yellow Chocolate" is not cool in my book.

And that's my hiatus for today.

Parting Thoughts:

1. Why am I always blogging when I have some important academic assignment to do?

2. Some lady just had octuplets. Now, it was explained to me that it's been scientifically proven that an egg cannot naturally split 8 times as the most it can split naturally is three times. This lady accessed a sperm bank and had her egg split 8 times to purposely have eight children, in addition to the six she already has. These 8 children will be raised without a father. The mother currently lives in her parents' home and their considerably old. How is she going to be able to afford taking care of 14 children, not to mention the actual mental and emotional raising of the children that she has to do. It's going to be hell for her and I think she made a complete irresponsible decision. Those children aren't going to be afforded the kind of the attention they deserved that will lead them into becoming good people and successful in life. Some of them are going to fall short somewhere whether it be mentally, socially, emotionally, academically, or physically.

3. I will be going to New Orleans for Spring break. Yes! I'm hyped to see the Jazz scene there since Jazz is my favorite genre of music. Shout out to Bob James. His music is pretty good.

4. I always find passing by people while walking around campus a funny experience. It's interesting to see some people who see you about 10 feet away and they don't want to look at you so they look at something else so they don't have to notice you. Even more eerie sometimes, is when you see an ex-classmate and they probably wouldn't associate with you outside of class and when you see them walking with their friends they either ignore you all together while passing by or give you the most sullen salutation ever.

5. Psychology exam tomorrow. Yay. =/



Oh yeah,
Better Get Hit In Yo' Soul by Charles Mingus.
Familiarize yourself with it. Forreal.

Sporting It Out

The annual Men’s basketball game between the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and Duke University programs occurred yesterday. I am a student at UNC who has been thoroughly enthralled by the culture of college athletics. When there is a pivotal game, such as the annual game with Duke or any game involved in the Atlantic Coast Conference or the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament, I always have many of my friends-few at UNC and most at smaller schools that are not apart of Division I basketball and whose environment does not have a significant sporting presence via the athletic program- question me about my commitment to the program and more specifically, the game itself that I’d be watching. In an age where information is accessed via the internet, most of my friends will see me post a Facebook status update that alludes to UNC basketball or the game that they’re playing in and will malign me for being obsessive and making remarks about the other team or the game itself that they feel are utterly ridiculous. What they don’t understand is the culture that exist at an institution such as UNC and what it actually means to be apart of it. I’ve found that many of friends underestimate the culture and their understanding of its essence, significance and effect is what causes this misunderstanding.

Americans undoubtedly live in a society that promotes competition and, unfortunately, most of those promotions are surrounded by sub-cultures that aren’t conducive to socio-economic solidarity. If you consider the socio-economic theory that this country operates on, capitalism, you can easily discern by the intrinsic nature of capitalism that individuals bred within the culture are indoctrinated into a culture that will heavily influence them to be competitive. Since the essence of capitalism is to manipulate as many consumers as you can to ascertain resources and ascend the socio-economic ladder, then the objective of staunch capitalists in life is to distinguish him/herself from their peers socio-economically. I think it is fair to liken the essence of sports to capitalism, which is another antiquated custom of American culture, as it is in many other societies on this planet. People gravitate towards sports because it provides another entity within society for humans to distinguish themselves from others. I also argue that on the collegiate level this voracious pursuit of distinguish oneself from another is given more complexity because the institutions of higher learning themselves. It’s common for people to enroll in colleges and universities and since they’ve been indoctrinated by the American-and arguably humanistic- way of being competitive, they will find themselves trying to convince their peers that their school is academically better and thus should be distinguished as such. Collegiate sports give students another area of American culture for those who have some affiliation or connection with individual institutions of higher learning to do so.

If you visit some of the campuses and surrounding municipalities of the best Division I programs in the nation, you will find that almost unequivocally, that the environment is pervaded by an unbelievably strong fixation with the prominent athletic sport associated with that campus. Whether it’s football at Ohio State University, the University of Michigan, the University of Texas, or the University of Texas (at Austin), or the University of Oklahoma (at Norman), or basketball at UCLA, UNC, Duke University, the University of Kentucky or the University of Kansas; the one commonality between these institutions of higher learning is that the passion and love for their respective athletic programs has permeated throughout the campus and its surrounding cities and towns for decades. I’m not saying that the same kind of passion and ardent fandom for sports does not exist elsewhere on smaller campuses, but it is veritable that at these institutions and others of the same ilk, that the fervent support for their athletic programs are unparallel. I also argue that although academics, resources, the physical element of an institution of higher learning’s campus, and the social atmosphere will inspire a student or constituent of a university or college to be prideful of the school, that the sports associated with the school will illicit people to swell with pride the most. And after that pride manifests itself, the humanistic nature of people as well as the societal bred culture of promoting competition influences people to want to supplement their pride for their universities and colleges with distinguishing their school from others via sports and the intrinsic nature of sports allow that to happen.

So when my friends ask me why I’m going “overboard” with the game or the team, or for those that simply don’t understand the passion that I as well as many others have for their schools, that is the reason why. I think that professional sports operate differently because the fans do not have a secure connection with their respective favorite teams. The owners of those franchises own the team and can pack up and leave the city at any time. Contrary to collegiate athletics, while there are many who have absolutely no affiliation with these schools, their connection with these schools are secure because they are absolutely guaranteed, barring a catastrophic economic meltdown by the school or calamity, that that institution is going nowhere and will forever be who it is and where it is. Also, the people who are affiliated with these schools, the students and alumni, have an irrevocable connection with the school because of their degrees and monetary investments. And so, when a student shows up to a game donning body paint in some hue close the colors of their alma mater, I have absolutely on problem with it. In fact, I think it’s beautiful.

Since we live in a society who’s potential for socio-economic solidarity is marred by intrinsic subjugations, circumventions, oppressions, societal and intricate systemic problems, I think that sporting events, specifically collegiate sporting events gives the masses a few hours of separating themselves from that reality. When 25,000 people gather in an arena to cheer on their alma mater or their favorite school and its athletic program, and those people represent demographics pertaining to ethnicity, class, sexual orientation, religion amongst many others, those things are set aside. For a few hours, there is a commonality between those people. That common purpose is to will their team to a victory in any way they can. Game days at Carolina are some of the best days. Why? Because when there is 30 seconds left on the game clock, the team is down by 1 point, and some unlikely player hits a game winning shot to propel the team and alma mater to a victory, there is collective jubilation. And that Euphoria that the fan base experiences in those moments is void of race, class, sexual orientation and religious reservations. It is one shared moment in which all are overjoyed by the win for their school and in those moments, genuine solidarity comes to fruition. And while that point can be countered by saying that those moments can happen in any sporting rank including, pee-wee, high school, collegiate, professional and Olympic, I think that there is something special about collegiate athletics because that affiliation with that school and alma mater makes that moment even more special because the win allows you to boast for that time, your school, your alma mater, your team, is undoubtedly distinguished from another. And the thirst for that to happen by fans is manifested in them dressing ridiculously, wearing body paint, tailgating for hours on end; because they simply want to win.

Before I enrolled at UNC, I read a book entitled, “To Hate Like This Is to Be Happy Forever” by Will Blythe who actually has a street named after him in Chapel Hill and on the UNC campus. While I knew the significance of Carolina basketball before I applied for admission because it was that very culture that enticed me to want to come to the school, upon reading that book I truly internalized what it meant to be a Tar Heel fan. And one of the sub-cultures and the most prominent sub-culture amongst many of Carolina basketball’s sub-cultures is the rivalry with Duke University.

You can resource Wikipedia about the rivalry if you want extensive knowledge. There is no greater rivalry in sports than the one between UNC and Duke. Some argue that the rivalries between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox, or the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics, or the University of Michigan and Ohio State are better; but take heed to my words, there is no greater rivalry than UNC vs. Duke. Why? Simply because outside of the game itself, there are so many variables that affect the culture of not only the game, but the schools themselves. It’s the battle of the local school (the large public University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill) versus the outsider (the small private school in North Carolina who’s student body is largely from out-of-state). It’s a battle of the esoteric, elitist, pompous, affluent, conservative Duke University constituency versus the middle class, progressive, blue collar UNC constituency. Historically, Duke has recruited more unathletic white players whose basketball savvy suffices for their lack of dexterity and Carolina has recruited athletically gifted athletes who can run and jump through gyms. And despite their glaring difference in athletic ability, the success against one another and against the country has consistently remained competitive for nearly a century. And the prestige of this rivalry is propelled past any other because of the proximity between the two schools: 8 miles part, a unique attribute that no other rivalry’s participants can boast. It’s a battle of the blues: the Carolina blue versus the Duke blue. This rivalry contains a staple like no other, Cameron Indoor Stadium and the Cameron Crazies.

Cameron Indoor Stadium




The Cameron Crazies







While UNC’s on-campus Dean E. Smith Center does not give way to a raucous crowd who’s noise levels reaches deafening levels like that of Cameron Indoor Stadium, it still remains one of the toughest places to play in the country.




The bottom line is the rivalry between UNC and Duke is the best in American sports. Some of the best professional players came from these two respective programs with the most prominent being Michael Jordan who attended UNC in the mid-80’s and also won a national championship. These two schools have 8 national championships between them, over 30 conference championships (both are in the same conference) and numerous Atlantic Coast Conference championships and have produced an innumerable amount of NBA talent. Needless to say, there is a profound malice-that I can attest to personally- that accompanies these two programs for one another and that pure hatred manifests itself in street-wide pandemonium after wins over the other (see youtube) and on the embroidery of school paraphernalia with the most famous being “Go To Hell Carolina/Duke”. I really enjoy being apart of it all.

So, I’ll end this entry by saying, “Eff Dook!” and we beat them for a fourth time in a row at Cameron Indoor Stadium. They never lose there, and for one team to beat them there four years in a row, especially that team being their archrival, it does not get any better. And I can’t wait for the re-match back here in Chapel Hill, March 8th at the Smith Center on Senior Night. We should destroy them….again! Here’s a lasting image from last night’s win.





Parting Thoughts:

1. How I got interested in Carolina…
When I was in High School I watched the 2005 NCAA Men’s National Championship between UNC and the University of Illinois which took place in St. Louis, Missouri, and the one thing I kept thinking about while watching that game was, “man, that’s the prettiest color I’ve ever seen on a basketball uniform and the argyle on the side is incredible!”. So when senior came around, I applied, not because of the school’s academic prestige, not because it was a reputable institution of higher learning, or it boasted one of the nation’s best social atmospheres and physical environment, it was because I just wanted to be a Tar Heel. And while that is a severely uninformed decision, it turned out pretty well for me. Unfortunately, I’m not in the most ideal place for the career I want to pursue, but I don’t mind spending four years in Chapel Hill because it’s going to give me the foundation I need to move forward in my career and having Carolina under my belt is not a bad move.

2. If you’ve read all of this, I applaud you, seriously.

3. I’m really upset that Ruckus is gone. It was my number one resource for music and now I have to find another way to pirate music. =(

4. I should be writing a paper right now. =/

5. Kanye seriously needs to groom himself, come out of this phase he is in, and make some respectable music.

Oh,
Love, Peace and Hair Grease. Forreal.
Go Heels!

Even Bigger Words

Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry






Vocabulous verve by Kuamel Stewart

I have an affection for words, but my affinity for these words has been deemed by my peers as an affliction,
I have become the target of a verbal firing squad exclaiming sounds of disappointment for my use in diction,
The logophile in me was not born in the imagination of my mind to exude an intellectual ability that is built upon fiction,
So do not call it complicated,
I have reiterated,
That the sight and sound of infinite syllables connecting together to form clauses as one of the many viable options of transferring the conjuring of thought and vagrancy into inscription comprises what I call “expression formulated",
Do not reject my prose,
But rather reach back within the depths of your mind and discover the will to learn and interpret that which you do not understand and thus upon the extension of your purview you will attain more depth in your soul,
My words are not a farce,
I do not seek to impress just so that I can cajole the weak-minded into believing that I am a unique purveyor of written art,
The imperfections of this socio-political and economic society has inspired me to use the pen, pencil, and keyboard as a tool to fight against the rise of stupidity, apathy, ignorance and every ill-mannered intention of those who have not embraced the beauty of solidarity, sanctum, equality and the essence of love
And this, is my love,
I am but the continuation of yet another human vessel utilizing the art to inform, subsequent to the concretization of the works of the Angelous, Wrights, Emersons, Woodsons, Baldwins, Hurstons, Williams’, Whitmans’, Fitzgeralds’ and the long line of scribes who realize that the beauty of humanity to think and reason should be supplemented by the action of sharing thought through the use of ink, scrolls, hieroglyphics, books, journals, diaries, graffiti and now blogs,
This is my passion,
I hope that they will ration,
And understand,
That when my fingers feverishly tap the keys I am liberated from the bounds of the fear of mortality,
These words are the signature of my expression and they give the imprint of my thought on the world long after my exit from this life vitality,
So no, I will not reason
Every medium that I can use to inject these thoughts into the veins of this society, shall for that moment, become my season,
My world.
I implore the pundits to remember the possibility that the great writers who scribed before us were once heckled for their obsession of scrambling the letters of the alphabet into stories that we now revere, extol and seek to emulate,
So before you gauge,
And exact upon my written products your feeble-minded rage spawned by the very misunderstandings in your mind that I have sought to alleviate with my very writing that you have before you,
Know that no matter your critique that the very fact that I have left my imprint on this world with words just like so many others means more than the intricacy of that that I have written,
So yes, to the ability and commitment to create these phrases I am smitten,
And it is only when I have mediated the ideas that have fermented in my mind onto the page and screen that the light of my soul has glistened,
And like any other great sincere artist, I will bestow upon myself the glory,
Not for my eloquence, pensiveness, or rhetoric, but rather for my ability and privilege to access something that allows me to tell my own story.
And until I am stripped of this inspiration and objective by forces both divine and tangible to remove the cataracts off of every third eye on every face,
The damned consciousness of this world is not safe.
Peace.