tag:wearecleverelements.com,2005:/blogs/my-life-my-thoughtsMy Life, My Thoughts2020-05-27T22:46:17-04:00Clever Elements Media Group/Munchinifalsetag:wearecleverelements.com,2005:Post/63326322020-05-27T22:46:17-04:002023-08-11T03:41:13-04:00Let Me Be Angry, Ok?<p>It's been a while since I've written anything in this blog and it is similar to one of the first blogs I wrote on here which I titled "These Shoes of Mine." It certainly wasn't due to lack of content to contribute but rather most of my venting and thoughts are expressed through writing lyrics. Please remember it is not my intention to try to write something worthy of praise. It is also not a "what can people do to help stop racism?" entry. Lastly, it is not an indictment of all white people as some of the people closest to me are white and I acknowledge the history of the white people who played, and continue to play a part in making this country safer and better for people who look like me. This is just me getting out my feelings and sharing them.</p>
<p>I, like so many other people who share my blessed and cursed darker pigmentation, was recently triggered yet again by the events in good ol' Merica; specifically the cases of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd. There are so many things we learned growing up that we just accepted as normal. It wasn't until I grew up and experienced life outside my neighborhood that I realized our normal (as black folks) wasn't so normal. Let me be clear in that I was raised by two amazing, hard-working, and religious parents who did everything they could to make sure my sister and I were not raised by the streets which claimed so many lives around us. I am extremely grateful for that but with that said, there is no way to completely shield your kids from what is around them. </p>
<p>I remember my pops having "the talk" with me numerous times. He never once even cracked a smile when telling me how to conduct myself around cops. He was never a fan of them but did his best to always show them respect and instilled the same in me with the hope it would help me survive any encounters I had with them. He let me know I would be followed by them and questioned without reason. He let me know that I would not be able to get away with things people who did not look like me could get away with. He really didn't have to tell me too much about that part as I could see that for myself, even as a young kid. Still today, I see groups of loud, playful, and energetic black boys given dirty looks and being told to stop being rough or being disruptive while groups of little white boys doing the exact same thing are dismissed as "boys being boys." </p>
<p>It's no secret that as my brother stated in one of his songs, "The outlook on life in my part of town?/Move quietly, things change when your body's brown." I will tell you how scared I was when, as a young child, I saw how badly disfigured my cousin's face was after he was brutally beaten by the cops. Their nightsticks crushed and pushed the bone in his nose almost into his brain. I found out later that the doctors told him that he likely would have died had he been hit in the face one more time. My parents didn't want me to see him but I happened to be at his house visiting my other cousins (his brothers) when he came home one night shortly after it happened. As a kid, something like that never leaves your memory. </p>
<p>One of the most eye-opening things to me occurred when I went away to college. I attended a predominantly white college and almost every weekend I went out with my friends, we would see a fight. Rarely did the fight involve a black person. Growing up, I was sadly conditioned (mostly through television programming and by my own surroundings) to believe that most fighting occurred among people like me. I think this is one reason attending the college I chose was beneficial to me. This was well before so many fights were posted online (which I hate is so common now). </p>
<p>I have members of my extended family who undoubtedly have PTSD after actually watching the cops shoot and kill one of their friends without justification many years ago. I still feel and share their anger each time they mention it; especially around the time of his birthday. Not much has changed and in some ways it is worse each time the wound is reopened with another news story of another life taken in the same manner.</p>
<p>I will not sit and list everything I have been through or witnessed as that would require writing a book (someday maybe?) but I will instead talk about how it makes me feel. Due to the recent events and after suppressing it for quite some time, I recently told my 9-yr old son why I can't play basketball with him as much as I'd like to. I think he noticed the emotional pain in my face the day I found out about George Floyd dying with that officer's knee pressed against his neck. I told my son about how, many years ago, an officer weighing around 225 lbs had his knee pressed directly on my lower spine for several minutes while I was laying on the ground so he could handcuff me for other officers (at least the ones who didn't have their hands on their guns) to search my property and body for drugs that didn't exist (at the time I weighed around 160...before I started living the fat, happy married life). Talking about piercing pain...man. My back was never the same after that. No apologies...nothing. They let me go like they were doing me a favor.</p>
<p>Seeing George Floyd with blood coming out of his nose and dying after pleading for help triggered me again. Another family is left to grieve after the death of another black man at the hands of the people who dismissed his life as meaningless. It was horrifically ironic how the cop who caused Floyd to take his last breath was kneeling on his neck in almost the same position as Colin Kaepernick when he knelt at football games. At least I survived my several dangerous encounters with the cops. So many others haven't had that luxury. It angers me to the infinite degree to know that no matter who I am as a person, many people will perceive me as a threat. This wouldn't bother so much if there wasn't a system of laws, codes, and behaviors designed to perpetuate this perception and all but encourage it. Yep, I'm angry. I'm angry at the people who think so little of our lives. I'm angry at the people who make comments like "one less thug in the world" or "I enjoyed watching that P.O.S. die (yes people really said that)." I'm angry at the people who feel like because they aren't racist themselves, racism doesn't exist. I'm angry at those who say the term "white privilege" is propaganda simply because they've had to work hard too and have "never benefited from it." I'm angry at my Christian brothers and sisters who find a reason to excuse or justify any and everything as long as it only happens to people who look like me. You know, the same ones who will quickly speak ill of an atheist, agnostic, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, homosexual, or anyone else regardless of how kind or loving they are but refuse to speak ill of a fellow self-proclaimed Christian who only stands for Jesus' principles in words instead of actions. I'm angry at folks who feel like all Republicans are racists and all Democrats are not. I'm angry at politicians who feel like they can only speak to black voters at the most convenient times and get our votes. I'm angry at liberals who, despite having the best intentions and good hearts (which I truly appreciate), imply they know how it feels to be "us" (and even tell us what is best for us). They DO NOT! I'm angry and you'll die a slow death holding your breath waiting for me to apologize for it.</p>
<p>I have to find a healthy way to decompress so it doesn't affect my beautiful, loving, intelligent, and empathetic wife as well as our beautiful kids. I have to decompress so it won't affect my ability to function daily with a humane and kind heart; a heart I refuse to let harden from the coldness the world insists on freezing it with. Let me be angry for now. I'm used to it and know how to handle it. I know how to find my peace when the world least expects me to be able to. Imagine that! Even us "savages" and "thugs" can find peace.</p>Clever Elements Media Group/Munchinitag:wearecleverelements.com,2005:Post/11347032013-07-15T12:10:00-04:002020-05-27T20:40:12-04:00These Shoes of Mine<p>Please do me a favor and read this. And, if your heart compels you, comment. I'd like to spark some open and candid dialogue among a diverse group of people. I wear grown man underwear, so I can digest whatever you have to say!<br>(apologies in advance for any grammatical errors...I wrote this quickly and from the heart)<br><br>Two days ago as I sat in my grandmother's house beneath her authentic "Colored Waiting Room" sign from the 1960s, I took a moment to reflect on whether we, as a<br>nation, have come as far as we're inclined to believe. Just because we have been able to share the same facilities and/or schools for several decades, doesn't mean we share the same outlook on equality and prejudice. I preface this blog entry by saying that our life experiences as they relate to race undeniably help shape who we become but they don't define us or dictate our character. I guess this blog entry will address the cumulative effect of some of the racially biased events young black children and men face on a far too frequent basis. Like the old days... "let me testify and if I lie cross my heart and hope to die." I preface this entry by emphasizing the fact I don't expect you to fully comprehend, because it's not a feasible expectation unless you've walked in my/our shoes. However, it would be very much appreciated if you could make a concerted effort to empathize. This is something I always promise myself I will do when hearing about the experiences of others. Fair enough?My first recollection of a racially motivated life event was at age 9 or 10 when two drunken Caucasian men threw beer bottles at my mom's car from their confederate flag adorned pickup truck and tried to run us off the highway while calling us niggers and other demeaning names. I remember how it felt seeing my mom remain calm enough to keep the car on the highway while simultaneously trying to disguise what was actually happening so I wouldn't know the coldness of this world. Or, maybe it was only her unspoken way of telling me this is just one of those things that happens to US and we just have to accept it.<br><br>I clearly remember a year or two later when, after one of our basketball games, a Caucasian teammate who I had befriended asked his mom if I could spend the night with them. She pulled him aside and said "I don't know, do you think he's safe?" right in front of me like I wasn't standing there; as if all of her valuables and her car<br>would be gone when she woke up the next morning due to a brazen theft by this 12-yr old black friend of her son who she naively let spend the night. Then there was the time in my middle school science class when, upon rotating to our next lab station, I told my teacher our group's microscope was broken. He then proceeded to accuse me of breaking it and inform me that my parents would be responsible for replacing it unless I admitted to breaking it (which was of course a lie). I still struggle to<br>understand how it was so hard for my teacher to fathom how the group of Caucasian students ahead of my group in the rotation broke the microscope and refused to admit it (even though I'm certain he saw them goofing around with it). These events stayed in my mind as I prepared to enter high school.<br><br>Just when I was riding the wave of having earned my drivers license I was pulled over and harassed by a police officer for driving my mom's car. "How'd somebody like you get such a nice car? What are you selling?" the officer barked. After telling him it was my mom's car, he said "we'll see about that" and not-so -kindly asked me to step out of the car, just before he frisked me and asked if I had any drugs in the car or if it was stolen. He called in several other officers for support while he searched the car. In case you were wondering, yes it is quite humiliating having passers-by slow down and gawk at you while you are sitting on the curb watching the vehicle you were driving get searched. Of course he found nothing. He ran the tags, verified it was my mom's car, and told me to go home as if he was doing me a favor by allowing me to do so,<br>and as if it was a crime for me to continue driving around. Ironically, growing up in the hood I grew up in, it became somewhat comical to see the number of Caucasian people who came through to get their drugs and drive back to the comfort of their side of town with no worries of police stopping or searching them.<br><br>In 12th grade I rode with my cousin and one of my best friends to Aiken, SC for another one of our cousin's high school graduation. Along the way, we got pulled over on the<br>highway and an officer ordered us out of the car one by one. He then questioned us each individually about where we had been and where we were headed. As usual, the officer (a Caucasian) attempted to belittle me during the unjustified questioning with remarks such as "I don't like the feeling I get around you boy," "You look familiar. Have I locked you up before boy?"<br><br>I remember throughout my schooling from K-12 being either the only, or one of only two black people in my AG, Honors, and AP classes and not being able to relate to what many of the other kids were talking about in their daily lives (parties at the clubhouse, cars for birthdays, overseas vacations, pop music, etc). I was the kid in class who hopped on the bus to be driven back to the "bad side of town" when school was over. I managed to still excel but did indeed feel out of place.<br><br>During my college years, I remember an occasion where I went to a popular bar/club with a few friends. Upon trying to enter, the bouncer at the door informed me and my<br>black friend/roommate we could not enter without a membership (hilarious right?). He was unaware of the fact that the Caucasian guy ahead of us who he allowed to enter<br>with no "membership" was in fact also my friend and roommate. I was disqualified for "membership" to this bar/club at birth when I came out of the womb too dark.<br><br>Several years ago my college-educated (two Masters Degrees) cousin discussed with me his anger and resentment after having a cross-burned in his yard in Denver, CO with a message telling him and his nigger-loving (Olympic swimmer) wife to go back to the other side of town. This wasn't in the 1960s, it was the 2000s.<br><br>Just last year, one of my close friends called me and I could hear the bitterness and sorrow in his voice. He told me that he had been arrested for armed robbery of a Caucasian fast food manager making her nightly drop at a bank depository. I immediately knew my friend wouldn't commit such a heinous act. He had been picked up by police at an adjacent grocery store parking lot and placed in a police lineup where the female victim identified him as the perpetrator. He had to hire legal assistance to assist him with his case and he is still feeling the hit of those expenses. Even worse, the news of his arrest was published in local newspapers and on local television news broadcasts. Even though the charges were later dropped, when his name is googled, guess what's the first thing to come up in the search. You guessed it. Good<br>old fashioned "armed robbery suspect caught and arrested," with a nice mugshot photo, He's far from a violent criminal but once that seed has been planted (along with an unjust digital footprint to follow you), it's difficult, if not impossible to recover from. These things add up in the mind of black men and though my faith in God tempers my<br> anger and resentment, I feel we are justified in having those feelings at times.<br><br>These are some experiences of my own that I'm willing to share. And keep in mind these happened to a brown skinned, well-schooled black guy who has never had a tattoo or dreadlocks. So, just imagine the unjust experiences and profiling of other young black men who are darker skinned, and have dreadlocks and/or tattoos. Some of you will laugh these experiences off as some hyperbolized attempt by an angry black man to seek special treatment. Those of you who know me know otherwise.Truth is, these are only some of my experiences and they are all truth whether or not you accept them as such.<br><br>I am blessed to have parents that despite what they have seen, did their best to instill in me to never judge one person based on the actions of another. I'm grateful to have a father who didn't sugarcoat to me what being a black man in this world entails. A lot of it was taught through modeling, without him saying a word. I've been blessed to have people in my life from diverse ethnic backgrounds and I will never tell them they have no right to feel a certain way. A testament to how God works is my great friendship with one of my old college roommates. He just happens to be a white guy who grew up poor in a trailer park and knows how it feels to be unfairly judged. It's not my job to prove to anyone that I'm not the person they prematurely perceive me to be. I don't need acceptance from anyone but God. With those things taken into consideration, whether you admit or not,Trayvon Martin had every right to assume the worst when he was being followed by George Zimmerman. Even GZ's best friend said GZ told him he was reaching into his pocket to get his cell phone when Trayvon hit him. If I'm being followed by someone (regardless of color) on a dark rainy night who confronts me in a threatening manner without identifying his position and reaches into his pocket, I'm not waiting to see what he's reaching for. You might not understand or relate, but I hope you can at least try to slide one foot into these shoes we walk in.</p>Clever Elements Media Group/Munchinitag:wearecleverelements.com,2005:Post/2512502012-11-14T03:13:53-05:002012-11-14T03:13:53-05:00Somebody's listeningWow! I got a random call from someone who got my # from my website just to tell me how "Let Go, Let God" spoke to them and that they were one of the people I was spitting about in one of the verses. The greatest thing (at least to me) about doing music is that you never know who will feel it and to what extent they will feel it. Music, and words in particular, have so much weight. That's why it's best to be cautious in how we use them. They have the ability to build some people up, or tear them down. Yea, I'm aware that as an MC who has participated in quite a few MC battles, I have torn people down with words but it was in the spirit of hip-hop. I mean that's the whole point of it. Anyway, there are certain moments in our day or week that help solidify why we do what we do and that was mine. Just had to share it with y'all! Shine!<br><br>Clever Elements Media Group/Munchinitag:wearecleverelements.com,2005:Post/2277572012-10-07T15:05:00-04:002022-01-17T00:22:27-05:00Does Your Wife Know Your Mistress?<br>
“You through in there yet boo?” It sounds like a question you hear while you’re occupying the bathroom toilet. For writers and producers however, this can be the question we hear numerous times when we’re in our labs trying to cook up our next creation. Our response to the question usually varies from “just a few minutes” (translation: another hour or two) to just completely ignoring the fact it was asked in the first place. It goes without saying it is hard work to maintain a relationship while pursuing a career in music; mostly because not only is it a job, but also a hobby for most of us; which means we work on music even when we don’t necessarily have to. It’s truly a time-consuming addiction of mine. <br><br>
The main dilemma we face is that in trying to pursue our careers, we tend to forget that those of us with women in our lives must learn to balance music with relationships. I always proclaimed music was my wife, but once I got married music was demoted to mistress status and this is something I overlooked at first. We probably all agree that most of the truly successful people in life come from the Michael Jordan school of thought in that each minute we are not working on our craft, there is someone else out there who is. This justified paranoia is also called drive or work ethic and is a great asset to any aspiring musician, producer, or artist. As with anything though, too much of it can have side effects including making “wifey” feel like she is competing with a midi keyboard and a MPC-4000 for your affection. This is when we have to take time to remind ourselves why we do music in the first place. Most of us involved in music say “music is my life,” often neglecting to consider these questions: Will music be there to drive me to the hospital if I’m knocking at death’s door? Will music be there to cook for me eat if I’m unable to do it myself? Will music love me the way I love it? The answer to all of these questions is quite obvious. Regardless of how hot we are, music will survive and continue to thrive whether or not we spend time with it. Music will never know I stayed up so many nights thinking about how to make it better than the night before. Don’t get me wrong, music is a very major part of my life but so is the person I chose to share my life with. That rule from the imaginary player’s manual where it says “Do not introduce your wifey to your mistress” does not apply here. In fact, things usually work better if your wifey spends time with you and your mistress, provided you understand my reference to mistress is a metaphor for music. I am not saying those uninterrupted hours in the studio should be stopped. However, with anything in life there is a certain amount of sacrifice required to keep your relationship solid while maintaining the work ethic needed to be successful. Try asking her what she thinks about your new track. More than likely, she has more time to listen to the radio than you so she can provide feedback regarding if your track sounds radio-friendly or not, if that’s the vibe you want your track to have. If you’re an R&B artist and she gets jealous because she doesn’t wanna see a bunch of women salivating over you because of the allure of your song, you’re probably off to a good start. Even if she does get jealous, she will more than likely still appreciate the fact you value her opinion enough to ask her. <br><br>
This was written as a brief general guideline for all aspiring producers, artists, and musicians who are considering pursuing careers while in a serious relationship. It goes without saying that all females are not the same and we will never truly understand them because we speak a different language. It must also be said that they will never truly understand us either so it’s always a work in-progress for both sides. Whatever the case, remember that sometimes it pays off to introduce your wifey to your mistress.<br><br>
-JB aka Munchini<br><br>Clever Elements Media Group/Munchinitag:wearecleverelements.com,2005:Post/2169982012-09-19T20:45:00-04:002020-06-30T02:54:53-04:00The album is DONE!Maaaaaan, I thought I would never get my album completed. That's what I get for being so foolish as to do this project all on my own. Back at the height of my illness a few yrs ago, I told myself I wanted to take the challenge of doing my first solo album on my own when the time came. After all, I wasn't sure if I'd ever be my normal self again. I wanted to make sure the album had quite a few features from other up and coming independent artists. I had a chance to work with some more established artists and producers (for a nice fee of course; fees that I could barely afford anyway) but that's not what I wanted for this album. From all the late night sessions, working, tracking myself in the studio at times (should have gotten footage of myself running from the recording console to the booth in time to catch my breath and spit my verse...lol), hard drive crashes, ER visits, the birth of my kids, the marathon of Martin re-runs on tv, and numerous other things, I felt like this time would never come. I now know why some people prefer being signed to a label as it would be great if I could just focus solely on the music. It takes time to save money for mixing, mastering, duplication, and promotion. I know things probably would have been easier if I was out trapping or doing people dirty to get where I wanna be but that ain't me. God has, and continues to bring me through pain and struggle and I knew I'd get this thing done through faith. In the end I guess that's part of what makes a project fulfilling; knowing that literally all the blood, sweat, and tears meant something. I can attest that every song on the album is a song I did because I wanted to and because it felt natural, not because someone said it was the thing to do. Those familiar with Bruce Lee probably already made the connection between him and the title of this album "Be Water." It's about still being you while adapting, not compromising who you are. While there are quite a few things I would enhance in this album if my budget allowed for it, I'm proud of it and am pleased with the end result. I hope you will be too! Check for it Nov 12th.<br><br>
-JB aka Munchini<br><br>Clever Elements Media Group/Munchini