The Jose Vilson: The Blog

Who’s Gonna Cover Your Vibes, XXLs, and Sources?

2009-07-06T10:08:18-07:00

Jay-Z Vibe Cover

Recently, Vibe Magazine closed its doors, at least in print form. For those who never ventured into black publication, Vibe Magazine was a Black-based magazine started by Quincy Jones last decade. The ostensible vision of the pub was to highlight Black culture, but with a bit of a White lens. It mainly featured R&B and hip-hop acts while also dipping into some rock and dance artists from time to time. While the racial aspect of the magazine’s foreclosure has been done almost to death in blogs and other chat venues, I consider this turn of events truly irking.

Here’s why: growing up (and growing up literate), hip-hop and R&B magazines kept me abreast of all that happened in the hip-hop community in ways I wasn’t really allowed to explore in my youth. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to go to my favorite artists’ concerts because I couldn’t really afford to. I was also very limited in my exposure to rappers until high school when I found out the Roc-A-Fella Records offices (the former home to artists like Jay-Z, Beanie Sigel, and Memphis Bleek) were a block away from my high school. I still have high stacks of magazines from the Source, Blaze, Vibe, and XXL that I’ve kept over the years.

Comparable to the way we used to be fascinated by time capsules, these publications represented everything that was hot and cold during my lifetime. While not everything resonated with me (Cash Money articles, here’s looking at you), I found myself taking whole days out just reading the latest cover with DMX or Eminem on the cover, and wanted to collect every cover Jay-Z or Roc-a-Fella ever appeared on. And forget about Biggie and 2Pac covers; they never got old to me. Every little detail was important to me, from the producers and managers to how one rapper’s style differed from the other and the creation of that rappers’ music.

Those publications brought a certain amount of access to the artists I obviously couldn’t get anywhere else. Plus, the writers who’d bring those stories didn’t have their names all over the piece, but brought a certain style, grit, and fluidity to their pieces that parachuted us into their subject matter that made me want to become a writer secretly. And I guess without these publications, we don’t get the opportunity to see that type of writing in full bloom. In the digital world, people often say that sohh.com and sandrarose.com will replace the need for the aforementioned publications, and in a way, I see that as a valid point. On the other hand, though, I have yet to see the caliber of writing like we’ll see in those publications. Many of the bits we see look more like AP pieces or, in other cases, just crap.

And that leads me to the present situation. Where do all the writers that have followed the Raquel Cepedas, Toures, and Dream Hamptons of the world go? The ones who want to be the Edward Murrow, William Lloyd Garrison, or Bob Woodwards of their time? It’s a really shaky time for those who want to take that profession as their full-time position, and make those of us with day jobs, like me, wonder what becomes of those in the writing profession. Where do the future stories about our favorite mainstream and underground artists come from? Where do the good, in-depth stories come from?

No way am I saying it’s Armaggedon for the business of journalism / investigative writing is dead. There must be change for people to keep up with the new demands on information. Yet, I strongly feel that the pickings will be much slimmer, and the panorama of memories and experiences with the writing may become more limited. And a small part of me feels like we’ll have to settle for the obscure quip. That is, if the newer blood doesn’t get a chance to start. For urban youth, Vibe was a good place to start, much like Spin, The Daily News, or Ebony would be a good place to start for burgeoning writers in that niche.

What do you guys think?

Jose, who wants to re-read his old magazines now …

Short Notes: Blame It On The Boogie Edition

2009-07-05T12:40:49-07:00

Ed McMahon

For some reason, that title just sounded right. A few notes:

I really don’t miss school right now. So say my feet, which are having a great time not having to work 12 hours straight.
Everyday Math representatives keep trying to tell parents who have to deal with the math themselves that Everyday Math is the appropriate solution for all their children’s learning. Barry Garelick differs (good read from top to bottom).
Arthur Goldstein’s article in GothamSchools really struck me as a prime example of what “good” NYC schools look like. Read to see what I mean.
You really think I wasn’t going to mention the new Beatles Rock Band here? Of course, I am. The trailer is hot.
A double-link that works well in parallel: J. Dakar writes about just how hard it is to be a blogger of note. Even more interestingly, it was a digital newspaper (Politico.com at that) that broke the story of an “old media” newspaper (Washington Post) that’s sacrificing its journalistic integrity just to stay in power.
Aurelia Flores of PowerfulLatinas.com has 5 powerful Latinas in their own right talking about the most potentially powerful Latina in the world, Sonia Sotomayor. For more, check it right here.
As if the subtle racism wasn’t enough to make me cringe, here are some peoples’ reactions to the BET Awards. I don’t watch them, but most of this is highly uncalled for.

Before I go, (and I know I’m going to get a little flack for this), but I really am tired of seeing MJ news.

Apparently, using some sort of racial metrics, White people think there should be less MJ and Black people want more. I’m somewhere in between. I’m all for the man resting in peace personally. I’m glad he’s getting this amount of coverage, but as far as his children, regurgitating his well-documented past, or anything unimportant, I’d rather not hear all of that. I’d like choices as far as the topics I want to hear about, and until I get that choice topically, I’ve decided to just not turn on CNN at all. (No, I don’t watch BET anyways). With the recent deaths of Ed McMahon, Billy Mays, Farrah Fawcett, and Steve McNair, it just goes to show that we all need to tell the people we love just how much we do.

For the final time here, RIP MJ.

Jose, who’s intent on finishing 2 projects this week so he can really take a break …

Oops, He’s Sorry, He Lied: He’s Number 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5

2009-07-03T08:46:26-07:00

Michael Jackson RIP by RJ Matson

Someone asked me recently if I talked to my kids about Michael Jackson and the impact he had on me and people of my generation. I told the person, “No, we had things to do. I hadn’t seen them very much over the last week, so I just wanted that time to let them know we’re cool.” While hanging out with them, I realized that they really did grow up with a love for MJ in a strange way, especially since so much of their current music is influenced by Michael. People who’ve ever listened through an entire album of bachata will notice that someone’ll play a quick MJ riff just to establish their American cultural relevance. Every so often, a pop diva will take a revamped break beat from a dope MJ song and make it even doper … but make us miss MJ that much more. Yet, there’s still this lingering feeling from them that, because he was an accused child molester or because he was accused of not being Black enough in the annals of the Grand Annals of the Ubiquitous Black Tribunal, kids shouldn’t have any reverence for him whatsoever.

To accentuate that point, someone on Twitter said (to paraphrase), “A real n***a doesn’t have MJ as their profile pic or background.” Again, I’m not posting this random Twitterer as the Great Leader or even a Representative in this fake court, but I guess if MJ is not really Black, we should truly question what Blackness means. Is it definable by some tenets that no one really has a true grasp on? Let’s think about that together, huh?

1) Is the music Black enough? Well, MJ has done a lot of work with different rappers, underground and mainstream. Plus, as far as R&B, he innovated and renovated at will with just the sound of his falsetto. The rest of these real n****s have a few good punchlines, and maybe a video, but don’t go beyond that creatively. They don’t push limits; they stay well within them.

2) MJ had his gimmicks; the crotch grab, the shmon, the tight clothing, the monkey, the jheri curl … For every reinvention he had for himself, he had a gimmick or 5 for it. Yet, he also had a few things everyone bit off him, like the red jacket, the piano / Mickey Mouse shirts, the moonwalk (which he borrowed from a Vegas show, no less), and a patent for the technology that let him lean past his center of balance in the video “Smooth Criminal.” No, really. These real n****s have a list of gimmicks like using the n-word just to rhyme. Not to mention the baggy clothes, the big chain, the ice grill … wait, is any of that really innovative? Really? I guess real n****s aren’t innovative.

3) MJ gave millions to funds for humanitarian efforts in the continent of Africa and also gave money for the United Negro College Fund, and not just in the thousands, but in the millions. He’ll freely transform into a Black Panther at the end of Black or White, tell KKK members he’s not scared of them, cite “Mama se mama sah mama ku sah” when others wouldn’t dare use African references in their music, and frequently have Black women as his counterpart in romantic songs and videos. (”Liberian Girl” and “Remember The Time” come to mind immediately). Real n****s on the other hand make videos that perpetuate the light-skinned vs. dark-skinned ideals of beauty prominent in so many rap videos, that would be a book in and of itself. And real n****s donate money to political parties that directly oppose their music … just so they’ll get left alone. MJ wasn’t Black enough I guess.

4) MJ supposedly touched kids (even when there’s irrefutable evidence towards the contrary) so I guess he had to be hung for that, right? A real n***a wouldn’t need to settle out of court or deliver messages through TV interviews just to justify his own success. He would just need to make a club record that sounds exactly like the last few ones, and then ghostwrite a few more that sound just like those, and make the other people he settles his lawsuits with vow to keep their mouths shut so they can’t testify at the next one. Or even just issue a blanket apology for having underage girls on stage. It’s no dirt on their shoulder. A real n***a just does NOT care.

Much like the rest of us who’ve written about him extensively and are absolute fans of his work, I can’t make any excuses for some of his more eccentric behaviors. He didn’t live in the same world we lived in, and the more money he made, the stranger he became. Yet, when I see my kids, the same ones who rock beads and crosses, listen to the bland repetitive music real n****s make, and yet have this subtle appreciation for this legend, I know Michael Jackson’s legacy as a musician and performer wasn’t in vain.

Michael Jackson’s Blackness comes in the form of how many Blacks he’s inspired. Even the real n****s.

Jose, who laughs at cats who call him a plagiarist …

An Interrupted Morning

2009-07-02T08:50:02-07:00

Morning City

It’s been less than a week since my vacation started, and my mind tingles like it did when I was still in the Mr. Vilson phase, full of thoughts and ways I’d change my routine for that day. Little did that part of my brain know that I really wasn’t going to wake up at 530am, get in my uniform, and belt out my lesson plans that day. Still antsy from my own delusions, I got up and turned on my Mac, possibly to be productive, or maybe to knock me back asleep. I fire up GMail, Facebook, Twitter, and the website I’m working on in that order, and this manuscript that’s full of serious potential.

Just then, I see one of my friends online, someone who’s also really impressive with the essays. She considers herself a fan of my work, and often seeks me out for advice on writing and the like. While we’re going through some of my projects, I ask her when’s her book coming out. She said, “Huh?” Either she meant that as, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” or “How did he know?” So I keep pushing the issue and she tells me she’s thinking of writing a book after all, but doesn’t have the time.

An amateur writer’s lament.

Not having the time to write is often our biggest conflict. People who write for a living notwithstanding, those with “day jobs” have a really hard time writing at the same time. Looking at my own schedule over the last few weeks, from working on school infrastructure and designing professional development to working on others’ websites and collaborating with artists, I haven’t paid as much attention as I’d like to my simple pleasures, like this blog. Even with more people reading my jots, I haven’t been able to do as much writing as I’d like.

So, when asked by this writer what my best advice for her was, “Write like hell. And just keep writing.” I added, “Maybe I need to follow my own advice. You’ll notice that when I stop writing, it gets really sluggish, but when I write a lot, I don’t stop.” She nodded. I then looked at this manuscript, the one that every writer seems to be working on eternally, and decided I’d at least finish a piece of it.

After that, I went right back to sleep. My revelation was just enough to put me back to rest …

Jose, who doesn’t like mentioning names because it’s about the idea, not the person … (but thank you) …

Sacrosanct

2009-06-29T20:42:42-07:00

Wine and Bread

Alas, the year is finally over for me. Today was my first official day off from school, and my feet, more than any other part of my body, have been thanking me for giving them some much needed rest. There are wars going on all across the world, dictatorships and coups reigning, unemployment reaching scary levels, global warming bringing its subtle tap on our shoulders to a pounding, and the dollar slowly becoming absolved as a world currency … and I couldn’t care less because school’s over.

My summer plans include revamping my ever-changing website (and I think the next update is going to be the proverbial lightning in a bottle), working with one of my favorite poets of all time, losing a little weight, and hitting up Orlando, Jamaica (not Queens), and Miami / Ft. Lauderdale to see the family. I’ll also have about 9 days of work in there where I’ll be working exclusively to help my school excel in the best ways possible.

In other words, just because I’m not working, it doesn’t mean I’m not working. Right?

Here’s a little tidbit for my poets. Tell me what you think. It was inspired by the aforementioned favorite poet at one of her workshops. She asked us to pick the first word that popped into our heads and get the definition from an etymology dictionary, and use it to write a piece. You know I’m always up for a challenge. Here’s the homework, Ms. Betts.

“Sacrosanct”

Protected by religious sanction
Like my first name akin to a slave turned king
Seeking vengeance in reign not death
Or a father of this holy father once removed
From a miracle, a miracle, my Mom’s first name
Like getting baptized, teaching my elders,
Breaking bread, sipping wine, and confirming my own name
In the Holy Spirit, I believe
Like conversations with extraterrestrials and their conduits,
Entrusting that they’ll physically protect your encasing
When your soul’s half risen
Like a kidnapping for more than decade
Where hell existed right on Earth
While outside observers can’t recognize the agony
Like confusing the Father with a father and the fathers
Angels & demons intermingle so fluidly
Like justifying the nuances of life with the handwritten,
Specifically tailored
Filtered
Man-ifested laws and ideals of a being we’ve interpreted as male
Who can intercept the odds of human events by using the natural or coincidental
Like our metaphors for our first kiss,
Sexual moment,
Minutes of ecstasy and ebullience,
Our triumphs, achievements, & accolades as sacrificial ritual
Before the next person envies us
And in evolutionary fashion, kills us
Survival of the fittest
Like marriage between man and woman and other definitions
Just won’t fit millennium-old standards;
Exponents of polyamory maybe
Like near-death experiences with familiar faces either screaming
Or singing
Or signaling you home
Like providing for your whole family and obeying your faith
By stripping you of everything but your resolve
Like an extended metaphor for the stories
I was asked to rejoice over while I
Relearned and reborrowed the word ’sacrosanct’
Like what I plan to name my first child
Upon birthing him, he too will learn this word
At the moment of his first spanking
Like that first cry, sweet and shrill …

Jose, who, believe it or not, went to church yesterday …

Letter: Man In The Mirror

2009-06-25T20:42:26-07:00

Michael Jackson's Moonwalker

Dear Michael Jackson,

First, let me say that I’m deeply saddened by your death. Your passing ranks up there in the moments where people had to remember where they were standing when they heard the news. On a day when a fellow 70’s-80’s icon in Farrah Fawcett died and so did Ed McMahon, the news of you dying seems to have washed away most news about Middle East and Asian conflict, the NBA Draft, and second-to-last day of school for NYC students. And deservedly so. You were a legend of immense proportions and even with your less favorable traits you still managed to inspire, mystify, and amaze so many of us who only wished they could maximize their potential.

You were often this caricature of yourself, and the older we got, the more your public persona became a caricature of the last image we caught from scenes all over the world. Even still, the music always kept hitting us hard. You already had #1 hits back in your childhood with your brothers as part of the Jackson 5, and as you grew older, to make up for that missing childhood, you pushed the limits of your stardom. For a good two decades or so, you captured our imagination and had the nerve to call yourself the King of Pop, busting through the doors of MTV when they wouldn’t play your videos (they apologized by stealing the whole theme of your greatest contribution to dance).

Personally, Michael, you’re easily one of the greatest musicians ever. I still remember the Moonwalker video and wishing I could lean really hard to my side in a primped white suit, blasting guns into my enemies in slo-mo, or walking through the world made of clay and manipulating my shape however I pleased just to get myself through life. Or how about the time you went into space and spent $10 million to collaborate with your sister on a song where you tell the media off once more? And remember when you scared every person aged 17 and under but had such a fly rhythm you made us all wanna wear red jackets, tight jeans, and cat eyes? Remember when you gave Blacks a social consciousness song or two every album just to let them know you were still down, plastic surgery and all?

Isn’t that what you were all about, though? While on the one hand, your musical genius is almost universally unquestioned, the personal sacrifices you made to reach that pinnacle (some from you, some from your family) almost made it not worth it. It’s almost as if to say, “You mean, to be like this Mike, I gotta do THAT?!” While many have tried to replicate your successes, or sample from the tree you planted, they fail in ways only true fans comprehend. There’ll never be another Mike, on any end and all ends of the spectrum.

What’s most striking about you Michael, more than anything else, is the reverence people have for you as a legend and man. Your dominance was unmatched, and as the media and others in the general public made you into a leper and a circus creature all at once, you still managed to touch the hearts of so many of us who grew up idolizing you. With every child case, your fans surrendered their innermost wounds and exposed them in some sort of catharsis, forming a crowd of the judges versus the pardoners.

You indeed were the man in the mirror, making us take a hard look at ourselves, attempting to answer those questions by looking backwards and moving forwards at once …

Jose, who’s remembering the time …

Letters: No, Your Hips Aren’t Enough

2009-06-22T17:21:36-07:00

Rodney Dangerfield by Harville

Dear Political Volunteer:

I’m going to say it: there’s no situation under which, when you have a serious proposition for me, you can nudge me with your hips while I’m trying to drink a rum and coke. None. I know who’s reading, and I can’t say I care much who it offends, or even if they’d like to get offended for none of their doing.

It’s after work, slight chance of showers, but a humid day nonetheless. My throat’s a little parched, but moreso, my mind is fried from another long work week. One of the school aides comes to me and says, “Mr. Vilson, are you going to the happy hour?” Feigning that I had any idea what she was talking about, I said, “Sure I am.” Then, “Wait, a minute: what happy hour?” She tells me that it’s at a nearby restaurant, a usual spot for the school aides’ crew. I told her I’d be there, in my mind thinking that maybe I shouldn’t. I was a bit ambivalent, but I sought this as a great opportunity to become more familiar with the school staff and show them I could drink with them as well.

Here comes the fun part.

As I’m sitting there, I look around the bar area and see a certain person’s face plastered all over the wall. He happened to teach at my school and he’s running for some office. Props to him for chasing his dream. He wasn’t there until later, but sure enough, his people were shoring up volunteers. One of them kept yelling, “I wish I was a teacher” and “one day, I’ll become a teacher,” to some peoples’ screaming and applauding and others (i.e. me) rolling their eyes secretly. I wasn’t in rebel-rousing mode and my rum and coke kept hitting the spot time and again. Cheers.

Then, the other assistant came through. At first, she completely ignored those who she didn’t deem “Dominican enough” (I’ve grown accustomed to the look). Again, I have no issue with that. Sometimes you have to go with what’s comfortable. Then, I see her heading my way. I’m at the corner of the table, sipping on my drink, and all of a sudden, I feel this nudge. I look to my left and she purposely nudged me. She doesn’t even say a word to me, but keeps nudging me with her right hip and putting her volunteer sheet in front of me. I gave her a look that said, “not really,” but I was thinking, “Hell no.”

Naturally, I’ve told this to a couple of people and that got mixed reviews. The one negative aspect I got that struck me was, “Well, you don’t want to upset the volunteer of someone who’s so well connected, and you don’t know the politics of what you’ve just done.”

In a way, the person’s right. The things I’m about to get into may have political implications for the school (as everything education has become political), and I wouldn’t want my career to suffer because of that nonsense.

Forget that.

I want my respect. If someone wants to ask me to volunteer for their organization, they’re coming up to me and saying, “Hello, my name is … Would you consider joining our campaign for …?” My manhood and respect aren’t optional traits. Do and say whatever you like behind the scenes, but if you’re going to talk to everyone else and nudge me, then I cannot accept that. If they’re not happy that I shook my head at them and want to tell their well-connected friend about me, I’m resigned to that. I have no beef with people, but communicate with me.

Lady, your hips are not enough.

Signed,

Jose, who can’t believe I have to wash watch my ass rear like this all the time …

Short Notes: The Shadow of a Father

2009-06-21T10:35:10-07:00

Absent Father

A few notes:

Ladies and gents, my nomination’s officially in for the 2009 Black Weblog Awards. Would you please consider my blog for any of the four categories I’m nominated in? Thanks a million.
- Best Blog Post Series
- Best Personal Blog
- Best Writing In A Blog
- Blog To Watch
Wait, how many days do we have left in the school year? Is that right? 5!? And I’m going where? To Orlando? Jamaica? Miami (maybe)? Wow, that’s a lot of places to be at. Well done, Jose. Well done.
If, on the same day you receive your brand-new Macbook Pro, you hear that its price dropped a few hundred dollars, wouldn’t you be fuming? Fortunately for those of us who fit in that category, there’s a thing called price protection. If you fall into that category, call 800-MY-APPLE and ask for that money back. It’s valid within 30 days of purchase.
Some topics I plan to explore this week include how political education can get, what happens when you don’t care about children, and that dreaded last day of school (and by dreaded, I mean AWESOME!!!). Plus, I might have my first video up this week. Nice.

My Fathers’ Day celebrations have been sparse and uncomfortable. Lately, I’ve contemplated the various father figues I’ve had and the ones I wish I had where the people who were supposed to fill those roles didn’t. My father was out there somewhere, making sporadic visits to NYC maybe once a year, and at times, none at all. My stepfather couldn’t stand me 90% of the time, and I forgive, but won’t forget some of the things I’ve had to endure because of him.

I never liked Bill Cosby because for a dude like me, he wasn’t realistic, or so I thought. I liked Phillip Banks of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air more for his personality and he struck me as a more realistic father, but his situation was far too distant for me to relate. Roc Emerson from Roc the TV series was as realistic as they get, but his TV series was short-lived. Fr. Jack, my middle school principal from Nativity, was a father figure for so many of us in that school, and that lasted all of 2 years. Every friend I had picked an NBA player to admire, and naturally, mine was Patrick Ewing. Yet, he was an NBA player, not a father, and dude had his own kids. He was merely a wish, and one that only looked green from this side of things.

That goes for a lot of the other men who whisked through my life and mentored me when I needed it. Now I’m at a point where I look at myself as a father to my students (in a sense), and in some ways, a father in training. Every so often, I still sing “Dance With My Father” by Luther Vandross, humming words I can never really relate to, but hoping I’d be able to provide that feeling to someone someday. Someday.

Jose, who wishes all the fathers out there a Happy Fathers’ Day, wherever you may be …

Your Moment of Zen – Your Writing Prompt

2009-06-18T18:08:00-07:00

“Your Moment of Zen” or “Your Writing Prompt”

Think of a time when you were really uncomfortable
When you grew a pair of hemorrhoids so painful
You were itching to get out of your seat
Annoyance all over your face
Indignation with having to tolerate this
Go as deep as possible with this pain
Explore it, don’t hold it in
Tell me where it started, how to probe it
Where the swelling may occur,
And if you can make it as non-descript as possible, that’d be good
Then, make a metaphor somewhere with a social network, a computer part, or a neighborhood
Because that always seems to work for audiences scoring you
Not that the points matter because that’s the point right?
After that, if you could include in there a reference to
A really ill poet, rapper, socialite, celebrity, debutante
Hate on them and worship them all at once
Even if you’re trying to be like them in your own right
Waiting outside in the cold rain,
Lining up for VIP on a bench in a high skirt or couture
Throwback 80s multi-colored everything
Get some shades above your eyes
Can’t tell whether you’re feeding me lies
Lastly, make it catchy and say it with the same intonations,
The same inflections, the same parlance, the same strategies
That’ll bag you the honeys, the championships,
And the fans that at once swear they know what poetry is
While listening to your mediocrity
Then, blame it on your hustle
Blame it on your hustle
Blame it on our hustle
Lastly, end it with a trick you’ll do over and again
Think of your moment of zen …

Jose, who alludes to far too many things at once …

Against All Odds

2009-06-16T17:55:33-07:00

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 …

The Jose Vilson: The Blog

Who’s Gonna Cover Your Vibes, XXLs, and Sources?

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Short Notes: Blame It On The Boogie Edition

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Oops, He’s Sorry, He Lied: He’s Number 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5

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An Interrupted Morning

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Sacrosanct

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Letter: Man In The Mirror

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Letters: No, Your Hips Aren’t Enough

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