Chinua Achebe at the 92Y

Chinua Achebe at the 92Y


Okonkwo was well known throughout the nine villages and even beyond. His fame rested on solid personal achievements. As a young man of eighteen he had brought honor to his village by throwing Amalinze the Cat. Amalinze was a great wrestler who for seven years was unbeaten, from Umuofia to Mbaine. He was called the Cat because his back would never touch the earth.

Ah, the opening lines of “Things Fall Apart,” Chinua Achebe’s monumental novel that captures the humanity inside the colonization of Africa—Nigeria specifically. It had been years since I read this stellar text and I found myself falling into its rabbit hole of story, enchanted by its magic all over again as the 4 train shot me uptown to the 92 Street Y where Achebe was to be speaking.

It occurs to me now that Achebe never touched the stage--fitting. Paralyzed from the waist down in a car accident, Achebe appeared to us in a wheelchair. A man well into his golden years, he spoke to the sold out auditorium with the heft of a person steeped deeply in the totality of the human experience. How he spoke: imagine an endless sting of pearls in his belly. To speak was to pull each pearl, each word, from his throat one by one—making him easy to transcribe. All around me, I could hear the furious scrawlings of fellow note takers.

I am deeply intrigued by various responses to oppression, as it is a conversation that circles right back into the question of human nature. Etheridge Knight’s “A Fable” is a timeless examination of this and I return to this poem often when certain questions resurrect like dust in me. Achebe’s obsession as a writer has been the examination of how Western customs impacted traditional African societies. His father, a teacher, was one of the first to become Christian in his village, soon after the missionaries arrived. While other Nigerians deeply resisted the inevitable, his father considered this “new faith” the path to salvation, truly believing Christianity would solve the problems of the world, a commentary in itself on his dissatisfaction with the affairs of the day. I wonder if Achebe's father would still feel that today, if he were alive in present times.

As a boy, Achebe attended a government college and described walking into the library as being in another world. His school had a law called the Textbook Act. Three days a week students could not touch a single textbook after school and were only allowed to read novels and biographies, for excessive bookwork they deemed dangerous.

Achebe described himself as “skeptically grateful” of some of the things Westernisms brought to African society—as the good things came with a price. Nnamdi Azikiwe, Nigeria’s first president, received an American education and returned to enrich West Africa with the concept of free education for everyone, resulting in Nigeria’s fecund literary tradition, or as Achebe said, less illiterates reading the newspaper upside down. On the flip, Achebe was shocked to hear of extremist Christians in his village back home destroying shrines, deeming them idols. Ah, the heartbreaks of cultural erasure. I think of my buddy Bob Holman, who has travelled to West Africa on his mission to preserve endangered languages. His question is: why should we care more about endangered animals than about entire systems of consciousness?

Achebe discussed his extraordinary love hate relationship with Nigeria, which sounded similar to how say, Chicagoans and Trinidadians speak about their homes. This precise tension Achebe speaks of spells the undercurrent of my own life, my own relationship with this beautiful and terrible world. My love and hatred for it are one in the same. I don't know if or where one ends and the other begins but its totality is what fuels my odes and lesson plans; informs my decision to disconnect the cable and overdose on reggae. It is why I see an ad for 1-800-Flowers and think of the flower fields in Ethiopia, and indulge in frivolous delights, like hibiscus sorbet. It is why I smile when I wake up and slap my insides when I catch myself complaining about anything. Why I stay inspired.

It gave me a charge, seeing Chinua Achebe. To listen to him was to drink more fuel for the conflagration that already rages in me like the brush fire that loves its forest.

Summer of Sam, Pt. 3: San Francisco

On his way to work Kevin dropped me off on Polk Street and said explore. I was to belong to my own curiosity for the next few hours until he got off. I poked around Polk, then wandered into Good Vibrations, past the display of antique vibrators the size of car engines, past the rainbow of dildos and tubes of lube and found myself in the back room where Kevin was to read poems the next evening--my task as his friend to introduce him.The space was simple, its walls white, cheap chairs set up. On the walls was an installation exhibit on the gentrification of Polk Street.

Ah, gentrification. A word on the tip of lips lately. Mounted on all four walls were photographs printed on canvas. They were photographs of people in the neighborhood, headphones hanging below—each headphone promising five minutes of this person’s story, take, or stake. Totally ignorant to the history of this area, from the stories I gathered that Polk Street back in the day was a seedy safe haven where homeless drug addicts, prostitutes and gay teens redefined home for themselves. Polk street: the seedy Castro, necessary and specific in its allure. Teens from as far as the Midwest, after being banished from home after coming out to their red state families, gravitated all the way to the legendary Polk Street.

Out of the 15 or so on the walls, the story that will remain with me is Donna’s. Her photo most striking. She stands with a searching stance in the middle of a desolate street at night, empty syringes blooming out of one hand, gripping plastic armbands with the other. She runs a one woman needle exchange for heroin addicted teens. Her thing is: look, they’re using. Might as well ensure clean needles to prevent infections. She didn’t elaborate, but her childhood was “not cool” and she and her brother started shooting up when she was 14 and he, 12. I assume she’s clean now and out of her own pocket buys clean syringes for teen users. This is Polk Street.

Boutique hotels are replacing the halfway houses that provided beds to homeless gay teens. The seeds that made the area seedy are being swept into the gutters of oblivion. Other denizens of Polk Street welcome the bulldozers of change, the improvements that are happening in the neighborhood.

I keep wondering. All these people that are getting pushed out. The vagabonds. The artists. The insane. Where do they go when they go bye bye?

After leaving Good Vibrations I walk down Polk and turn left on Ellis, toward the Union Square I find inferior to the Union Square of my beloved New York City. I only vaguely know I am walking into the Tenderloin district, through which Polk Street serves as a major artery. Kevin told me last night why they call it the Tenderloin: back in the day it was such a dangerous part of town, that the cops brave enough to cover the area got salary enough to be able to afford steak.

It’s broad daylight. I am walking down Ellis Street in an inspired state, thanks to Donna’s story. Little do I know I am about to get even more inspiration—more than I would know what to do with. Damn these funkified Moleskines. These notebooks are so delightful to work in, they can get your ass killed or in some kind of trouble. Back in the black bullet days I used to whip it 70 mph on the highway between one gig and the next, thoughts avalanching. Now here I am, walking through the heart of the tenderloin district with red palm sized moleskine in hand, scribble scratching verses. My eyes are not seeing eyes.

A man appears beside me. If he’s not homeless he’s damn close. I do not feel threatened by his broken. He asks what I’m writing. I tell him a poem. He asks if I will write down his poem and then moves to recite his phone number. I stop him cold with warmth. He stops his step and allows me to walk off. He is defeated.

I put away the Moleskin and look around. I begin to really take in my surroundings. I am the only non addict on this street. Crack addicts, Meth heads, Dope fiends—you name it. Walking the streets like ghosts. I walk in front of a halfway house, a throng of folk lining up hoping to get a bed for the night. In my pencil skirt and goddess sandals, I walk past the throng, smiling at some, nodding at others.

When I tell folk this story they often ask me if I was frightened. The answer is no. More saddened than anything to be witness to this boulevard of broken souls.

I pass a dude posted on a fire hydrant with a stack of little manilla envelopes in his hand. The broken form a loose line,it echoes the line of us grand slam hopefuls at bar 13 just minutes before the slam list opens at 7. The addicts hobble up to their dealer. The transaction is as swift as it is blatant. It is daylight. At the end of that block, I pass the law. Blue uniform and badge, he is wathcing the entire scene with the eyes in the back of his head.

Two blocks later I find myself staring at the Banana Republic.

Summer of Sam, Pt. 2: Whidbey Island

After a rather public week in Seattle, the staff at Hedgebrook invited me to come stay the weekend before shooting off to my next destination: San Francisco. What a gift to be reimmersed in the energies of this magical place, even if for such a short while. I vowed to usurp the blessing by writing my most magnificent verses.

The moment I set foot on Hedgebrook's 48 acre property, the memories flooded back from my time there last August. The bench where I first saw Suheir, a book in her lap. Mary's cottage, right up the path from mine. The barn where we watched the presidential debate after being cut off from television for a month. The figs, sprouting from their branches like testicles. Golden raspberries. Cottages. Fresh milk. Baskets. Exquisite food, straight from earth. Baths. Woods. Walks. Nightly fires.

Again I found myself humble inside this caliber of women Hedgebrook has at its fingertips. Women from all parts of the world, tackling difficult issues with their pens while doing amazing things with their lives. This time around I found the degrees of separation to be much smaller. This time I met women who shared some of my closest friends and I could feel the circle ever widening. We are a network in ways we are often astonished to find.

There was a moment at dinner when we were discussing the politics of channelling, Gloria Steinem at the head of the table, as well as the head of this surreal conversation. Glorida is a soft spoken woman engaged with everything that is the world. She has come to call herself a feminist iconoclast and hope a holic. She says the feminist movement is any woman that is not living on her ass. The organizer that she is, she considers hope a form of planning and as a result says it with a curious gleam in her eye. She is one of the most optimistic people I have ever met and loves to tell a good story where laughing is usually involved. And as Gloria is telling some story, Holly Near, the fierce folk singer is to my right, laughing and sometimes heckling her old friend. And I thought to myself, wow. How blessed am I? Just days ago I was at this town hall in Seattle and at the sight of these two women 800 people rose to their feet and clapped long and hard. And here I am among them, breaking bread and discussing the intricacies of our lives.

One of my last nights there, the women decided to commune after dinner to share the writing we've been working on. At first I decided against reading from Seventeen Seasons due to my own insecurities about where I feel it is. I figured I would just share some poems. As the night went on I grew more and more inspired by how Gloria, Holly and the other women who opened up beautifully by sharing their work in such raw stages. So, I decided to read from my first current chapter of the novel, quaking beneath my skin.

After I finished reading, I took in the positive responses of the other women, who listened attentively. Gloria asked if the novel was for teens. I said yes. She smiled and said to me: Samantha, you are going to inspire a whole generation of poets.

It was about the most powerful thing someone has ever said to me. I knew I was ready for the world again. Two mornings later, Hedgebrook released me from its grace. And I found myself on a shuttle, a ferry, then on a plane to San Francisco.

Summer of Sam, Pt. 1: Seattle, WA

Seattle, WA

Hedgebrook Retreat for women writers throws an annual fundraiser in Seattle. Much Depends Upon Dinner: a $1,000 a plate dinner in a swanky location, 50 seats open to only women, a family style meal cooked by the finest female chefs Seattle has to offer, and most importantly, writers. Fly writers. Female writers. Inspiring writers, reading their work throughout the evening.

So when HB asked me to MC and as well as featured alongside Gloria Steinem, Stephanie Kallos and Nassim Assefi, I said hell yes! So I secured two more gigs in the area and off to Washington I went, the first stop of my Summer of Sam Tour.

Poetrynight in Bellingham was to be my first public appearance for the week. I would later be delighted to find that my summer tour couldn't have started off on a better mic. Nicole, who housed and spoiled me, let me borrow her wheels for the night since Bellingham was 2 hours from Seattle. I deeply appreaciated her trust and the opportunity to relive my road warrior days. I had sold my black bullet upon moving to New York and though I don't miss driving on a daily basis, I miss it every time I do it again.

I drove to lovely Bellingham with the silence of a samurai, poems in my brain begging to be voiced to this new set of ears. I decided in the end to do solely odes, my obsession for the past year. Man, the Poetrynight vibe was exuberant and warm, just like the walls of the cafe. Old school cat on a standing bass, playing throughout the night. Slug killer poster on the bathroom wall. The Podfather of Soul, tabulating slam scores. Writing that contained so much grace and integrity. And then there was Robert, a killer host with the kind of generous energy that he spreads so evenly across the night, Robert who I wished I could have spent more time with. But I had to head back to Seattle right after the show; once again I had a two hour drive ahead of me and half asleep was not the way to do it. I learned that lesson once before the soft way.

My second gig in the area was Seattle Slam, which in conjunction with Bellingham has made me an eternal fan of the Seattle scene. Daemond, the engine behind it all showed me a lot of love after my set. Again, I couldn't help but drench the audience with odes: slug, picking blackberries, twins, trojan, starfig, gentrification, apron, mermaids--well, you get the idea. Good thing was, the audience was totally game and I felt very confident standing before them, naked in my vunlerable, whimsical, indulgent, and sometimes silly ode poetry.

The third event was the big one, the one that flew me out that way. Much Depends Upon Dinner. So it was held in this place called the Sanctuary, which used to be this Christian Science church--a stunning establishment in West Seattle on a clandestine block, partly shielded by trees. Since CS is on the endangered species list of religions, the membership of the church dwindled to sawdust so they eventually had to sell it. An independantly wealthy real estate broker acquired it at some point and lived in it with her two daughters. I walked into the sanctuary; the place was exquisite and a rather outlandish place to live--but hey, if you could, why not? She since moved out and now rents it out for functions such as this. Large painted portraits of her daughters still hang on the walls to cover up quotes by the founder of Christian science, Mary Baker Eddy.

The tables were set up in long rows. There was an open bar, the special drink of the night, lavendar martinis, the lavendar coming straight from the Korean lady's lavendar farm around the corner from Hedgebrook. If I wasn't such an integral part of the evening, I would have been knocking those back like it was nobody's business. But I restrained myself with two--or was it three? People socialized a bit but once all the women were seated in the big open dining area, I kicked the evening off with Ode to Picking Blackberries from the balcony that overlooked the whole scene. Surprised by the tactic, the audience looked up at me in awe, like they were all girls again. From my recollections, it was my first time performing from a balcony. It was so dramatic for no reason. I loved it. Juliet all the way. And later, for further dramatic effect, I performed Ode to Apron wearing one. My first time doing that, too.

I also vibed hard with Nassim Assefi, and Iranian novelist who just came back from the middle east. A doctor by trade she made a switch in her life by taking on her writing as a career and now she practices medicine just for fun--all over the world! How fly is that?

Gloria Steinem showed up looking smart and lovely in her all black--pants and a simple top, clean lines--a rocking red bag. I loved her energy as she greeted me with a warm sisterly embrace, with a curious familiarity, as if we had met once or twice before. When it was her time to speak she thanked me for "rescuing poetry from obscurity." She read from her next nonfiction project on her life as an organizer and this particular essay was about discerning the surreal of every day life. She's been excersizing the practice of, well, looking for the surreal in every day life. For instance, I find it surreal that Walt Staton, a volunteer for this organization "No More Deaths" was arrested and charged for littering. Want to know why? For leaving jugs of water in the desert, a nature preserve, for the illegal families that cross those lands and so often die of thirst from doing so. He was sentenced to 300 hours of community service of picking up trash on the highway.

Thats my first stab at discerning the kind of surreal Gloria is talking about. She herself had some damn compelling examples, but you'll just have to wait till the book drops to find out what they are :)

The next evening was a town hall Hedgebrook put together starring Gloria, legendary folk singer Holly Near, Nassim, Stephanie Kallos and Pramila Jayapal. I was not familiar with Holly's music prior to meeting her but since then I have become hip to her. Later, after we bonded she was kind enough to slide me some of her CD's and I looooove her music! Wow! Where has this woman been all my life? A fierce sassy freedom fighter, she is. Holly's songs are sonorous weapons against war, sexism, homophobia, oppressions and woes of all kinds. Though she approaches her art with so much love for whoever she is directing her songs toward.That's the fiercest thing about her work is the generosity of her love even in a musical onslaught of critique. Hugely inspiring. She has lived an amazing life, knee deep in the times.

The auditorium was packed with 800 people solid, sold out, line down the block. The moment the panelists appeared on stage the anxious audience stood up clapping long and hard. The exuberance in the room for both Gloria and Holly, the stars of the evening, was infectious. HB had asked me to open up the evening with a poem of my choice, so I chose Audre Lorde's "Litany for Survival", a manifesto in itself. I was followed by two other Hedgebrook alums who read poems by Sylvia Plath and June Jordan.

The panelists then spent the next hour in conversation about women writers that have altered their realities. A nice thing to think about isn't it? After a lush two hours of conversation, Holly singing in between, and questions from the audience (some of them not questions, but pontifications and declarations and testimonies), i ended the evening with my poem, "House of the Rising Daughter" a poem I had written last year on the birth of singer Eddie Vedder's baby girl. Really though, its a celebratory meditation on all the little warrior goddesses arriving into these chaotic times.Call it another ode, if you will. It was a cool experience to perform that poem in Vedder's hometown. I had not occured to me to mention who I had written it specifically for but Gloria suggested I do as she felt it would resonate in a special way with the audience, and it did.

All in all, I felt honored and blessed to have opened and closed the evening, and loved sitting off to the side, letting the wisdom of these brilliant women wash over my consciousness like ocean waves. I left Seattle that night, and journeyed to Whidbey Island for the weekend to join Gloria, Holly, and the other sisters currently in residence at Hedgebrook.

Poetry at the Clinic

The Invitation

Today, for National Caribbean American HIV/AIDS Awareness day, I took the train to Newark, NJ where I was to perform poems in the waiting room of a health clinic.

East Orange Primary Health Center, a one stop shop of all things health related, provide all realms of health care for impovershed, non-white, muchly Caribbean immigrant populations. Of the 3009 people diagnosed with HIV/AIDS in East Orange since December 31, 2007, 93% of them are Black Americans or from the Caribbean.

So in response to this statistical calamity, the clinic put on a health education fest, where they invite the community to come get free screenings for high blood pressure, diabetes, and HIV/AIDS. And while people wait, why not slip the arts in there to further educate and expand the mind? So this is where I come in.

The Funk

Thing is, this morning, I wake up in a solemn state, though I would not say it sad. Hey, even with my grinnin ass, some days smiles don't spill across the face so loosely, especially now at this point in the wrestling match with Seventeen Seasons, this monstrosity of a novel that wrenches me like no other love. To tell the truth, I woke up not wanting to be in front of people, not wanting to expose myself in the ways essential to the public poet I have grown to be.

Times like this it hits me: the insanity of what we as poets do, especially ones in the performance realm. Take sex workers for instance, I cannot concieve of sex being my occupation, but here it is, their livelihood. It reminds me of how most folk cannot concieve of being a poet, standing before the comprehending and uncomprehending masses, the empathetic and apathetic, naked inside your language.

But. This. Is. My. Livelihood.

So I spent the morning opening my energies to avoid entering into this poor clinic with a sense of dread because no audience deserves that. It's not their fault I woke up on the wrong side of things.

With Adam Mansbach's End of the Jews in my lap, I read all the way to Newark.

The Clinic

I walk into the clinic, and well, it's a waiting room all right, as they said. Aside from the balloons at the entrance to signify the specialness of the day, the mundanity of the situation is glaring. I scan the space, fingers in my brain flipping quickly through my rolodex of poems. I look around: young, old, men, women, everything in between. I don't have much time; I am to go on soon. What to do what to do.

Booths are set up all over the room with health educators on deck armed with pamphlets, mailing lists and varieties of condoms I never knew existed. Glow in the dark joints? Damn, where the hell have I been?

Youngings are on the prowl, coaxing candy from the young health educators (all women) manning the tables. A gentleman in his 70's palms a bunch of condoms and one falls. The young boy beside him, 7 ior 8, picks it up. Totally unseduced by its vibrant wrapping, he hands it to the man. It strikes me that I have never seen a kid that young hold a condom. I wonder if he knows what it's for.

I study the layout of the room.The chairs are set up in the middle, coming from two separate directions, with a big awkward gulf in between them--tricky to navigate when performing because you then have to divide your energies in two directions--not my strong suit. Oh well. Another day another challenge. Giddy up.

Elbows digging into my knees, I sit in a quiet room, contemplating poems. Contemplating my presence in this space, what it all means. From a performance standpoint, the situation wasn't ideal. But from a poetry standpoint it was beyond ideal, because how often is poetry asked to exist in such spaces? There are poetry venues, and then there is this. This too is necessary.

The Performance

Claire introduces me and the applause is lukewarm and genuine. With no plan, I step. Everything I have done in my short tenure on this earth help bring me to moments like this. I think back to my Tallahassee days, my Black on Black Rhyme days, when Keith Rodgers and I would roll to all the barber shops and hair salons on Friday afternoons (pay day), spit poems and hustle CD's. Oh, and at the Essence festival in New Orleans, 2002, spitting poems on sidewalks, selling my CD's to total strangers, happy to support.

Man, I hardly do shit like that anymore, which is kinda sorta an unsung tragedy in my life. And how fiery and brash I was back then! I wasn't afraid of anything . And if I was afraid, then the fear wasn't important enough to remember. And I find, that I am not afraid now. I wrote poems for 10 years and was too afraid to share them with strangers. Those days are long over. I believe in this gift I give and have been given, I believe in the functionality of poetry's elevated language in the mundane world. Time to spit!

At the start of my set a man breaks into a public reverie about how fine Trinidadian women are. I gestured to myself and told him I know! Vanity is so fun sometimes, like the sun playing peekabo through clouds. There was a girl in the back of the room, whose hand drifted to her mouth halfway through the set and kept it there for the rest of the performance. She didn't even clap. Most just sat there silently, some gazing at me, others looking off somewhere--a distant land?

All now so, there is constant movement that characterizes a clinic waiting room. To my right clinic staff and their clients are talking and laughing at non-poetry friendly volumes. Balancing that out to my left are two women bobbing their heads to the invisible beat to each of my lines, urging me on, thanking me after each poem, a rarity, because I am usually the one thanking the audience kinda profusely just for listening. Because truth be told, whether its big, small, black, white, young, old, a listening audience is gold. Sometimes I wonder if applause is an unnatural response to art. Applause can be loud enough to echo in your ears for days to come, and still be empty. I have had many audiences clap like lunatics, ushering me off stage with an erect ego. That's the same audience that will not approach you afterwards to shake your hand or buy your stuff, ushering you to the next gig a city away, pockets in pain. Poets if you're out there, holler if you hear me!

The Aftermath

There was this one woman in her 50's, who sat in the front row, with her body curiously turned away from me the whole time, stone still, looking down at the floor, not making eye contact once. Though I genuinely don't care about this anymore, I was certain my words were sliding off her like egg yolk. It be that way sometimes!

Do you know this woman was the first to approach me to buy my book, her money already out?

Lessons such as this are so important they need to be relearned over and over again: to never, never assume what you think a person gets or doesn't get out of your work based on how they engage you externally. This is a deep thing we do as poets. It's a dark magic. The journey our beautifully crafted words make into a person is a sacred journey, a journey that has nothing to do with us or the person its happening to. Mysterious, the travels our words make once they leave our bodies thorugh our pens, our lips. Exhilerating thought, the idea of our words go places we cannot follow, more less imagine.

Afterwards I shared some meaningful talks with some of my listeners--and boy were they listening! Some were quoting lines and sharing with sincere detail how and why certain images and whole poems intersected with their insides. Much more useful to me than a pat on the back and "good job!" --which is cool too, if that's what you got. Sold some stuff, too.

I left there feeling uplifted and inspired--nothing like before. I thank Claire from East Orange's Primary Center for comissioning me to come out of my self imposed funk, providing this unique experience for her clients and for me, to learn lessons both explicable and not.

Mashin Down De Place with David Rudder

I woke the morning of June 19 with a joyous dread that had been building in me since the organizers of Celebrate Brooklyn invited me back in April to headline this day with David Rudder at the Prospect Park Bandshell, an 8,000 person venue.

When I accepted their invitation, my initial thoughts were:

Am I enough for this blessing? And will my people accept me as their own?

Ah, Trinis. Until now I hadn't the opportunity to perform my work for such a large Trini audience. I mean, I performed for small gatherings of people during my time there last year, including my Uncle's church in Caparo, but nothing near this large.

6,000+ people can be an intimidating audience for a poet, period. But 5,000+ Trinis is an especially intimidating audience in my eyes. Trinis eh easy, yes. Not at all at all.

For one, we pride ourselves on being difficult to impress. We have this air about us like we have seen it all, heard it all. Coupled with that, we have been known to heckle especially after some imbibing has gone on.

These aforementioned concerns are the silly insecurities I held in the beginning. Eventually, once I decided to change my mind about it, these insecurities turned into just the opposite: pure, unapologetic, confidence. Hell yeah, I am ready for that stage! It has been waiting for me and now it is mine to claim!

I always try to remember that audiences, with the exception of Apollo's ameteur night, want to see you as a performer, do well. Some Trinis may heckle yes, but as a majority Trinis are excellent participants of language. Calypso music, indicative of this, in turn dictates this of us. Also, Trinis reflect the beginnings of who I am, and therefore, stand to understand layers of my work with an intimacy unsurpassed by any other crowd in the world.

What an enormous gift, this opportunity to hold poetic council with so many of my countrymen&women--who too, in varying degrees, have been geographically dislocated from our home we so love. Their paths led them to Brooklyn, as did mine.

Still, the joyous dread gathered throughout the day. Though the tension in me somewhat eased by the affable vibe of the production staff, as I was backstage, hearing my name called by the announcer, the crowd cheering, my peeps up front in VIP, screaming their faces off, every last memory of nervousness fell away as I journeyed to the mic, looking the audience squarely in the eye, making it clear my readiness.

I opened the set with "Signs" and continued on with "Ode to Twins","West Indian Woman Speaks from the Dead", "Ode to Gentrification", "Locksmith", "Why Won't Glenda Pray?" before ending with my 8 minute tribute to Odetta.

All in all, the challenge stretched me as a performer as well as deepened my bond with myself. While up there, even though the support was massive, never had I felt so alone, 5,000+ pairs of eyes on me. II felt strong,vulnerable, poised, risque, and most importantly, among friends--5,000 of them!

Once I returned backstage, David Rudder approached me with, "You have serious lyrics." His words meant multitudes to me, as Rudder is one of Trinidad's finest Calypsoians, and is loved across the world.

My favorite song of his is "Heaven," a lament on why some human beings find heaven in subjugating others.

The song opens:

Ever since time began man has searched for his heaven.
Sometimes seeking it in the reflection of his neighbor’s blood.

Rudder and the Brooklyn based Sunshine Band mash down the place; the crowd ate them up, singing Rudder's songs so loud that that Rudder did not have to, and dancing hard enough to make you wake up sore come morning. The 90 minute set was a great mix of ballads and jump and wave jams.

The evening felt such an authentically Trinidadian experience. As I wined my waist, surrounded by other jubilant bodies, it occured to me that this entire evening was the most Trinidadian I'd felt since I first arrived here 20 years ago. How healing. For even when I return to Trinidad I feel American, something I never feel until I color outside these dear borders.

I dropped asleep that night drunk off gratitude and woke up with the greatest of hangovers, not to mention soreness from dancing harder than I'd danced in recent days.

Kennth Makes News Yet Again!

Kenneth Foster Jr. my dear friend and pen pal of some years, was sentenced to death row at age 19 for driving the getaway car after an unplanned murder committed by his friend. Under the Texas Law of Parties, Kenneth was tried alongside the shooter in court and sentenced to death just like the shooter. He lived on death row 10 years and his case weathered 5 trials, 3 of which he won, two of which he lost. He lost the fifth trial, and had no more evidence to gain a 6th, so he was sentenced to death by lethal injection for August 30, 2007. Thanks to the enormous network Kenneth built behind bars, using only pen and paper and the lost art of letter writing, over 17,000 contacted the Governer's office in the weeks leading up to the trial, including President Jimmy Carter and South Africa's Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Five hours before lethal injection, Gov. Perry gave Kenneth a stay, which means his life was saved, making Texas history. Sweet victory, but the war is far from over. The below message comes from Scott Cobb, president of the Texas Moratorium Network.

Texas House Passes "The Kenneth Foster, Jr Act", Bill Moves to Senate


After almost two years of grassroots organizing, the Texas House of Representatives Friday passed the Law of Parties Bill (HB 2267) and even adopted an amendment renaming the bill "The Kenneth Foster Jr, Act".

The vote was 69-66, with 1 present not voting and several absent members. Three Republicans voted yes and only one Democrat voted no.

This was a collective achievement of many legislators, staffers, activists, family members of death row inmates and other people and groups working together, but we still have to work to get the Texas senate to also pass the bill. We need you to call senators today!

The session ends soon, so there is not much time for us to convince the senate to pass the bill too. See below for information to call state senators to urge them to pass the "The Kenneth Foster Jr Act"

The Texas House of Representatives Friday passed House Bill 2267, "The Kenneth Foster, Jr Act". Sponsored by Rep. Terri Hodge (D - Dallas), the bill would eliminate the death penalty as a sentencing option under the controversial Texas Law of Parties. It would also require separate trials of co-defendants in capital cases. The bill now goes to the Senate for consideration.

The Texas Law of Parties gained national prominence in 2007 during the high profile case of Kenneth Foster, Jr., whose death sentence was commuted by Governor Rick Perry following a national grassroots movement to halt his execution.

"It is my hope that in the future no other families have to deal with the emotional, psychological and financial hell associated with having a loved one on death row for a murder they factually did not commit, like my family has had to deal with for the last 13 years," said Terri Been, sister of Texas death row inmate Jeff Wood. Wood was sentenced to death under the Law of Parties.

"This bill, when passed, will make me even prouder to be a resident of Texas," said Kenneth Foster, Sr., father of Kenneth Foster, Jr. "Our family knows first hand the injustices of the Law of Parties, and Rep. Hodge's bill is a step in the right direction."

Although Hodge's bill is not retroactive, and therefore would not affect any current cases like Jeff Wood's, several families of death row inmates convicted under the Law of Parties have lobbied in favor of the legislation.

"This is a major victory for the families impacted by this unfair law," said Bryan McCann of the Campaign to End the Death Penalty. "We are told the death penalty is reserved for the worst of the worst, but its application under the Law of Parties affords prosecutors far too much discretion in pursuing the most severe form of punishment."

Executions under the Law of Parties are very rare. Three people have been executed in Texas under the Law of Parties, which amounts to 0.6 percent of the 437 total executions in Texas. The last such execution in Texas was in 1993.

"The Kenneth Foster, Jr Act is a much-needed reform. The current law allowing accomplices who have not killed anyone to pay the ultimate penalty for a murder committed by another person is fundamentally unjust", said Scott Cobb, president of Texas Moratorium Network.

Thank you to all the people who participated in the Lobby Day on March 24 and the many, many people who called their state representative urging them to vote for HB 2267. The groups who worked hard for this historic victory include Texas Moratorium Network, Texas Death Penalty Abolition Movement, Campaign to End the Death Penalty, Texas Students Against the Death Penalty, and many family members of people convicted under the Law of Parties who all made visits and phone calls to members of the Texas Legislature.