Can't Knock The Hustle

Exodus takes patience. Some be in the wilderness for forty years before they stumble upon the promised land. I know I ain't been speaking to the flock with the frequency expected of a nigga, but don't think for a moment that I've lost the heart for this shit. I got a hustler's spirit, nigga, period. I got caught up and they tried to Toby my nikes, but I always land on the good foot. I don't know when I'll be back with the "Let my people go" shit that y'all need, but best believe it won't be too long. Inshallah, I'll always be on time.

I'll be back but for now just seckle.

B.A.M.N!

"When a person places the proper value on freedom, there is nothing under the sun that he will not do to acquire that freedom. Whenever you hear a man saying he wants freedom, but in the next breath he is going to tell you what he won't do to get it, or what he doesn't believe in doing in order to get it, he doesn't believe in freedom. A man who believes in freedom will do anything under the sun to acquire . . . or preserve his freedom."

-Brother Malcolm

It's almost cliché for a black man to say that the book that changed his life was "The Autobiography of Malcolm X," but I'llbeedat. I can't think of anyone who epitomizes the Exodus Hustler more than the shining black Prince of Shabazz, so a brotha would be remiss to not acknowledge him here on the 40th anniversary of his assassination (I'm not sure if "anniversary" should be used so morbidly...). The truth is, "tryna get over." is about a child standing up and exclaiming "I am Malcolm X!" to the public, hoping one day he will convince himself and others that he's in fact here to fill the void left February 21st, 1965. I still have more exclaiming to do.

Addendum:
When I woke up this morning I wondered, "What does Stanley Crouch have to say about Malcolm X?" And just my luck he came through with the truth.

'You didn't listen until the niggas burned it down'

Photo by Bob Witkowski

And in the 13 years since we've last caught your attention you've gone back to not knowing, not showing, and not caring about what goes on in South Central Los Angeles. Truthfully, we didn't expect your help. After all, we were the community raised abandoned in the ruins of the Watts Riots. Our smoke signals weren't intended to be distress calls any more than they were supposed to be the death note for a reluctant suicide. A defiant "Top of the world, Ma!" from a 'hood refusing to die on some punk shit.

We survived the self-inflicted wounds and managed to convince the police (and the National Guard) that we are crazy enough to fight they asses to the death, giving us a brief moment to heal. Since, we've passively dealt with po's throwing salt in the cut, but in the past few weeks we've found ourselves once again with our collective back against the wall. The lack of respect for our lives has been so blatant recently that it feels like we're being set-up for an ambush. Some officers are already in riot gear, anticipating (instigating) a flashpoint. There's a heaviness in the atmosphere that cannot be entirely blamed on the smog and niggas are running out of excuses not to catch fade.

Community leaders are encouraging us to keep the peace and boycott (the LAPD? It ain't like we call them for help anyways), outsiders mockingly remind us of the futility of the last riot. What nobody realizes is that we're beyond the point where giving a fuck makes sense. If you've been reading The Hustle you're familiar with the lack of clarity, rationale, and organization I have when speaking on the growing tensions between the police and the community. That's because reason ain't doing a damn thing for South Central. We've been relatively reasonable since 1992...and niggas stayed dyin'. I can no longer convince myself or others that the thing to do is sit back and wait to be the next victim, even if fighting back means certain death.

I'm not tryna be on no Gunnar Kaufman shit...Exodus requires survivors. Whatever the next move is should be given a second thought, but I'm not sure we have time for a third. Something needs to happen though, and I'd rather have a riot than a forfeit.


Photographer unknown...unfortunately.
If the buildings burn again, you can find Ike Moses listening for the voice of I Am in the fire.

'I woke up early on my bornday...'

because a nigga had work. That sho am a bitch. But word...I'm 23. Still lost in the wilderness. Exodus still in progress. Ain't a damn thing changed.

I'd like to thank Gina Monique Johnson (mommy dukes), my nigga God, the red clay of Africa, Malcolm X, O'shea Jackson, and the unrested civilians of SoufCent for helping me get here today.

Somebody cue the Stevie Wonder and shit.

Grand Theft of Another: How the game plays in the real San Andreas

This past weekend, in those hours where Saturday night and Sunday morning cross-fade, while you and your PS2 controller were navigating Carl Johnson through Los Santos, 13-year-old Devin Brown was enjoying a g-ride on the surface streets of SoufCent. Your digital crime spree probably ended with CJ getting capped by one of them mark ass Front Yard Ballas. Game over. But you saved the game midway through the mission. You straight. Brown found himself at the corner of 83rd Street and Western Avenue on the receiving end of 10 bullets when he allegedly backed into Los Angeles Police Officer Steven Garcia's squaddie. Li'l homie ain't have no memory card.

Community activists are pressuring LAPD Chief William Bratton to keep his promise of reforming department policy regarding officers firing on and from moving vehicles, a promise first made nearly a year ago after LAPD killed robbery suspect Nicholas Killinger in Santa Monica, live on TV. The band-aids are annoyingly inappropriate for the bullet wounds, and after Los Angeles County District Attorney Steve Cooley decided last week to not prosecute the officer involved in the Stanley Miller case, the message has clearly been sent (again) that attacks on black males are to be filed under "no harm, no foul."

Devin Brown's death hits close to home, him being killed mere blocks from the 92nd Street corners that hosted my coming of age and schooled my knuckleheaded self with hard knocks. Less than a mile from where my baby brother, himself not much younger than Brown, is growing up...In the day, we gave chase whenever "ONE TIME!" was alerted. We were preteens, YGs with little work put in, and ain't done a damn to merit any attention from Pac-Man. These memories are accompanied by Ghostface, 'bounce if you a good kid, bounce...even if you ain't do shit, you it...fuck that, run! Cops got guns!' Breaking through Jesse Owens and St. Andrews parks, I could never decide if we were running for sport or for our lives. We'd chuckle with excitement and perhaps to keep from screaming like yamps. The po-po probably wasn't paying us no mind at the time, but we weren't taking no chances. Judging from the Devin Brown situation and others, chances are we ain't have no second chances anyways.

This past weekend my father, a late-blooming law student, was telling me war stories of his assorted yet consistently brutal run-ins with local law enforcement during his career as a homeless crackhead in Downtown Los Angeles. Compared to him, I've had only minor experiences with police harassment, but his "fuck the police" stance is more nuanced than mine. Over the years he's been able to detect the vulnerability which motivates excessive force, but his scar tissue won't allow him to excuse it.

I can understand Jake is regular folk. As regular folk he don't transcend the system which fears black men...and apparently black boys. Working on behalf of citizens pathologically afraid of the dark, and in accordance with legislation that is written by the nervous hands of those who represent the shook ones, the police are simply pawns at the hand of a chessboxer whose gambit is also a preemptive strike. Unfortunately, not all little brothas are Fresh.


R.I.P. Devin Brown

Our Living, Black Manhood!

I won't even attempt to eulogize Ossie. I lack the eloquence to tribute the man properly, and I doubt anyone can deliver their last respects as powerfully as he did for Malcolm. Ossie deserves at least that.

Let his own words instruct us in his departure.

"However we may have differed with him—or with each other about him and his
value as a man—let his going from us serve only to bring us together, now.

Consigning these mortal remains to earth, the common mother of all,
secure in the knowledge that what we place in the ground is no more now a
man—but a seed—which, after the winter of our discontent, will come forth again
to meet us."

Amen.

Inglewood Ain't Always Up to No Good.

Donovan Jackson (left),
Inglewood Mayor Roosevelt Dorn

I don't hate players, I hate the mayors (word to stic.man). Not all mayors though. The Wood's Roosevelt Dorn is a'right by me. Though a (non-Black) jury awarded former Inglewood police officer Jeremy Morse and current officer Bijan Darvish over $2.4 million for what they claimed was discriminatory disciplinary action taken against them following their involvement in the manhandling of Donovan Jackson, The Los Angeles Wave reported Thursday that Dorn and the City of Inglewood will be filing "a motion to have a Superior Court judge set aside the decision."

A Superior Court judge himself before being mayor of Tha I, Dorn points out the jury's ironic reverse-reverse discrimination.

"[The jury's decision] was outrageous," he told The Wave. "The [people] should know this whole case was based upon white officers who believed they were being treated unfairly [compared to] the black officer [Willie Crook]. The black officer was also terminated."

Pardon my editorializing, but how was there even a case? Morse gets fired on the spot, but acquitted twice of criminal wrong doing. He got off easy. Darvish was suspended for ten days, but he's been exonerated and got his wages for the time off. He got a paid vacation. Crook got fired for flashlighting Jackson. Nobody finna pay Crook, and they shouldn't, but his supposed favored treatment was the basis of this case.

I'm not gonna say much else on this case, but my nigga Crook, you get a sighful "Black cop, Blackcopblackcopblackcop."

Tsk, tsk, tsk.