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November

11.15.05

(Although I started it first week in September) . . . Tell me something good, Faithful! Things are finally starting to pick up again in Camp VV. After a busy summer of not spinning, I guess I imagined more Justin Gatlin and less Haile Gebreselassie. But, the pace is finally reaching an acceptable climb. Same goes for my writings, but I’m getting there . . . Jalen and I spent a number of days in the zoo or aquarium, our two favorite destinations, as well as open Knicks practice. Bust how your boy yelled out the window at some poor guy, “Yo! Why you have an umbrella and it’s not raining, son?!” Child is getting too grown!

Big shouts to my man DJ Crooked for making the move to Vegas – hope to check you out there in ’06, my man! Some MAJOR 30th birthdays in October; Happy Birfday to ALL of ya . . . Especially, The Boss. Welcome to the club – guess you can’t say, “Let’s take a poll: how many people are still in their 20’s here?” Also, Happy B-Days to my November people! Please continue to check the site and drop me a line every now and then. It’s always good to see how you’re doing!

- Vote for Vadro

P.S. The pictures have been rolling in of all the newest members of the Faithful. Yes, the babies! Congrats to Dr. & Mrs. Bananaman, Lucria & Ash-man, Duane & Geneva, and D-Buzz & Gabby. I’m gonna have to start remixing nursery rhymes soon . . .

"It Wouldn’t Be Written"

I had so much I wanted to tell you this month, but it just didn’t want to be written.

The events surrounding Hurricane Katrina sent me into a torrent of my own. An unnatural disaster. I wanted to let you know about the sleepless nights and sadness-without-warning spells. I hoped to spark a dialogue on race and class before America moved to the easier of the two. Maybe even dish out some tongue lashings to the elected officials who run on character campaigns yet couldn’t find the necessary characteristics to violate some fictional red tape; as if the repercussions would have been insurmountable.

I tried beginning different ways, taking different angles, starting in the middle – but, it just didn’t want to be written.

I watched children grow up way too quickly; eight or nine and able to articulate what was clearly right and wrong. “We need help!” How was it so clear to a child and so unclear to those in power making decisions that will eventually confine so many of those children to lives of poverty? Or was it unclear? I wanted to talk about it.

I tried listening to music for inspiration when none would come. Sad songs; happy songs; songs with messages . . .

How easy it was to close myself off from the world by placing two earphones in my ears. There was Bob and Luther. Sam Cooke and John Legend. But, not even my refuge, music, could bring those words out. I read and watched everything – newspapers, blogs, specials, Oprah – had endless conversations. I processed in the ways that were easiest. Until I tried to sit down at the computer and the words wouldn’t come.

Eventually, I put the topic down. I started new ideas – future statements. Some were actually pretty good. But, all paths led back to this familiar destination.

What was it about this story that made it so difficult to turn from and even more difficult to process? Was it the faces that looked so American, in a scene that so didn’t? Was it stories about jazz musicians with no instruments? Elderly with no medicine? Police with no station? Was it the printed images of “looters” and “finders” – those stealing for no apparent reason vs. those trying to survive, at least according to the press? Maybe it was listening to mouths in studios that looked nothing like those in the videos yet calling these folks refugees. Refugees . . . in America . . .

Chris Rock offered a good take on what many Black people feel about America when he said, “We love it and hate it. It’s kinda like that uncle who paid for college, but molested you along the way?” Don’t think I could have said it better. And, Katrina? For me, it was like those wrestling matches with your brother when all he had to do was sit on you? You struggled to break free, yelling, tearing, and losing energy until you realized that no one was home . . . and, you weren’t going to be saved unless he felt like giving in. He eventually did, but you knew who was in control.

It hurt to watch; hurt to listen; hurt to talk. But most of all, it hurt just to think; think about how great and how unfair this place can be. Like we’re all at the same party, but not hearing the same music.

Hopefully, one day . . . this piece will be written.