Stephen Earley Jordan II (educating nigras since 1977)

2011-08-03T12:46:00.000-07:00

Over here now:

CalmingTheNatives.com

Come visit, let's play

-Stephen Earley Jordan II

When I was a Cave Bear (or "Reflections of My Childhood and Writing")

2011-02-11T11:09:00.001-08:00

My childhood sweethearts were Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.

We shared the same distinct fascination with the macabre. Teenage angst enveloped me--there was a sense of seclusion when I read their works billowing with sadness, sarcasm, and at times, despair. I didn't think anyone understood me during my lonely moments of mania. But Sylvia and Anne helped me survive. I knew, with them, my writing (at the time, mostly metaphoric and confessional) would ultimately rescue me from my psychological demons which plagued me since an early age. I battled myself in secret; remained in seclusion so that no one else would know of my torment; then returned to my everyday life pretending I was okay. By 8th grade, Sylvia, Anne, and I had made a secret suicidal pact, which would eventually be broken.

My writing and attempt to capture the twistedness of man--our hidden agendas--predates my discovery of Sylvia and Anne. I still have the first story I wrote--in first grade, handwritten on ruled paper, now tattered and yellow-brown with age. Despite a childhood of undiagnosed dyslexia, seeing particular numbers and letter patterns backward (and even writing from right to left), I found a sense of freedom in words. On those tattered pages, at the bottom of my storage bin is a twisted tale of Cinderella I wrote.

We all know the story of Cinderella--a fairy tale most people truly wish could be true. However, I knew in my heart, people truly never lived happily ever after. There was nothing really real about that. However, in my story, though similar in its Cinderella premise, takes the reader for a slight journey. In my version, when the Prince looks for Cinderella, in search of the right foot to fit the glass slipper, we learn that he is angry. His anger shows when Cinderella is savagely beaten WITH the glass slipper because the Prince felt she should have stayed for the entire party. Then, he leaves with her evil stepsisters and marries them (yes! each of them), while Cinderella is left poor and alone.

Why would I, a first-grader, write such a tale? I had never witnessed abuse--as far as I could remember, at least. Similarly, I try to think of my happiest childhood memory and I can't. Nor can I remember any great children's stories that was read to me or that I may have read on my own--I don't remember enjoying (or reading) any Dr. Seuss, for example. But I do remember the adult literature.

My mom was a librarian. My after school and summer time were spent in the library—though, then, I despised reading. Up until the mid-1980s, people could smoke cigarettes in almost any public area. And, even though mom worked at the library after the anti-smoking laws went into effect, the stale tobacco smell still clung to the books, their pages, and even the furniture in the library. With every page flip, the scent wafted into my nostrils and into my asthmatic lungs. So I had a hesitation of going the library for this very reason. Even today, I attribute the library to smoking in a confined area.

But there, in my mother’s library, Iaeger Public Library in West Virginia, I found a book--THE book! “The Clan of the Cave Bear”--an extensive novel depicting the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon humans coming in contact with each other. A wonderful novel which I truly didn't understand—but I wanted to. A quite disturbing novel that, as a 3rd grader, I had no clue what a lot of the words meant—but again, I wanted to. But, I did recognize forced bodily contact (which I would later know as "rape"), and how the end result would be a child being born; and I learned about dominance versus submission. Though, again, at this age, my ability to express these things verbally was limited. As children, we understand a lot of things that we just can't truly grasp how to express verbally. And, by the time we realize what we can express, it's nothing but a metaphor in a story. I vividly recall a passage in “Clan of the Cave Bear” where character Ayla, an outsider, due to her blond hair and ability to only speak in gestures (is brutally raped by a clan member and gives birth to a son. And, interestingly so, the clan didn’t believe it was semen that made a baby, but rather a Spirit entering the body via the mouth--which, I guess, is what made it a bit 'cleaner' for me at that age to comprehend. It was just as believable as a stork bringing a baby.

This is what sparked my writing and reading. Subconsciously, I was affected. I didn't want to read the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew. I needed something real! Could have been real! Must have been real! With my newfound love of reading, I HAD to test out my own skills at writing--only to be shot down and humiliated.

Not only was I physically different--the only black kid in the entire school--but I was born different. My difference somehow was always expressed in my art, my writing. I'd like to think, like most people would about themselves, that there was something special about me--though I'll never be able to put my finger on what exactly made me special. The assignment in my third grade English class was to 1) use the paper finger puppets (after we cut them out and color them) shaped like a dragon, a prince, and a princess; 2) to build props; and 3) to write a skit to be performed in front of the class.

By myself, I built two castles out of small shipping boxes and decorated them with my Crayolas and wrote the script; the other students in my group colored in the finger puppets. There we were in front of the class. I read the script while the other students acted it out with the puppets. And, at this point, no one read the script--but me. In the tale, the Prince was at war with the Dragon; The prince slayed the dragon; the Prince and the Princess lived happily ever after (so the students initially thought). However, the skit ended with the Dragon's twin brother kidnapping the princess and dragging her back into his cave; and, finally, the Prince searched for her for weeks. When he does find her, as the story ended, "she gave birth to a dragon baby who spit fire".

At that moment, when I read those words, the entire class gasped and went silent.

I didn't know why they grew quiet. Nor would I understand this until years later. This story was MY version of "Clan of the Cave Bear"--but no one else appreciated or understood it. It would be years before I shared my writing with anyone again.

Adult literature was real to me. There was nothing made-up about it--no elves, no sorcerers, no abracadabra tricks. I didn't understand how my peers could dive into books to escape from reality when I wanted to reflect it in all of its beauty and disturbances.

I wouldn’t meet Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton--and have secret literary affairs with them, until much later—my teen years. But they would soon teach me that I was wrong—there was nothing special about me. We were all cave bear in our own way.

Eat

2010-08-11T07:28:00.000-07:00

Her vagina is uncooked
Bacon strips I fiddle
With my salmon tongue
Like an untuned cello.
It smells of thyme
and bergamot hair food
From Sally's Beauty Supply
On 125th street.

She says she likes when
Brothas eat her out
But most don't like to eat
So Latin brothas take care of her,
Devour her like mofongo con camarones.

"Do you like to eat?" She asks.

Words are
Muffled by
Mind and mouth
On her and Devouring
All her tender parts,
Keeping mind on matter
And matter elsewhere—
Sucking dick
At 17,
And stalked Him like syphilis
For more than a decade
Trying to get my Daddy
Back, back, back to me
After he left me,
Left us like a July 4th
Firecracker over the Hudson.

"Do you like to eat?" She asks.

Coming up for air
From the thick, vertical dampness;
the scents of Victoria's Secret
Garden Vanilla Lace Hydrating lotion
and menthol cigarettes,
I respond
"No."

“Then stop," she says, "It didn’t feel good anyway.”

La Petit Mort

2010-08-10T11:01:00.000-07:00

I.
Masturbation is best
when using both hands
wrapped tightly like pursed lips
with a hot-ass tongue flicking
to seal an envelope
containing the winning Lottery ticket—
taking breath away from those who envy.

II.
That's how Death must feel like
when she comes-a-knockin',
taking one by surprise,
too early or too late in life.
Like Grandma whose eyes welled,
mirroring Angels who soon took her breath
as she clapped, celebrating life.

III.
Alone
He hanged himself daily
While jerking off
To borrowed VHS tapes
Until ejaculation,
Until the little death, inside him,
Deprived him of life.

Poem #25 of 365: Next

2010-02-05T08:17:00.000-08:00

Her hair grows
fast like weeds
in momma's flowerbed.
Daddy shaved
her bald
for rolling her eyes,
back-talkin',
and being sassy.
He got mad
she h ad
a friend
who was a boy.
I heard daddy and sister
fighting one night,
"I'll make sure no boy
every looks at you again!"

Daddy says
she ran away
in the middle of the night
with some boy.
Daddy says
never mention her name
in our Christian home,
or God would punish me
Next.

Poem #24 of 365: The Little Death

2010-02-03T13:01:00.000-08:00

Cold coffee spills
on my lap,
waking up
my unborn children
from their nap,
who'll never see
the light of day
or Life beyond
a hungry throat,
clinging onto
the back
of a pierced tongue
waiting for
a second swallow,
a third
and fourth
swallow
where gastric acids
will disintegrate them
and life will continue
for everyone
but me.

Poem #23 of 365: A Poem for JD Salinger

2010-01-28T10:55:00.000-08:00

My heart closed
like a venus fly trap
enveloping you
into the velvet night,
keeping you warm
in nitrogen-rich sod.
You tried to feel
some kind of a good bye,
comforting me
while inside of me with your words--
making me laugh and cringe
with your words--
not knowing how to let go
of your words--
or even how a good bye truly felt;
you've left schools, and lovers,
and family, and fans--
you left me behind
being inspired, finally feeling unalone
during those dark nights
I wanted to give up.
But you kept me alive
and hopeful--
You were my nourishment,
feeding me water and rye and words.

A part of me has left.

Poem #22 of 365: The Percussionists

2010-01-27T09:37:00.000-08:00

Drum beats
Beat my eardrum
Beats like my heartbeat beats
Beats like Jay Z beats
Or Kanye beats
Or Farrell beats
Mad beats
Like Ike beats
Tina or
Chris brown beats
Rihanna,
Like beats that drop
For a dollar a pop
Drop it like its hot
Beats tap my feet
Won't stop
Beats bop my head
Won't stop
Black beats
New beats
Remixed beats
Lyrically,
Hypnotically,
Vocally
Beats made to rock
Beats made to flip flop
To hip hop
Beats made to silence
The sound of
Every other beat
known to man.
Understand beats
create life
Give breath
Beat upside the head
Take its breath!

"I brought you into this
God damned world,
and I can take you
out of this motherfucka."

Beat

Beats up yo mom
Beats don't peep
Thru yo window
But it beats down
The pane
But it seeps thru your keyhole
Again.
Beats too much to handle
so black men fuck
To their own beat
Thinking that
The beat of the dick upside
And inside the vaginal walls
Feel the blood flow beat,
Aint that life's beat?
Aint that what creates life
Giving us our own beat definition
And beat generation
of what we truly stand for
And if we don't stand for nothing then
Why we complaining about something
Beat up in jail
Cup against prison bars beat
Like a chain gang beat
Get back now
Like a chain gang beat
Get back now
Doin what we got to do
To survive
A brotha don't know
A beat
A brotha tries to walk
This mean street
A brotha tries to create
And defeat
The beat.
Within.

Poem #21 of 365: Black Wants

2010-01-26T10:27:00.000-08:00

I'm reminded of your skin
the color of everything
that blocks out light,
and the way you would hold me,
afraid to let me go.
Once upon my time,
I wanted you,
and I wanted you
to make me happy;
to make me love;
to make me trust.
Waking up was
so damn hard.

Poem #20 of 365: Acoustic Attraction

2010-01-25T11:21:00.000-08:00

The guitar is sad
No one plays her.
She sits in the corner
like a naughty girl,
collecting scents
of men who've
played her heart,
leaving her breathless
and loveless.
Nina dances
to techno music now,
wondering if you understand
her because she's
been misunderstood
for a lifetime
and played by every foolish man
who bought her a drink.

Poem #19 of 365: Babylon is on Fire

2010-01-22T11:46:00.000-08:00

Babylon is on fire.

The gypsies will no longer roam,
Crystal balls will be thrown
Against the Great Wall of China
And tarot cards will be ripped
and thrown in faces of idolaters.

The earth has been salted
And the minds have been lobotomized,
children sodomized
and reprogrammed with USB drives
Containing an MS DOS program
Bringing mankind back to the basics--
We are the primates speaking code--
The chimpanzees, the apes, the monkeys
swinging from trees
foraging the forest
For signs of evolution,
Predicting the Apocalypse
with the position of star alignment
for 2012.

We live in chaos
because the Tower of Babel
was built way too high
and Tarzan can't climb that high,
Superman can't fly
or leap that high
in a single bound.
No one will be saved this time.

Poem #18 of 365: The Spiritual

2010-01-21T10:30:00.000-08:00

Cracked voice
like fresh cement
dries too soon--
A falsetto for a false Jesus.
The negro spiritual
says God's gonna trouble the water,
but I'm not sure who is God
and if there is one,
then whose God?

Place Moses in a wicker basket
and on the Styx River,
let him float
to Saint Nobody,
find him a mother who cares
like Medusa,
the misunderstood
sistah with dredlocks,
who takes no shit
from white folk,
but will protect that white baby
like he's her own.

Poem #17 of 365: Rich White Folks. . .

2010-01-18T16:43:00.000-08:00

Rich White folks
never wear hats
during winter
or condoms during sex--
their blankets of money
keep them warm and safe.
Only poor black kids
get viruses--
like Sharmieka and her kid.
They say she gave birth
to a kid and infected
him with her breastmilk.
She thought it was okay
for her man to come inside
of her while she was pregnant.
She thought he wasn't cheating on her either.

Poem # 16 of 365: Untitled

2010-01-17T04:24:00.000-08:00

Walking the halls--
like Bertha Mason
haunting a home--
Spirits terrify,
destroys The House--
she speaks in code.

Poem #15 of 365: Hurdles

2010-01-15T13:03:00.000-08:00

I smell smoke!

I stop,

I drop,

I roll,

I train.

I smell smoke!

. . . from the gun

I run,

I flee,

I jump,

I escape.

I smell smoke!

. . .from the gun--

bullet in the air!

Trying to alert me.

I think too much

about children dying,

mothers crying,

fathers denying

their newborns.

I think too much

about you

and I die from waiting.

Poem #14 of 365: Public Transportation

2010-01-14T09:11:00.000-08:00

She is the Amistad,

Transporting Them

To a foreign land.

Their wrists and tongues

Will be tied for decades

With the same hemp

Nooses that will hang them

Children will breed children

For decades thinking That fucking

Is the only way to Salvation

(When all they needed was a

black Barbie doll or a father

who cared), And the harder they fuck raw,

The closer (they think)

They'll be to Mother Africa,

With her deplorable conditions

And escalating HIV rates

A tragic homeland so forgotten

We think that naming our kids

Sharmeika, Tameika, or Tyrique

Is what it means to be Afrocentric;

A homeland so indistiguishible

We forget our luxuries and assume

We can live on a bowl of rice

And drink pure goat milk

As flies sting our eyes

And babies don't know

If they'll live or die

To see the red clay again.

The train roars past the Upper East Side

Like a an unfed rhino attacking

The undone rail system Indians

used to enslave Us in Africa.

The conductor says "Next stop is. . ."

And you can not

Hear the rest for his voice fades.

These are sad times where

A beggar is not really poor,

But the man with the

$135 Timberland boots,

$45 fitted ball cap,

And no job is.

We live in a pathetic society

Where we care

Too damn much

About things that will never matter.

Materialism is the source of salvation

but we will never find our way home.

The train goes several routes,

But the hood will only get us but so far.

Poem #13 of 365: Tears of a Clown

2010-01-13T12:23:00.000-08:00

An 8-track plays number 1 on the stereo

while I laugh because I'd never seen tears of a clown--I walk around, smiling,

pretending to cry, entertaining the adults until they get annoyed. The house

fills with Smokey's smooth voice knocking

down the walls, finding its way into the

ears and souls of those long gone. The

adults play cards and drink drinks

while I sit in my room on the burgundy

comforter lightly coated with coal dust

atop white sheets with black feet stains.

Mama always said to bathe before

I go to bed--but my feet always

get dirty. She dances, telling me to spin her.

I'm half her height and she ends up turning me so the room spins and I'm drunk

on her giddyness. Her kisses smell like stale jim beam and menthol cigarettes.

I turn away and she kisses me again, laughing.

She puts me to bed, turns out the light,

and closes the door.

Poem #12: Animal Instinct (Liberia 2008)

2010-01-12T10:43:00.000-08:00

black hot sand
spits up, 
licking our backs

like hot Lick Branch coals
from under our ATV tires.
we ride fast, faster, fastest

from the jungle--
where its much cooler,
damper, and dangerous!
He knows not to come 
after dusk!
screaming for Man to leave
we flee like 
porch monkeys!
leave. we got to leave!
jumping and swinging from trees,
defecating on pale faces. 
hissing, beating our chests like
Tarzan, warning Them
one last time.
,

Poem #11: Jezebel

2010-01-11T09:07:00.000-08:00

A true whore prevails--

Red rose tattoo--

on neck

he kisses her gently--

The next man awaits.

Poem #10: Fasting

2010-01-10T08:39:00.000-08:00

The eradication of mankind--
my life is stale.
A pleco
A catfish
A bottomfeeder--
eats from the table
with Him.
Decisions will be made.

Poem #9: Haiku Trilogy for Motherfuckers

2010-01-09T04:35:00.000-08:00

I.
Motherfucker lied!
Razor blade to my wet wrist.
I've suffered for you.

II.

A mixtape of songs
One nation under Black Gods
Dance motherfucker!

III.
White man beat momma
Motherfucker fucked her good
White man drank her milk

Poem # 8: He's a Lonely Man

2010-01-08T09:46:00.000-08:00

He's a lonely man
Who is not alone,
In a foreign land
He calls home.
He speaks
Urdu, Bengali, Swahili,
And at times
Gutteral clicks
To his family.
In his head,
He speaks plain English.

Eyes stop, stare, blink;
Heads turn;
Bodies walk away--
They pretend to not
Understand him,
Or appreciate him,
As a man.
They encourage
And coerce him to assimilate
Or he may be left behind.
Yet he knows they already left.

Poem #7: Poem for James Baldwin

2010-01-07T08:25:00.000-08:00

I.
When I see him,
I first take notice
Of his flying saucer eyes,
shooting across the galaxy
like Hale-bopp;
Knotted, coarse hair;
And deep mahogony skin,
With a bit of shine.
I hear his remarkably sweet voice,
Gentle, and easily brushed away
By the wind opening up Heaven's Gate.

The White asked
How was it being born so disadvantaged--
As a homosexual?
As a negro?
And impoverished?

His starry eyes edged a bit,
And laughingly,
Yet half serious,
He replied--
It's like I hit the jackpot!

II.
Niggas been disadvantaged
Mentally, physically, and financially
For centuries--
So we KNOW how to cope
And make 12 bucks last a month
If need be.
And if need be,
We still keep our lights on
By suckin white dick
from married men on the Upper East Side
for extra cash.
The only rule being
not to use your fuckin' teeth.
And goin' on faith that everything
will be alright.
Because shit can't get no worse, right?

Sundays we sing in a four-octave range
why we are happy
being so damned black and blue
and how we shall Overcome.
And the answer is simple--
because we never had a pot to piss in
or a window to throw it out.
When you ain't got nuttin',
you ain't missin' nuttin'.

Poem 6: American Civilization

2010-01-06T05:09:00.000-08:00

We are at war.
We spoke on Christmas day.
Our uncomfortably brief 'hellos'
And 'thank yous' echoed
In ears for days,
Asking if this would be
The last day of our acquaintance,
Like a bad Sinead O'Connor song,
Not yet sung.
The family is stubborn like an ox.
Or a game of chess--
No one wants to make the first move.
Or at war--no one wants to take on the first shot
unless they truly are sadists.
And if they take the first shot,
American civilization will be destroyed
and its children will become zombies.

We are at war.
There is sand in eyes,
But the Children won't cry
because they are no longer children--
they have seen too much.
They masturbate with the American soldier's loaded gun,
hoping to gain one dollar for each unlubricated stroke--
showing daddy what they learned. . .
and earned...

...By watching.

The real terrorist
Is the American family!
"My country tis of thee
Sweet land that fucks our childrens' minds raw
without any KY Jelly or even the generic brand."

The American family pillages our bodies
of its natural resources, creating real-life Zombies!
Zombies!
Zombies!

Kick sand in the eyes
Of zombies! And run.
Lock the door.
And hide under your little blanket, little fag boy
with your polka dot dress and bobby socks--
and SAVE yourself FIRST because daddy's gonna get you.

If you're not strong enough to conquer
then you will be conquered.
We are at War.
The family is beseiged!
We. Are. At. War.
There are no more
family gatherings on Thanksgiving,
no gifts on Christmas
or smiles at weddings
or tears at funerals.
It's time to make the first move
before you become a pawn
to your parents at age 30.
Flee.
Run.
Before they murder you
and turn you into a glassy-eyed zombie,
blowing white powder in the eyes
of American civilization
to convert them out of sheer disobedience!
We are at War--
and there will never be any peace.

Food of Love

2010-01-05T07:51:00.000-08:00

She sips and savors,
Holding my fermatta indefinitely
Until I cue the next stanza
of her poetry with stacatto quarter notes.
I am the director, for once.

Tonight, we play Tchaichovsky,
Handel, and even Debussy!
Tonight, it's about the classics--
We talk over truffles and Tennyson,
Baklava and Bronte.

We feed on each other's fresh ambrosia
As she lays her head on my chest,
Breathing softly, child-like,
Watching the candle flames
Cast visions of our future
Into my empty glass.

Untitled

2010-01-04T05:00:00.000-08:00

The plum wine
is sweet like
kisses
on thighs.
I shake you
uncontrollably.
I am an
internal orgasm,
a clicking clitoris,
a violated vulva.
I have control
and you
will never leave me.

A poem for Anthony

2010-01-03T15:31:00.000-08:00

In Juelas' apartment,
there is a skateboard.
It sits on a shelf.
Below the shelf is a row of candles lit.
The candles dance to Miles Davis sobs
and to the beat of young Sam Cooke's heart
long gone, for those staying strong,
and friends who stay and say goodbyes.

Years will pass and
Wrapping on unopened Christmas gifts
smelling of menthol cigarettes
still fastened with yellowed tape
will easily tatter;
and the picture of him on Santa's lap
will fade at its edges and on the red suit.
The skateboard will collect dust
and will be wiped clean monthly.

Yet memories of his apple-cheeked
jokes and laughter,
his bright eyes and smile
will remain.

Facing the Truth

2010-01-02T04:44:00.000-08:00

(dedicated to Caiterona and Consanguine)

Last nite, all was still. Everything was divine. I fancied the moment, and I lived for the moment.

It had been days since I had heard the beautiful, mournful harmony. But I was soothed. I retired on my bed as the tides tossed me across the ocean. The nite was gentle like silk. As I travelled into the ewater I could hear the tides colliding against the rocks. I was lost in thought, and my thoughts were missplaced in visions.

The song began, and still, I drifted on the water and rode the tides as angels ride the wind. The violins could be heard again. Its sound grew louder as the tides diminished into the coast. The saltwater rolled down my face, and I couldn't tell if it were from the ocean or from my eyes. The water was getting immeasurable, and I began to sink.

I can not swim! I won't make it to see tomorrow.

The deep sound of the cello and teh charming chords of the violin informed me the end was near. I didn't want to believe the truth! The song would not repeat this time.

Today, all dreams came true, again.

There is no longer any peace. The doves can not mate any longer--they are impotent. I want to hear the sounds of the male enticing the female. But the creatures are beautiful, natural, and lifeless.

The Reality Show

2010-01-01T10:06:00.000-08:00

Nothing is okay
in Tinsel Town!

Children play,
Mothers bake,
Fathers golf,
And dogs greet happily.

Doors shut,
Lights dim,
Curtains drawn,
And sadness follows everything.

Liquid Lunch

2009-12-27T05:07:00.001-08:00

"Liquid Lunch" is a blues-inspired debut collection of poetry by Stephen Bess. Successfully sprinkling dialect of Black Americans, Bess covers topics such as spirituality, human relations, traditions, and how our lives intertwine with music.

Bess successfully tackles a male's sexual prowessness and how his 'old lady' handles him in "Here's the Situation". He states, "I just wish my 'old lady would cut me some slack / 'cause I just met this sweet, fine thing. . ." Bess cleverly challenges the reader with Black folklore in somber "Death Bells"--a highly effective, brilliantly repetitive poem detailing the connection between life and death. Poem "Sweet and Steady"--a definite read, and personal favorite--instantly pulls you in with the narrator's tongue-in-cheek, and appropriately teasing words.

"Liquid Lunch" is serious, humorous, and entertainingly completed with musicality. This collection captures Black South and, like the Blues, represents how Black Americans make the best out of uncomfortable situations. A definite must-read book. For a complementary book, I'd suggest Nikki Giovanni's "Blues: For All the Changes".

-Stephen Earley Jordan II
author of "Beyond Bougie" and "Cold, Black, and Hungry"

Thrusts

2009-12-09T13:49:00.001-08:00

When I masturbate
I think of how many
hungry mouths I've fed,
and lost children
have fled from my black dick
down hollow throats,
into lubricated condoms,
onto chests, into loose vaginas,
and tight assholes,
attempting to impregnate,
to procreate something--
like dry-humping air with no hands.
It was not meant to be:

a child who will never become anything
but failed mess to his disilllusioned parents,
who pisses his bed with American Flag sheets,
in hopes their son's flames will not torch it--
then he'd REALLY be anti-American;
a child who will become President
of something, but not the U.S., but
the local gang,
sharing his teen sister with his boys
atop a pool table
in daddy's basement,
covering the scent of semen
with pungent yet sweet minerals
found in Lysol while he sits
on a cigarette-burned couch
playing X-Box.

This is what we've become.
Living on the Wild Side,
fucking the fuck out of a dumb fuck
just to say we fuck.
And though my name has 7 letters,
I'm still a 4-letter word to family.
Is that what they are?
Family.
These are the ones that we love.
These are the ones we try to not emulate.
These are the ones that attempt to control.
Their futile attempts at love and trying to
define IT wastes words and depletes my serotonin,
denying meds, cutting and burning and purging
my insides like a back-alley abortion
on a black mongoloid teen.

But I don't complain.
I celebrate every day
with memories of how you made it an art:
using me like black canvas covered in foodstamps,
with your soot-covered boots flaking
onto my back, while your thighs chaffed
my young neck.
Thrusting in.
Thrusting in.
Thrusting in!!!
Then you ask me why did I want to die
as you crawled into my bed
threatening to fuck me with a curling iron
if I said a word.
"Hush little baby, don't you cry. . ."
"And if you cry or say a goddamned word. I swear to God, I will kill you..."
And you wonder why I think bad thoughts
or jaded like an emerald would like to be?
I didn't choose this for myself,
you did.

Unattached

2009-12-09T13:49:00.000-08:00

Petals and Beagles

2009-06-14T17:36:00.000-07:00

Petals and Beagles
by Stephen Earley Jordan II

I wish I knew who lived above me in apartment 4C.

At 3:17am on fridays, tuesdays and wednesdays
and sometimes mondays and thursdays,
I hear rose petals crushed under workboots,
homemade butterscotch stirred
with a wooden-handle spoon,
cartoons switching to reruns of MASH.

I wake myself sweating
like your mother's menstruation (long gone),
wiping myself in 500-count silk sheets,
remembering when you forced me to watch
Comet and Snickers, your childhood male beagles,
give IT to each other, grunting and barking and panting
while I shivered in the corner of the toolshed
your father made just for them,
the hamsters, gerbils, and rabbits.
With a slight grin, eyebrow raised,
smelling of aqua velva aftershave,
and bubbalicious bubble gum,
you said, "This is between us."

You were sent away, somewhere far away
like a deferred dream,
where falling stars are caught
and placed into position by black cherubs,
where boys become men
with blinded wives,
and you will forget me.

Eartha Kitt (R.I.P.)

2008-12-25T15:39:00.001-08:00

From the depths

2008-12-16T07:20:00.000-08:00

The summer smothers me, turns me into a monster. I hide so you don't see my scales, my warts, my breath of fire, my abracadabra-hocus-pocus magic I use to haunt. I hide.

The season changes and I am returned to my leveled state of mind.

It is winter. You saw the first snow from your window. But you dare not go outside. It's too cold. You're too preoccupied. Until then. Yes! Then! You see it! The green. Among the dead earth, trees, branches. You see it emerging from the snow, peeking its stalk from the depths of snow. And you knew that you must save it. And you left your warmth, your home, your solitude to rescue it from the cold.

You saw life. You saw hope. You saw me.

I've returned.

Brotha, We Be Schooled (promo video) for book

2008-11-03T07:27:00.001-08:00

Helter Skelter - The Attack on Obama

2008-10-29T10:57:00.000-07:00

The Bougie Black Show

Great Music, Interviews, and Discussions on race, class, and gender

Episode 43 (Mid-week crisis): Helter Skelter--The Attack on Obama

Hosted by cultural critic and author Stephen Earley Jordan II, he discusses issues of race, class, and gender. This mid-week crisis episode, he discusses alleged neo-nazis who claimed to want to assassinate Barack Obama and 102 random black americans. He discusses how White americans are beginning to fear their elite status may be taken away once Obama wins presidency; and he compares these people to Charles Manson's Helter Skelter and theory of a race war; and he finally challenges White supremecists.

Sites of interest:
www.sejordan.net (The official Stephen Earley Jordan II)
www.myspace.com/bougieblackshow
bougieblackshow@gmail.com

Hotline:
206-600-6383

Playlist includes:
1. Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood - Nina Simone
2. Cool Like That - Digable Planets

Enjoy! -- bougieblackshow

The Harlot and the Priest (Part II)

2008-10-08T06:56:00.000-07:00

What are Black Folk Talkin' About?

2008-09-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

White folks,

Have you ever wanted to eavesdrop on black people's conversation? Are we talking trash about you behind your back? Importantly, are our views that much different than yours? Here's your chance to find out what goes on in our minds. And, yes, it does get a bit racy, educational, and hilarious.

Click here:

http://www.bougieblackshow.podOmatic.com/entry/2008-09-15T03_16_26-07_00

Episode 39: Black Folks Talkin' (Discussions with Queen Esther)

During this episode, multitalented artist Queen Esther joins host Stephen Earley Jordan II for some intense "Black Talk" as they sit along the riverside in Manhattan. They discuss black women and perms, differences between blacks and whites, why black folks are scared of water; Texas hurricane victims; post-traumatic slave syndrome; hip-hop culture vs the n-word and our responsibility to the youth; Whether Michelle Obama a nappy-headed ho; Harlem and its gentrification and more.

Hotline: 206 600 6383
bougieblackshow@gmail.com
myspace.com/bougieblackshow

Playlist includes:
1. Get It Right This Time - Queen Esther
2. Revolution - Nina Simone
3. Florida - Diplo
4. Nowhere to Run - Laura Nyro
5. New York City - Queen Esther

cTitle: The Bougie Black Show
Episode: Episode 39: Black Folks Talkin' (Discussions with Queen Esther)

Ever wanted to eavesdrop on black folks' conversations? Here's your chance! ! ! This episode multitalented artist Queen Esther joins host Stephen Earley Jordan II for some intense "Black Talk" as they sit along the riverside in Manhattan. They discuss black women and perms, differences between blacks and whites, why black folks are scared of water; Texas hurricane victims; post-traumatic slave syndrome; hip-hop culture vs the n-word and our responsibility to the youth; Whether Michelle Obama a nappy-headed ho; Harlem and its gentrification and more.

Hotline: 206 600 6383
bougieblackshow@gmail.com
myspace.com/bougieblackshow

Playlist includes:
1. Get It Right This Time - Queen Esther
2. Revolution - Nina Simone
3. Florida - Diplo
4. Nowhere to Run - Laura Nyro
5. New York City - Queen Esther

http://bougieblackshow.podOmatic.com/entry/2008-09-15T03_16_26-07_00

Enjoy!

Enjoy!

(an interview) The Harlot and the Priest (video) part I

2008-07-09T12:43:00.003-07:00

The White Boy Tantrum

2008-07-02T15:34:00.000-07:00

Black folk,

Remember when our black mommas would beat our tail for "acting out" in public?

Let me jog your memory. It could have been something as minute as asking politely, then angrily demanding a quarter so you can play the Space Invaders game at the arcade; it could have been as simple as demanding, and crying, and stomping your feet because you wanted a piece of Bazooka bubble gum. It doesn't matter. The point is--that growing up in a black household back in the day, you knew not to act like those "bad white kids" as our parents would say. And, if we did act up, especially in public it would have been the Black World War II.

A friend of mine told me a story of how he "acted up" in elementary school. The same school that his mother taught. After his teacher told his mother of what he did in the classroom, she peeked her head into the room, smiled, waved at him and said, "After school--it's Hammer Time". No one knew what that meant. However, he did.

When he arrived him, his mother's car was gone--he thought he was safe. He went upstairs into the house, took of his clothes, opened up his closet to get new clothes to put on--and instantly, like a bat out of hell, his mother flew out of the closet, red shoe in hand, and beat the living daylights out of him. (She hid her car a few blocks away, to make sure he'd be unprepared.)

My point is--one damn severe beating, we learned.

So a few weeks ago I was with a friend of mine, eating dinner. Together we noticed this curly-haired white boy throw a tantrum on the sidewalk. His parents continued to talk to him, child-like, begging him to stand up. Then, they ignored him and talked amongst themselves.

If this had been a black family--I'm sure the outcome would have been different. Take a peek at the pics.

My Visit to a Classroom

2008-06-24T13:06:00.000-07:00

MadLadyPoet of Appalachian Voices blog did a writeup on me when I visited her college classroom.

Here's the link to the full article:

Appalachian Voices

Here's some highlights of the writeup:

"The day of Stephen’s visit arrived and I was very excited to see what my students would learn from this lesson. I met Stephen at the fireplace at the Memorial Student Center and we went over last minute details. I would introduce him, and make sure that every student had copies of the excerpts. Stephen would then read from each chapter, explain his reason for writing it and then take discussion questions from the class. It all seemed simple enough, but I worried about how the class would react to Stephen. He was tall and slender with dark ebony skin, and dark curly hair that was shaped into a Mohawk. He was wearing jeans, a vest he had bought on Canal Street and an oversized jacket. I did not say anything, but he noticed that I was uncomfortable and he looked at me and grinned.

“You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you? he said.

I had to grin back. “Yeah, slightly.”

“Don’t worry. This will definitely shake them up a bit.” he replied.
AND

Stephen read carefully from each excerpt and then explained his reasons for writing that particular piece. He told the class that although he grew up a minority in West Virginia, that experience taught him to have respect for other cultures and that as West Virginians; they had a lot to offer other cultures. With each reading, Stephen reiterated his point that developing relationships with people of other cultures could offer this class a great deal of learning opportunities. He also spoke out on what he witnessed during the 9/11 attacks and how Muslims in New York were treated directly after the attacks. To my great surprise, the students asked many questions. What was it like to grow up black in West Virginia? Did New Yorkers make fun of Stephen because he was from West Virginia? What was it like in New York after 9/11? The questions generated discussions that went into areas I had never considered. That day, I became a student too.

Bridget, the Prostitute

2008-06-17T10:04:00.000-07:00

My friend, Derron, and I interviewed this woman who is always down at Union Square in Manhattan with a sign asking for money and claims to be a former prostitute. We interviewed her on video and audio for a few projects that we're working on. Because of the length of the interview, we had to divide it into two shows. You can listen by clicking on the episodes below, However I recommend going to iTunes to download it. keyword: BougieBlackShow

Interviewing her and her boyfriend had me thinking of some of my roughest moments, financially. So I can see how the idea of being addicted to the quick and easy money could be appealing. A friend I met in grad school (see story titled "Billy" in my book 'Cold, Black, and Hungry'), had committed credit card fraud in my name. Many authorities at the time had no clue on how to even resolve fraud committed by the internet. Not counting those bills, I was stuck with approximately $2000 of monthly expenses (rent, student loans, utilities). I was broke.

But being broke stirred my creativity. I painted, I wrote, I drew, I gave consultations. I worked. Never had I once thought of prostitution/hustling and selling myself for a few bucks. Never did I think about dancing in a club for a few bucks. BUT, when you're addicted to drugs, I'm sure all exceptions become acceptable. And, importantly, I question how difficult would it be to "clean up" your act. And, why is it that you're flying solo--the only one in the family that, perhaps, has a problem. Everyone seems as if they are in top-knotch working order. . . Everyone but you.

Opening the Wounds

2008-06-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

Despite my frustration with the state of West Virginia as I stated in my previous post, I will always write about it. Just like my blackness, West Virginia has branded itself into my psyche. It will always be apart of me as much as I may attempt to deny it. Those who've read my books, listened to my podcast, or read blogs on myspace or blogger.com, knows that I like to compare and conrast NYC and WV.

With that said, I get email all the time from strangers, friends, and family who may ultimately disagree with my perception. Some write me in full agreement, while others write me to scold my decisions and perceptions.

Hate crimes exist, as does ignorance, poverty, discrimination, lack of progression, and discrimination of race, class, and gender. All of this exists in each US state (and even overseas). But there's an intriguing, Romantic, sadness in the fact that Southerners and Northerners may have a different approach for these subjects.

As stated on my podcast, The Bougie Black Show, several episodes back, I spoke of the Megan Williams situation, where the young black WV girl was raped, tortured, etc. Truly a horrifying event. I consider myself an equal opportunist, cultural critic. Everything/everyone is fair game in my discussions for analytical reasons. During this episode, I spoke about how down south things are quite subtle. People will smile and nod to your face, but the next morning your house is burned down by that same person who was supposedly cordial. However, in NYC--it's somewhat different. People will TELL you they will burn your house down, and follow through with it. You kind of know where you stand. There is no subtlety, no surprises. I kind of respect that more, too. You know exactly where you stand with others.

I've seen people in West Virginia be born there, live there, get educated there, and marry and die there. I've seen people in NYC do the same thing. In both places, there are people who think their homestate is Mecca. Why move elsewhere, they think?And though I recommend traveling and living outside of your homestate for awhile, I DO believe that NYC affords many other opportunities than most other states could. Afterall, as a writer, I'd be bound to a local newspaper interviewing NASCAR competitors if I still lived in WV. But in NYC, there's so much more than that. And, above all, how on earth are we to pay off student loans on a WV salary? It's like we're kind of forced to move elsewhere, once we get educated. A survival tactic, perhaps.

I agree, these atrocities against the human race are not solely a problem in my homestate of WV. It's a global issue. And, at times I speak about those incidents. Remember a few months ago a young boy, barely a teen, was shot dead for wearing girl's boots and having an overly effeminant demeanor? Perhaps one doesn't remember that. But it was a US state out west somewhere where this happened. Rodney King, Sean Bell, Megan Williams--each of these happened in three separate states. But again, I speak about WV and NY so often because that's where I've lived and these are places one could find my heart. That's where my experience lies.

And, growing up in WV as the only Black family in Wayne County, WV, I thought everything was okay. However as an adult, I realize that things never were alright. As an adult I have hot flashbacks of my youth of having been called Nigger, having confederate flags waved at me, having glass soda bottles hurled at my sister, having problems for me and my sister getting dates for school functions, or even good friends because our peer's parents wouldn't want their child hanging with "niggers". After all down south, one believes it's okay to "fuck a nigger" just don't bring one of animal babies home if she gets knocked up! These are the things I remember. And because I remember these things, I've grown stronger with my opinion on my purpose in life.

And, true, not all West Virginians are racists or even alike, for that matter, I agree. However, I DO strongly feel that the State of WV, the appalachian mountains seclude West Virginian's from the world at large. I've had to reprogram my thoughts because of this. We're trained and brainwashed into assuming that man's interpretation of christianity, sexuality, modern thought and social norms are firm and final. We're trained not to question things.We're trained to believe that things are that way because things simply ARE that way. There are no changes.

Yes, I'm hurt by the state of my State. And, I'm tired of placing band-aids on her open wounds.

Poetry is Dead

2008-06-09T13:00:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Mr. Derron C. Cook, I have some amazing videos being released! Here's one of three.

Rednecks

2008-06-03T11:07:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I heard Henry Louis Gates, Jr. mention on television that he's from West Virginia. I already knew that. But the thing that did suprise me was when he suggested that he'd NEVER go back to THAT state. I was hurt. I was mortified. I was angry. But the older I get the more I understand his perspective. It's an truth that's been unspoken until now.

Normally, I'm extremely defensive when it comes to the state of West Virginia. Importantly, I used to call it MY state. But i can't any longer.

My God! Did this reporter attempt to find the biggest hicks in the entire state of West Virginia?

I wonder if I should comment on the lady who claims that Obama is a muslim and how we shouldn't vote for anyone who ISN'T American?

Or, perhaps, should I comment about the racist couple who believe Obama can't recite the pledge of allegiance and so cannot RULE properly?

My God! I've so many choices. Oh So many. . .

Clinton supporters, I apologetically say this: Look at these idiots and see yourselves mirrored!

Hilariously so, the only ones who seemed to have common sense are the Black folk. The best line of the entire video clip was:

Question: "Do you think WV will come out for Obama?"
Answer: "No, there are too many rednecks in West Virginia."

And sadly, or maybe I should say proudly, the Black lady who responded was telling the God-foresaken truth.

I can no longer live in a state that promotes and equates undereducation, lack of progression, simple-mindedness, and racial strife. I am sorry, but I can not. I am beyond that.

Myspace and the "N" Word

2008-05-29T15:42:00.001-07:00

(Sent this letter to myspace 5/29/08)

To Whom It May Concern:

As a regular Myspace user, and a Black American author and cultural critic, I’ve used Myspace to assist in the promotion of my podcast and two books. It has been a wonderful marketing tool that I’d like to continue to use. However, each time I log onto this wonderful site, I’ve found myself accosted by derogatory, racially-charged display names toward other Black Americans.

Whether the terms Nigger, Nigga, or any derivative thereof are used as Myspace display names by Blacks or nonblacks is irrelevant—the infrastructure of this term is founded on hatred, segregation, and derived from Southern United States which still struggles to get past such prejudice. Should I mention the West Virginia Megan Williams case?

During my research conducted on 5/29/08, I’ve discovered:
• approximately 428 pages (10 users per page) with the display name of “Nigga”—totaling 4280 users
• approximately 144 pages (10 users per page), with the display name of “Nigger”—totaling 1440 users

According to the Myspace Terms of Service (TOS), a user is violating the TOS when:

• (Section 8.1) is patently offensive and promotes racism, bigotry, hatred or physical harm of any kind against any group or individual;  
• (Section 8.4) contains nudity, excessive violence, or offensive subject matter or contains a link to an adult website

According to Section 8.1 and 8.4, these users and others are violating the TOS. These words are offensive, promotes racism, bigotry, and hatred toward a group of people. These users also violate the TOS because their pages contain offensive subject matter with such language.

One would argue that these abrasive words have morphed into terms of endearment in various (black) communities. However, again, reviewing the site, the users with these display names come from a large number of backgrounds. I’m bound to believe that if display names defaming other ethnicities (besides Black Americans) were used, Myspace would correct the situation.

I urge you to help educate the youth about the inappropriateness of such hate-filled terms by requesting these individuals to change their display names or have the display names unwillingly reassigned.

Sincerely,

Stephen Earley Jordan II
Author of “Beyond Bougie” and “Cold, Black, and Hungry”
Host and Cultural Critic of “The Bougie Black Show”