confession time: i got going on 20 kids, by 20 different women.
all different shapes and sizes. boys and girls. ranging in age from 9 to 13. every one of them is creative in their own way. and i'm proud of them all.
they are the children of my Summer ARTs Program.
the expectation is that black men don't take care of their kids; i write, however, about how not only do we take care of our own biological ones, but we take care of OTHER folks' kids, too.
every morning at 8 a.m., the kids of the Performing ARTs Academy start working with their Professors. unlike in the school system, our teachers are over-qualified in their areas, they love kids fiercely, and they push them out of a deep and abounding belief in their inner abilities.
and half the staff are black males. strong ones.
sure, in the morning, i drive by brothas standing on the corner, who are there when i leave in the morning and there when i take lunch and there when i come home at night and there when i take a late night run.
on any given day, i can look out the window of the theater and see in the not-so-far-distance other brothers who seem to have had Tallboys of Colt 45 surgically bonded to their left hands and black-n-mild cigars sewn into the spaces between the fingers of their right ones. their mouths are pits of obscenities--black and brown pots of spittle, where semblances of words are formed in diseased dances between malt and salt, before being spewed forth into the stale surrounding atmosphere; loud proclamations of mis-placed manhood desire: "Fuck ya'll muufuckaas!" "Bitch, don't fuck wit' me...i'll...i'll...hey, man, lemme hold a dollar..."
sure i see it. sure i hear it. yes, it's a reality.
but not my own.
and not the reality of the men i see every day: an Adam El-Amin, who sits like a master teacher on a stool in front of these young people, commanding the black box space with the experience that only a man who weathered the storms of South Central L.A. to build on an acting dream could share; Lwellyn S.A. Peter, who developed an uncanny ability to play the piano and fool listeners into thinking that he was born--perhaps--with a third hand that appears only in accompaniment. this wizard who pulls sounds out of his young singers even they didn't know they had is no joke; and there is Mike Mucker, a gifted-to-sickening artist whose work adorns churches and galleries, even though he was told by a white teacher at 11 years old that he "would never make it as an artist." Mike weaves his magic with these young folk in a way that makes them flat out CHEER when he walks in the room for his class.
these are the black men i'm blessed to see every day; to interact with; to share with; to learn from. most of us have kids that we biologically sired.
but we all have kids that belong to us.
and i speak to say to those ills that threaten our community disproportionately; to drugs and to hustling, to crime and to criminality, to negro-tude and nigga-dom:
YOU CAN'T HAVE US. DO YOU HEAR THAT??
YOU.
CAN'T.
HAVE.
US.
and that's because, well, we're grown. and we've learned. and no, we're not perfect. we'll get pissed when we get pulled over; we'll snicker under our breath when the teller at the bank asks us for extra ID for our own money; we'll look at the seemingly impossible task, and yeah, we might shake our heads a minute.
but in the end, we'll get up, and take on whatever is in front of us. and we'll take the energy that comes from the frustrating struggle and we will use it to build beautiful things, and beautiful ideas, and beautiful institutions. and beautiful...people.
beautiful. little. people.
the other day, i put out a call on Facebook. i asked all my "Friends" (as friendly as the cyber world can be, of course) to help me help our kids out. i wasn't disappointed because i didn't have 50 people step up. the Cyber-world is basically like the real one: many people talk, few act. it's not the former who make the difference in their patent inactivity; it's the latter who make things happen.
and have they.
black, white, old, young, college student, sports fan have come by this place of artistic refuge we call Amun Ra Theatre. they have brought snacks, water, paper products, soap, games, pencils.
all the things kids need to help them learn.
so yeah, i'm grateful for where i am these days; i'm grateful to have kids that ain't mine to look after. more than that, i'm grateful to have so many co-parents.
ain't family just grand?
* * *
so tell me, which do you believe is more powerful: 1) a lot of people doing a little; or 2) a few people doing a lot?
is it so finite? are there in-between spaces?
what do you think about the concept of "it takes a Village to raise a child?" (the real ancient African proverb, not Hillary Clinton's rip, that is)
