Langston Hughes wouldn't have liked me

I was twenty, a junior in college, when I first learned of Langston Hughes's Racial Mountain. The essay, The Negro and the Racial Mountain (http://www.hartford-hwp.com/archives/45a/299.html), is still one of my favorites, especially as a black poet. But upon the initial reading, I didn't get through the first section before I began to wonder if Langston would have even liked me. I have grown into one of those black folk who loves being black, but I was unsure whether this would have mattered much to him.

In his essay, written in 1926, Langston Hughes discusses the disdain that the black middle class had for all things non-white. He speaks of the word white and how it became a symbol of virtue in the black middle class household, and though I knew not of his reasoning preceding this statement, I knew well what followed. "[White] holds for the children beauty, morality, and money. The whisper of "I want to be white" runs silently through their minds." Yes. That was it. That was my childhood; it has become more memoir than memory (but that's a blog for another day). I found myself upset at my parents for establishing themselves before making family, because there I was black and loving beautiful, from money well-worked for but money nonetheless, and I couldn't shake the thought of Langston Hughes not liking me.

I smile as I type. To think back at such jovial thoughts incites more than a smile at my lips. I am also smiling with my eyes and down into my fingertips as they key away the contents of this blog, this blog whose importance is in establishing who I have come to be. A black woman who wouldn't dream for anything else. A beautiful black woman who wouldn't pray for anything else.

I am a blackwomanKentuckypoet who better understands this mountain to which Langston spoke of so many years ago, and I am still moved by his expressions. His love of craft, music and man is relevant to all young black artists, such as myself. We have the expression of "our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame" down pat; some may argue it comes as easy as breathing. And Langston may be quite proud of us, all of us, no matter our class or our parents' class, because, though now we may be the mountain standing in the way of ourselves, we have at least removed the urge "toward whiteness"; for it is white America now that moves, so often with such intent, toward blackness.

P.S. "We know we are beautiful. And ugly too." Now we must work on those "temples for tomorrow," building them as "strong as we know how" and without fear of asking questions if we don't.

What Be Ghetto: a book review of Ghettonation by Cora Daniels

Uncle Sam is featured on the cover of the book Ghettonation by journalist Cora Daniels. He is complete with red do-rag under white top hat, a blinged-out American flag gold chain, and iced-out rings on his peace sign fingers. Or are they A-town down? Either way, an intact sense of humor graces the front cover, while the back, which gives the original definition of ghetto (as the noun it was: a Jewish quarter of a city) along with the most recent usage (and misusage: “authentic, Black, keepin’ it real”) as an adjective, suggests that the book is complete with lessons and laughs.

Ghettonation: A Journey into the Land of Bling and the Home of the Shameless examines the impact of all things ghetto. That would be persona, language, thought, and action; though Daniels is not just pointing fingers or making fun. The book is a social commentary that at times reads like memoir. Daniels exposes her own relationship to ghetto, so as not to demean the culture holding to the word so as to admit that we are in over our heads. More than saturated in ghetto, we are (so) ghetto—Ghettonation.

From noun to adjective, she takes the six-letter word further by classifying it as a mind-set. With this, she gives ghetto a new authority; no longer just a description, ghetto becomes an umbrella. And under it, too many things are trying to stay dry, too many folk are trying to keep so fresh and so clean, living for only today because tomorrow may be worse.

But before the commentary can weigh too heavily on the reader, Daniels inserts a “That’s so ghetto. . .” page where she pulls from the mind-set itself, giving examples like driving a luxury car but renting an apartment or drinking Kool-aid from a mayonnaise jar. She doesn’t skirt around any subject, not from Lil Jon and his middle-class upbringing to gold teeth, candy-colored weaves, and names, oh the names. Her support is convincing. And funny.

Daniels discusses Gwyneth Paltrow naming her daughter Apple, as if that’s any different than naming a child Alize, Diamond, or Lexus. She successfully snatches “who be ghetto” from every rung of every ladder—social, economic, and racial. Her rail on Paltrow continues in light of her claim that hip-hop has “become American culture.” Example: Paltow, the “ghetto mama” herself, says that Apple loves hip-hop, especially Jay-Z. In fact, Apple rocks her head to The Black Album and really loves “99 Problems” (as in “I got 99 problems and a bitch ain’t one”). Ghetto.

At its core, Ghettonation is a journey into the land of Black—its culture, people, music—and how the capitalization on Black (or ghetto) is further damaging the people that make it up. Because of this, Daniels’ attempt to keep all of America aboard her Ghettonation journey fails. The mind-set is supported almost entirely by examples from Black America. All-America just gets caught up in the hype. And so the book looks at America’s obsession with urban culture, which is often taken as Black culture, which is often looked at as poverty-stricken, thuggish, and dangerous.

Daniels discusses education, success, relationships, and violence in this Black community. But at times her memoir-like prose distracts from the voices she finds to tell this new, too-proud nation’s stories, like that of 19-year-old Daniel, an aspiring filmmaker. During the filming of his documentary Bullets, a gun was drawn on him, trigger pulled. The gun wasn’t loaded, but instead of delving into him and his story, allowing him to explain his understanding of success—measured by the number of days he can live, not dollars or degrees—the author mulled through her own experience of worlds colliding (college with the hood). She let the reader down as well as uncomfortably full with unanswered questions about this kid.

Though Daniels speaks objectively about ghetto, no solution besides taking responsibility is given. But, as a black woman, newly aware of my own ghetto (I’ve been known to drop the n-bomb with little regard for what forward-moving steps I blow-up in the process), I have a suggestion: These books, written in our youths’ language, with their words and about their lives, need to be in their classrooms, each idea being unraveled and action understood. Suggestion is the start of solution (a blank suggestions-for-solutions page should’ve ended the book, not a fill-in-your-own-“that’s so ghetto” page). And an educated mind can never be imprisoned.

Queen Latifah's children's book has got game!

Forget Princess—Every Little Girl is a Queen

Some singers shouldn’t act; some rappers shouldn’t sing. And most people shouldn’t declare themselves authors just because they have a story to tell. This, however, is not the case for the Grammy award-winning Queen that is Latifah.

Her children’s book, Queen of the Scene, steeped in the ways of black folk and ornamented with fun, neck-twisting rhymes, snapped its way into the publishing world with two fingers and an attitude last September—and it is finally a bargain buy. Through animated, rainbow-rich illustrations, the book takes its readers back, way back, to a time before text messaging and XBOX. While reading about old-school childhood glories like double-dutch and stickball, parents can educate their princesses on queendom.

Queen Latifah and artist Frank Morrison tell of an unnamed bubble-blowin’, pigtail-with-ball-balls wearin’ little girl who proclaims herself Queen of the Scene. She has so much glitz that, even through chalky but precise illustrations, the story dazzles. Her face is confident, and sneakered children in every shade of brown wearing zigzag parts or sideways caps watch her as though she has superhero powers.

Queen of the Scene takes readers through a day in the life of this playground queen who is by far a diva. Rockin’ a powder-pink dress over jeans, she’s a firm advocate of playing hard and getting dirty. Over a two-page illustration, she declares “In any sandbox/ Nobody can be mean./ My castles are the very best—/ They’re fit for a queen,” as an afro-puffed tot looks on in amazement and a brown-eyed boy, lying in the box, stares over his makeshift triangle sand hill, far inferior to the queen’s.

The rhymes in the story are thick with black vernacular, what Scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr. penned as “signifyin” to reflect the boastful humor of the black community. Queen of the Scene displays this as well as sass in narrative lines like “You don’t want to race me—/ I’m as fast as spinning dice./ If it looks like I’m just catching up,/ I really passed you twice.”

Queen Latifah’s narrative is bright from the page and complimented by her own interpretation on a CD included with the book. As one who never leaves hip-hop in the shadows, her voice is water over a soft beat and she reads for a child’s ear, with exactness and a spacious tone drenched in confidence. Yet another reason Queen of the Scene is a new goodie in children’s literature.