Agenda is defined as a list or program of things to be done or considered.
Without an agenda, we are at the mercy of swaying winds that may not blow in the right direction. Historically, Brother Authors used their pens intentionally to shape agendas. They used their pens to appeal to others. Today, you will make your appeals in your final writing piece of this week. Be thoughtful! Be serious! Be unapologetic! Be fearless! Become part of the swaying winds!
I wrote the following call to action broadside to remind us of the need to find the right words to sustain a young man's hope before it becomes a young man's hate.
Empty
Slots
By
Alfred
W. Tatum
Mailboxes
ripped from their slots
A
few kilometers from the liquor store
Confuses
the retired police officer
Who
raised his sons to be righteous?
But
failed to talk to the young boy visiting his neighbor
He
only told his son to watch out for boys like him
Trouble's weathervane
The
boy looked at his dirty socks
And
whispered to himself
Trouble
you see
I
guarantee its reality
Damn
you old man and your son
I
will be back at your doorstep
To
claim what you own
Mailbox
and all
Only
if you knew what to say to the young boy with hope
Before
I became a young man with self-hate
Writing
as agenda-building, deals not only with the present, but is grounded in a
vision for the future. Part of my agenda is identifying the the missing architects to join me in the jungle. I tried to capture this in the following piece:
This type of writing is guided by at minimum two questions:
Missing Architects
by
Dr. A.W. Tatum
June 30th, 2011
9:25am
More than a million speeches and conference proceedings
focused on the intersection of my blackness and dangling manhood
They talk about me in hotel lobbies and national newspapers
I am thought about by think tanks
I am scorned in the comments section following a news article about me
I have even become profitable in the worst way
They are given vouchers and federal dollars to save me
From what, is not clear
Church leaders have profited
I have made a lot of careers at top universities by folks who “address” my need in print
without addressing me
They don’t even have my address or telephone number
No one has ever called my cell
There are too many architects at the drafting board
without a clue
without my blueprint
all leading to unintended consequences
yielding the same image
My blueprint may help to make sense of it all
One line, one scribble at a time
I am also calling on young African American males to build platforms of progress that stretch the boundaries of our existence and speak boldly (i.e., prudently and unapologetically) to protect the new platforms.
The Black Male Questioner
by
Alfred W. Tatum
June 28, 2012
9:47 am
The questions people ask me are imprisoned by smallness
that fail to capture the complexity
of son, brother, citizen, human
the questions are confined by a false imagination
influenced by a kindergarten coloring technique
that instructs one to stay within the lines
but my life and the lives of my brothers are not contoured that way
we stretch beyond the narrow boundaries
of our sex organs
of a crisis narrative
of pain
boundaries others are not able to capture with their questions
Thus, the need to build our own platforms without apology
and speak boldly.
I am also calling on young African American males to build platforms of progress that stretch the boundaries of our existence and speak boldly (i.e., prudently and unapologetically) to protect the new platforms.
The Black Male Questioner
by
Alfred W. Tatum
June 28, 2012
9:47 am
The questions people ask me are imprisoned by smallness
that fail to capture the complexity
of son, brother, citizen, human
the questions are confined by a false imagination
influenced by a kindergarten coloring technique
that instructs one to stay within the lines
but my life and the lives of my brothers are not contoured that way
we stretch beyond the narrow boundaries
of our sex organs
of a crisis narrative
of pain
boundaries others are not able to capture with their questions
Thus, the need to build our own platforms without apology
and speak boldly.
This type of writing is guided by at minimum two questions:
1. What
do my people/children need to understand?
2. What
do I tell my people/children?
The
spirit of these questions is grounded in the black prophetic tradition.
Today, I am asking you to be prophetic.
Post your last stand / call to action broadsides below.
Remember, writing is an intellectual exercise that demands knowledge and care.
11 comments:
Lead
Ma, Ma, can you see those numbers, solid as steel
Their cold hearts, their relentless and unjust zeal
Those statistics, Ma, they tell me I’ll never be a star,
A chef, a movie critic, that I’ll never go far
Why won’t you stop them, Ma, protect me from this fear
Why won’t you guide me Ma, why would you let my opportunities disappear?
Ma, Ma, won’t you tell me that they’re wrong?
That I’ll grow to be handsome, smart, and strong?
Ma, if you can’t tell me, then I’ll look towards others’ expectations
And live up to them: A mere boy with pent-up frustrations
If you can’t tell me, Ma, then I’ll live up to what they see
A drug dealer, an armed robber, just like my father who’s not here with me
Ma, if I can’t have you tell me that a better life can be found
Then I’ll live to be in and out of jail or six feet underground
This life of crime I’ll live, it’s the only thing I’ll ever know
Because I never had my parents’ guiding mouths to tell me where to go
The Lost Boys
By
Jhaylin Benson
June 28, 2012
Brothers, God gave all men and women life
So they could excel
Nevertheless, the Black race has fallen behind
We have forgotten that
Now our brothers live in huts not manisons
Yearning for a new savior,
The Black race needs help
That help is not the crutches of
Handouts:
Welfare
Initiative Programs
Appeasements
We need help of
Black people as a whole must develop an agenda
Of going to schools and finshing
We went from discovering the secrets of the stars
To only having money if we are a megastar
Do not look to be the next
Obama, Bron Bron, or Oprah
Look to be better than them
Better than anyone could have predicted
The sky is the limit
Education will skyrocket the brothers to the moon
To educate your minds
And reach a monk-like level of awareness
The Black man needs to educate himself
The only way to become a mighty force again is
through education
Diary of Dropout
I'm black
I'm stereotyped
I lived up to it
I deserve the name of a Nigga
I became apart of the black 65%
If I gotta white teacher they gon rush to label me
As what- a livin stereotype?
My momma lookin over my shoulder at my pages
She tell me words is grammatically inncorect and MISPELED
She tol me to get my behind back in skool
And make it the black 64.5 %
Iris by Will Thorpe
June 28th, 2012
They pierce me with eyes that could kill character
and eradicate self esteem.
Monsters they call me.
They dont know the person behind the Nikes.
They only see what they want.
They only think what they want.
They consider me the enemy but I consider my self the prey.
These people never used those eyes to behold me a scholar.
It seems they only helped themselves to maim and deface my identity.
If their looks could killed it would be a genocide amongst us.
They assume I’m the cause
In reality I’m the effect.
I inherited the struggle.
From years of poverty, I made it.
The built barricades to keep me out.
I use those barricades to keep me in.
Uninhibited racism that lied behind the gentrification led to more pain than the gunshot wounds.
Their attempts to make me vanish are feeble.
My stance is robust.
I am power within itself.
My Plan in Life
In Life you have to be your all.
In Life it does not matter if your big small short or tall.
In Life take what the world gives you.
In Life live and love
In Life use the talent that god gave you.
In Life remember that god saved you.
In Life have a plan.
In Life you be all you can
In Life just be you.
Make it
By
Jarell Charleston
Over abundance amount of snow to be successful in life,
stuck in dirt just to get the bill of life,
just to make away out of now way,
a hanker after wealth in life just to come out on top,
make our hater make us better people,
make the haven weep because it is full of joy because success is in the air,
let’s annex the gates of power to take it back for our identity
leave behind the myths and the dreams
when you make it in life come and drag me along
Untitled
By
Corey Ellis
Gazing portals of the heaven look upon and weep.
Ole spiritual songs helped us.
Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ‘roun’.
Wait until your change comes.
Was it all just a “game”?
Captivity is the capital of all evils that can betide one.
We may be free in body.
But in mind we are enslaved.
Did they die for “No good fathers”?
Did they die for “Below the waist jeans”?
Or perhaps every vial-disgusting trait we adopted?
Martin is my idle.
You guys idolize rappers and thugs.
He taught morals, value, and the essence of life.
They show you guns and drugs.
How does that win the fight?
Give me that ole negro spiritual.
Impenetrable
By
Ryan K. Blackwell
Fear my shadow dark skin
And
Stare at weeded concrete when I walk by
As I hold my head up high
I l-o-l at racism
And flip the bird at stereotypes
I am bulletproof, stainless steel
Waves of hateful voices bounce off my skin
Returned to the owner astonished and overwhelmed with fear
I am a walking plutonium atom
The most dangerous being of categorized people
A colored Dmitri Ivanovich Mendeleyev
My confidence is a hurricane
Destroying everything in its path
And I show no sign of letting up
I can never be broken
As long as
By
Jarell Charleston
You don’t have to like me
As long as I make out on top
As long as break through the barriers of life
You don’t have to help me
As long as I be sussessful in life
As long as I can be somebody
You don’t have to love me
As long as the fragmented glass clear up
As long as I make it out alive
You don’t have trust me
As long as I can change your mind
You don’t have to
As long as you make me better a person
As long as I win the race the biggest race of all life
I stand as tall as the sears tower
as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.
My feet are pierced with broken glass from the liquor store.
My body is scorched by the burning ashes of marijuana.
My soul is gradually drained by an agonizingly sharp syringe
But still I walk.
I feel dizzy as liquid washes down my throat like a mighty river
but still I walk.
As i reach my final destination I gasp for sweet breath.
Looking humble and resilient
I am now a man.
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