Claudia Alick: Claudia rocks a hoodie

Claudia Alick: Claudia rocks a hoodie: I rock a hoodie not out of solidarity with a murdered youth not out of political consciousness not even out of hip-hop style I wear them ca...

That nigga talk funny.

I was on the Subway earlier and much to my dismay, a loud interacial ( I was simply bothered by how loud their conversation was, you love who you love in my book. Black male, White female) couple decided to sit next to me. Okay, cool, I thought nothing of it and continued to go over a menu that I had to memorize. But homeboy was loud, very loud, and the the manner in which he spoke struck me as, well, unusual. I have been told since I was younger that I speak like a "White boy"; whatever, I've always dismissed such statements as sheer ignorance, never seriously paid them any mind. However, as the train truculently maneuvered through the vast network of subterranean darkness, we here in New York like to call the MTA, I became aware of something: That Nigga talks white. Lol!
 

But what does that mean? You might ask. It means that dude sounded like he was from the OC, not the county in California, but the show. It was ridiculous to hear; there were countless:Dude I sooooo feel you right nows; and, that was sooooooo dopes. Never mind that he was talking to his girlfriend. Smh( that means: Scratching my head. Lol).
 

It's 2012 right? The President of The United States of America is Black-excuse me, African, and White American, but for all intents and purposes, Black. Meaning we've come a long way right, in terms of race relations and how we perceive one another in this country? I wish that were true, I really do, but it isn't. Were it in fact true, then, I along with a few other Brooklyn bound Black passengers on that C train, would not have felt the need to acknowledge each other in solidaritous contempt of a fellow Hue-man, a person of color.
 

We live in a eurocentric society, and, for the most part, many of us (Black people) identify with this ethos. However, is there such a thing as over-identifying with a culture which is not in essence yours? Yes I am an American, that is my nationality, and most of my ideas have been developed and shaped in this nation; yet I intrinsically relate more so to the African ethos because that is who I am: A person of African descent, who happens to have been born in America.
 

Back to the dude on the subway. Is it possible that homeboy grew up in a place that had such a profound effect on him as to completely distance him from the soul with which we speak? Are you following me? There is a certain rhythem in black speech, even among the more formally educated members of our ethnic group, there is an underlying percussive song which plays in our hearts, and is released through the manner in which we utilize language. To me this is evdience of our connection to Africa. When is it then, that the song becomes lost? I really don't know, but what I am aware of, is that as Black people in this country, and throughout the world for that matter, we need to always remember who we are, and from whence we came.

Just a thought.

This Poem.

This is a poen that might make you cry-or is it? Could be the story of a guy who feels stuck in the muck of yuck and don't know why? This poem is about a man who wished he could fly-I used to dream about being Superman, that I was impervious and built to withstand the tumult. Instead, I've felt life has been a continual assault on my senses. This poem is about a man who thought he was gifted, but spent more time artificially lifting himself to what he thought was bliss-when, in fact, it was an attack on his mental and spiritual faculties. Brown liquor pulling him away from the glory of a new day. This poem is about the loss of connection his forebears gave their lives for..about one door closing, another one opening, and me closing it before I can see what's inside. The story of a man with a little boy in him who is scared so he runs and hides in a bottle of suds where peace resides; or at least he thinks, to himself. This poem's about a soloist, who been dolo since he can remember; an isolationist plagued with distopic memories of Septembers past. A poem about a man who cries often because he empathizes with humanity; the same poem's about a man who has been trained to focus on the stain of his own vanity. Selfish. Rude. The story of a brother who wishes he was a different dude, whose artistic moods could be construed as depression, anger and aggression. A poem about a cat who has not learned his lesson. Perhaps it's his own pain from which he thrives, maybe his fuckups allow him to feel alive. Nah. Bullshit! That's jive- talk; this poem's about a man who wishes he could walk in another direction, but there's no map so he feels lost. Raised himself to be the boss of his own life, and failing miserably at it. This poem's about YOU or ME or ALL of US Damn it...

The Last Old New Yorker: Old New Yorkers Are World Wide

The Last Old New Yorker: Old New Yorkers Are World Wide

Sleeping on Project benches, scared and wondering if this cat who woke me up is going to rob me. Sob, woe is me, I'm homeless and thirty three-no thirty four. Today is my birthday mama, but I know that you know this already, 'cause you're steady perched on your cloud in Heaven. I need to believe this, our struggles so seamless-ly unfolds. I'm writing my story as a poem that has not been told, or recited, borrowed from , or bited. And, I so know that's not a word, but my situation absolutely deserves something else. I fancy myself a poet who for a great many years didn't know it. I'm sitting here on this project bench, tired and hungry, waiting for the dawn of a new day to say to me: You made it through last night, you're a warrior and your plight will not go unrecognized by the power which governs the Universe. I spit a verse to soothe me because I'm scared and stressed out; almost certain but there's still doubt as to whether I'll actually succeed and become the man I'm supposed to be. Someone told me speak victory, my reality's a bitch to me. Constant. I have a five year old daughter and I'm experiencing this nonsense. Where do I go from here? could cripple myself through fear and end up a carbon copy of my worst nightmare. I fight , there's a reason I'm still here, as the seasons continue to gray my hair. I'm still young, I'm still dope boy fresh, aren't I? But I never sold dope, maybe I should make me a few stacks, bubble in some 'hood. Whoop, Whoop! Now I'm someone's statistic. Trying to feed my family. Realistically I know I can't sell drugs, I'm too old to be cookin' and lookin' out for po po. So I write on this project bench in hopes that one day I won't have to live from Monday through Sunday on someone's couch or in the park. I have big dreams and a plan to stand on my own too. Big things are in store for me. I'm Big Meach of this bench, and everyday I move closer, if just an inch, it's still forward. My glass is half full, so I drink from that pool. It's not polluted, poisoned, or diluted. It's pure. It's my drive to survive, persist, carry on, remain alive. It's my human spirit, which is good like my creator, and he endowed me with the ability to change all of this. So fuck the haters and naysayers, from this project bench I am still a major player in the game of life.

I am a dynamic individual, I'll write a verse and disperse lyrical darts without the aide of profanity. I love the guy that I see when I look in the mirror and that's not vanity. I love my daughter too and her mama, but I can't stand beefin' I don't like drama. I believe in Karma and what you put out there the Universe gives you back. Sometimes my thoughts are destructive like the copious consumption of crack. I enjoy sex with liberatedly loose women whose intelligence is equally as evident as mine. I'm about something, forward motion, if she's not I don't waste my time. I admire beauty in all forms, and don't necessarily subscribe to social norms. I love Hip Hop, especially the underground kind, I find that more thought is given to constructing those rhymes. Different themes are explored, numerous subjects discussed, as opposed to tales of urban decay and the guns cats bus'. Speaking of busts, I also have issues with lust, shorties often catch me leering at them, some respond with genuine interest others react in disgust. To each his own, this world I'll roam, who knows I might just set up shop next to the Pope's home in Rome Italy, with a pretty lil' Italian shorty named Sicily. I'm dope like blue magic and comic but not tragic, I have a great sense of humor and style that's mad classic. I'm fantastic! Okay, back down to earth, I have to remember to humble myself I'm a Leo by birth and I realize my worth, that's why being broke it hurts. However, I'll never forsake my royal roots and feel like a king even with holes in my boots. I make the money, the doesn't make me, it never has. Frankly, I'm the hottest to hit any scene since Drake the bearer of melodically poetic aesthetics whose words are medicinally prophetic-I let it flow through me. I am merely a vessel, the Universe uses me, my pen's my jewelery, my armor and tools. You see, writing is a release for me, a taming of the beast in me, without it I would cease to be. I am a writer, who I am is an ever evolving being who's open to new ways of seeing, like 3DHD with utter and complete clarity. Pristine transparency, I'm not hiding, I'm riding my skateboard through urban municipalities while listening to the first Mobb Deep album, and popping complicated tricks. That's what I do, I'm that cool-in my mind. I'm dope like blue magic.

How many of us have been abused by adults? I know I'm not the only one who has cried out for help. Too young to help myself, too scared to protect myself. This shit was real, maybe it was the initial abuse that made me not want to feel anymore. My emotions were raw, I wanted to become numb. They tried to steal my innocence, and in a sense they did. I was a depressed and sad kid who's dad hid from his responsibilites, in fected by the pathogenic qualities of homelessness, hunger, and poverty. I watched as my mother sank into the murky depths of depression, while I played out my addiction through the artistic expression of my agression known as graffitti. I stole spray paint and wrote my name wherever you could see me. I felt invisible but became visible through aerosol tags and throwups. I rebelled, I showed those grownups what they could do with themselves. You see, if they didn't give a fuck then how was I suppose to care for me? I didn't. I did what I wanted, I smoked blunts, dranks 40's , and went on the hunt for pussy from shorties who were just as emotionally twisted as I, that was a piece of my high. I got caught writing, shipped to Spotford, nail biting, I was a nervous wreak. Lived in a group home after that, then released back to the streets with no direction, no map to follow, no rolls to model. I felt like an outcast, trapped in the extraordinary confines of my youth at the time. If the behavior was negative I was engaged, that was how I channelled my rage. Years before my introduction of pen to page, I acted out my life on a dangerous and uncertain stage. My juvenile delinquent phase was colored with anger and hopelessness and I wanted to escape my reality. The duality was that I also wanted to live a different existance, as the forces of my personal destruction remained persistant, and I couldn't see my future. The distance was so vast as to cloud my vision of it. Decisions, or, rather, a series of bad choices embarrassments, and situations I would have preferred to avoid, as the smoke from the herb fills my lungs, travels to my brain, making me paranoid. To fill a void, I drank and developed a deep relationship with a girl I met in Washington Heights. She wasn't Dominican, she was white and we'd go skiing together every other night....