Can we use our pens to create a new public real estate, real estate that is intellectual, cultural, political, social, or humanitarian in nature.
Brother Author Aaron McGruder wrote:
And I was very aware of how valuable that little piece of real estate in the newspapers had become when
the so-called free press lost their minds and started censoring themselves. I knew on that tragic day
that more tragic days were to follow, and I made the decision that I would use my little space to scream
out louder against the great injustices the United States government was about to unleash upon the planet.
From the foreword of a Right to Be Hostile
His agenda was clear, and he used he pen to shape his agenda.
I share two stories below:
The first children's story was inspired by three things, my nine-year-old son, an academic competition that took place almost three decades ago, and the preamble from a piece of text.
Thirty one years ago as a sixth-grade student at Doolittle East Elementary, I was training for an academic competition in the Chicago Public Schools district 11. We had to compete against the math and science powerhouses in our district. Our coach, Mrs. W., told us that we could not afford to come in second. We had to be the best, and we were. We crushed the Asian, Latino, White, and African American competition. Although others were surprised, we were not.
Often times, people confuse striving for the best as conceit or arrogance. It was just our way of thinking. The members of that academic team have gone on to serve society. My main man, DRD, now works for the federal government in Washington, D.C. after earning a law degree from one of the nation's top law schools.
Why strive for the best? I read a preamble that contained the following words:
We live in a world where millions die from easily preventable diseases.. and still more face hunger as a daily fact of life. We are locked inside a worldwide economic system that dispenses crumbs and extends privileges to a relatively small number, while forcing billions to seek desperately for work that more often than not numbs the mind, crushes the spirit and destroys the body.... We walk through our days in a world where the lives of countless children are ground up and destroyed...as victims of poverty and humiliation... their potential crushed, or their lives cut short.
I WANT TO BE... (You will see the illustrations during the institute)
by
Alfred W. Tatum
July 26, 2009
I want to be
the fastest
I want to be
the smartest
I want to be
the strongest
I want to be
the coolest
I want to be
the richest
I want to be
the happiest
I want to be
the healthiest
I want to be
the nicest
I want to be
the sharpest
I want to be
the neatest
I want to be
the proudest
I want to be the
the worldliest
I want to be
the awesome-est
I want to be
the best
person ever.
My seven-year-old loved it. He added the line, I want to be the awesome-est.
Let's not be apologetic for what we want for the generation that follows.
I wrote the next children's story on a train on my way home.
Gizmo’s Spot
Alfred W. Tatum
January 11, 2010
5:57pm on the Metra
This was his third trip to the doctor in as many weeks. The hope we once had was gone. Last night was the hardest for us as he lay in the dark basement in a spot that comforted him. He starved himself the entire weekend, refusing to eat, refusing to move. Nothing worked. I was not only concerned for him; I worried about his best friend, Andrew. The death of a friend is hard to swallow when you are really young.
“He’s going to make it dad.”
These were Andrew’s words earlier in the week when he heard about his friend’s disease. I tried to explain that some things are just God’s will. He covered his ears and refused to listen to me. This was the first time Andrew acted stubborn. He was usually an easy-going kid. The idea of losing Gizmo changed him.
“Look what I got!”
These were mom’s words when she surprised Andrew with a kitten. Frankly, we were all surprised. This was Andrew’s first pet. He had his very own kitten. Small. Cute. Playful. The kitten started reaching for the string on mom’s white coat.
“Mom look, he likes your string. I got a string.”
Andrew ran up the stairs and removed a string from an old shoe. He rushed down the stairs almost tripping before sliding on the floor to be close to Gizmo. He pulled the string and Gizmo chased it. He held the string over Gizmo’s head and Gizmo reached for it. They were in string heaven.
“This is the one,” I said.
“Mom, can he sleep in my room?”
“We have to help him get used to his litter box first.”
“How long will that take? I will take him to the litter box when he has to use the bathroom.”
“Cats are not like dogs, Andrew. They train themselves.”
Gizmo was going to his litter box before bedtime. Andrew left his bedroom door cracked, nightlight on, hoping that Gizmo would find him. The next morning, to his delight, Gizmo found a spot near Andrew’s feet.
“Mom, Gizmo slept in my bed. He likes me.”
For the next three months, Andrew found Gizmo at his feet when he woke up in the morning. Then one morning, Gizmo was not there.
Instead, he slept in the corner of Andrew’s closet. He did not follow Andrew down the stairs to breakfast as usual. He did not chase after the string. Gizmo stared at Andrew with his adoring eyes, but he did not move.
“Do you think Gizmo is overweight?” my wife asked.
“I notice some bloating in his stomach."
“We should take him to the doctor just to make sure everything is okay.”
Three days later, my wife took Gizmo to the vet.
By this time, he had stopped eating. His water bowl was full at the end of the day. The bloating was not going away. Gizmo stopped running, stopped chasing the string; he stopped being, Gizmo.
The doctor shaved Gizmo’s belly to draw blood. It was a gray Friday afternoon, but Gizmo seemed happy in the doctor’s arms. His eyes turned toward Andrew as he was lying on the exam table.
“It’ll be okay, Gizzy. The doctor just needs a little blood. You’ll be better before you know it.”
The doctor decided to keep Gizmo overnight to run some more tests. This was Gizmo’s first night away.
“Is he coming home tomorrow, mom?”
“Yes, Andrew. The doctor just wants to make sure he’s okay.”
Gizmo came home Friday afternoon, but he was not better. We would have to wait five-to-seven days for the test results. Andrew was happy to have his kitten home.
“Mom, Gizmo made a mess on the floor.”
This was the first time Gizmo failed to use his litter box. He did not have the energy to go to the basement. My wife called the doctor and explained what happened. The doctor said he would rush with the test results. Gizmo was placed in the basement over the weekend because he did not have the energy to climb the stairs. We were really anxious to get the test results. It was a long weekend. Gizmo was starving himself.
The smell of home cooked potpies did not entice him to eat.
We blasted the music and danced around him with dangling strings. He followed us with his eyes, but he did not move. We were all sad.
I was at work on Monday evening when my wife called.
“Well, I just received the news that Gizmo has to be put to sleep.
Immediately, I thought about Andrew. As suddenly as Gizmo came into our lives, he was leaving us. I asked to speak to Andrew before my wife shared the sad news.
“Hey, Drew.”
“Hey, dad.”
“How was school?”
“Not so good. I was asked to write about a problem and explain how I dealt with it.”
“What did you write?”
“Nothing. I just live my life. I don’t have any problems. I am just a happy kid.”
“We’ll talk about it when I get home tonight.”
“Here’s mom, bye dad.”
Gizmo had twenty-four hours left.
We decided to let Andrew stay up as late as he wanted to be with him. He decided to sleep in the basement on the couch near Gizmo’s bed. I went down to check on them just after midnight. They were both sound asleep. Andrew and Gizmo were enjoying their last night together.
“How was it?” I asked my wife.
“It was pretty sad. It seemed like he knew what was going to happen.”
“Why do you say that?”
"He just meowed and meowed and meowed. I never heard him sound like that.”
We shared the news with Andrew tonight. He did not say much at the dinner table. This was unusual.
“I think I am going to bed early tonight.”
“Okay, I’ll be up to tuck you in.”
I went upstairs twenty minutes later and found Andrew’s door shut for the first night in three months. There was no need to keep it open. I heard him crying softly. When I cracked his door, I saw him lying at the other end of his bed. Andrew was lying in Gizmo’s spot. My son’s best friend was gone and he knew it.
The first children's story was inspired by three things, my nine-year-old son, an academic competition that took place almost three decades ago, and the preamble from a piece of text.
Thirty one years ago as a sixth-grade student at Doolittle East Elementary, I was training for an academic competition in the Chicago Public Schools district 11. We had to compete against the math and science powerhouses in our district. Our coach, Mrs. W., told us that we could not afford to come in second. We had to be the best, and we were. We crushed the Asian, Latino, White, and African American competition. Although others were surprised, we were not.
Often times, people confuse striving for the best as conceit or arrogance. It was just our way of thinking. The members of that academic team have gone on to serve society. My main man, DRD, now works for the federal government in Washington, D.C. after earning a law degree from one of the nation's top law schools.
Why strive for the best? I read a preamble that contained the following words:
We live in a world where millions die from easily preventable diseases.. and still more face hunger as a daily fact of life. We are locked inside a worldwide economic system that dispenses crumbs and extends privileges to a relatively small number, while forcing billions to seek desperately for work that more often than not numbs the mind, crushes the spirit and destroys the body.... We walk through our days in a world where the lives of countless children are ground up and destroyed...as victims of poverty and humiliation... their potential crushed, or their lives cut short.
I WANT TO BE... (You will see the illustrations during the institute)
by
Alfred W. Tatum
July 26, 2009
I want to be
the fastest
I want to be
the smartest
I want to be
the strongest
I want to be
the coolest
I want to be
the richest
I want to be
the happiest
I want to be
the healthiest
I want to be
the nicest
I want to be
the sharpest
I want to be
the neatest
I want to be
the proudest
I want to be the
the worldliest
I want to be
the awesome-est
I want to be
the best
person ever.
My seven-year-old loved it. He added the line, I want to be the awesome-est.
Let's not be apologetic for what we want for the generation that follows.
I wrote the next children's story on a train on my way home.
Gizmo’s Spot
Alfred W. Tatum
January 11, 2010
5:57pm on the Metra
This was his third trip to the doctor in as many weeks. The hope we once had was gone. Last night was the hardest for us as he lay in the dark basement in a spot that comforted him. He starved himself the entire weekend, refusing to eat, refusing to move. Nothing worked. I was not only concerned for him; I worried about his best friend, Andrew. The death of a friend is hard to swallow when you are really young.
“He’s going to make it dad.”
These were Andrew’s words earlier in the week when he heard about his friend’s disease. I tried to explain that some things are just God’s will. He covered his ears and refused to listen to me. This was the first time Andrew acted stubborn. He was usually an easy-going kid. The idea of losing Gizmo changed him.
“Look what I got!”
These were mom’s words when she surprised Andrew with a kitten. Frankly, we were all surprised. This was Andrew’s first pet. He had his very own kitten. Small. Cute. Playful. The kitten started reaching for the string on mom’s white coat.
“Mom look, he likes your string. I got a string.”
Andrew ran up the stairs and removed a string from an old shoe. He rushed down the stairs almost tripping before sliding on the floor to be close to Gizmo. He pulled the string and Gizmo chased it. He held the string over Gizmo’s head and Gizmo reached for it. They were in string heaven.
“This is the one,” I said.
“Mom, can he sleep in my room?”
“We have to help him get used to his litter box first.”
“How long will that take? I will take him to the litter box when he has to use the bathroom.”
“Cats are not like dogs, Andrew. They train themselves.”
Gizmo was going to his litter box before bedtime. Andrew left his bedroom door cracked, nightlight on, hoping that Gizmo would find him. The next morning, to his delight, Gizmo found a spot near Andrew’s feet.
“Mom, Gizmo slept in my bed. He likes me.”
For the next three months, Andrew found Gizmo at his feet when he woke up in the morning. Then one morning, Gizmo was not there.
Instead, he slept in the corner of Andrew’s closet. He did not follow Andrew down the stairs to breakfast as usual. He did not chase after the string. Gizmo stared at Andrew with his adoring eyes, but he did not move.
“Do you think Gizmo is overweight?” my wife asked.
“I notice some bloating in his stomach."
“We should take him to the doctor just to make sure everything is okay.”
Three days later, my wife took Gizmo to the vet.
By this time, he had stopped eating. His water bowl was full at the end of the day. The bloating was not going away. Gizmo stopped running, stopped chasing the string; he stopped being, Gizmo.
The doctor shaved Gizmo’s belly to draw blood. It was a gray Friday afternoon, but Gizmo seemed happy in the doctor’s arms. His eyes turned toward Andrew as he was lying on the exam table.
“It’ll be okay, Gizzy. The doctor just needs a little blood. You’ll be better before you know it.”
The doctor decided to keep Gizmo overnight to run some more tests. This was Gizmo’s first night away.
“Is he coming home tomorrow, mom?”
“Yes, Andrew. The doctor just wants to make sure he’s okay.”
Gizmo came home Friday afternoon, but he was not better. We would have to wait five-to-seven days for the test results. Andrew was happy to have his kitten home.
“Mom, Gizmo made a mess on the floor.”
This was the first time Gizmo failed to use his litter box. He did not have the energy to go to the basement. My wife called the doctor and explained what happened. The doctor said he would rush with the test results. Gizmo was placed in the basement over the weekend because he did not have the energy to climb the stairs. We were really anxious to get the test results. It was a long weekend. Gizmo was starving himself.
The smell of home cooked potpies did not entice him to eat.
We blasted the music and danced around him with dangling strings. He followed us with his eyes, but he did not move. We were all sad.
I was at work on Monday evening when my wife called.
“Well, I just received the news that Gizmo has to be put to sleep.
Immediately, I thought about Andrew. As suddenly as Gizmo came into our lives, he was leaving us. I asked to speak to Andrew before my wife shared the sad news.
“Hey, Drew.”
“Hey, dad.”
“How was school?”
“Not so good. I was asked to write about a problem and explain how I dealt with it.”
“What did you write?”
“Nothing. I just live my life. I don’t have any problems. I am just a happy kid.”
“We’ll talk about it when I get home tonight.”
“Here’s mom, bye dad.”
Gizmo had twenty-four hours left.
We decided to let Andrew stay up as late as he wanted to be with him. He decided to sleep in the basement on the couch near Gizmo’s bed. I went down to check on them just after midnight. They were both sound asleep. Andrew and Gizmo were enjoying their last night together.
“How was it?” I asked my wife.
“It was pretty sad. It seemed like he knew what was going to happen.”
“Why do you say that?”
"He just meowed and meowed and meowed. I never heard him sound like that.”
We shared the news with Andrew tonight. He did not say much at the dinner table. This was unusual.
“I think I am going to bed early tonight.”
“Okay, I’ll be up to tuck you in.”
I went upstairs twenty minutes later and found Andrew’s door shut for the first night in three months. There was no need to keep it open. I heard him crying softly. When I cracked his door, I saw him lying at the other end of his bed. Andrew was lying in Gizmo’s spot. My son’s best friend was gone and he knew it.
Danny’s Diary (Part I of II)
ReplyDeleteBrandon P. Wilson
Dear diary,
I don’t think it’s fair that the big kids get to have juice at lunch and we get stuck with milk.
I think I should be able to stay up just as late as my big sister.
Being a sixth grader shouldn’t mean Mom says I can’t watch wrestling. My friends in school are STILL talking about the Royal Rumble! I had to lie and say I saw it. When they asked me who won I made up and answer. I said, “Septagon.” And it was wrong. Now they think I’m lame.
I just want to be a big kid; I want juice at lunch.
. . .
Dear Diary,
Today at recess I walked over to the big kid section. I wish I could have played with them, but when I got there they said they were playing big kid games. “Go drink some milk,” one of them told me. He was a big jerk.
They were doing cool stuff: playing cards, drinking juice, talking about teachers behind their backs, saying curse words. I even saw two of them do that cool thing where they suck a white stick and then blow out smoke.
All the kids in our grade were doing boring stuff. The boys were playing kickball and the girls were playing patty-cake.
I couldn’t play with the big kids, but I didn’t want to play with the little kids. So I was all alone.
I just want to be a big kid; I want to curse at recess.
Dear diary,
Today Mom found you. I’m sorry if I am getting you wet right now. I am so sad and embarrassed. She showed it to Dad and now they say I’m grounded.
“Danny, this is unacceptable!” She was yelling at me. “I cannot believe the dirt that travels through your mind!”
I was crying a lot.
“Mommy I’m so—“
“Be quiet and go to your room! We are so disappointed in you.”
I saw her eyes get wet just like mine, then she turned around. That was when I grabbed you, when she wasn’t looking, so I could tell you what happened.
I don’t think she noticed yet.
But when I saw her eyes get watery, I felt really sad. She must have been really upset with what I told you, Diary. But she just doesn’t understand me.
. . .
Dear diary,
Today I realized that I had no friends. That meant I had nothing to lose. So I went back to big kids section at recess. I was gonna play with them no matter what.
I wanted to act cool like one of them, but I didn’t know what to say. I was sweating and my voice was trembling. So I just said what I thought any big kid cool person would say.
“Hey, big boys, I-I come to hang, h-h hang it out and suck sticks with some brothers.”
They all looked at me at the same time, and I was in the middle of a big boy circle.
A few of them laughed, but then their leader slapped one of them in the chest and snapped his fingers. They all stopped.
“We don’t suck sticks,” he stressed my misunderstanding of what they were doing. “We SMOKE.”
I stared at him in worship. Then I dug to the bottom of my bag of courage and found the guts to ask, “Can I try?”
The leader looked around at his circle of followers. “You’re just a kid,” the leader said. “Now turn around.”
“No,” I got angry, “I want a stick, I want to play cards, and for God’s sakes I want some juice!”
The followers all stood quietly. The leader pulled out a switch that made fire then he pulled out a stick and sucked it. Then he blew the fog in my face.
(Part II of II)
ReplyDeleteIt smelled so bad, worse than Mom’s vegetables, and I coughed and coughed again, so hard that blood came out. There was a horrible taste in my mouth, worse than the milk at lunch.
I was gasping, breathing as hard as I ever did in my life. I was on my hands and knees trying to catch my breath. I looked up and the water in my eyes made it blurry to see the leader standing above me. “Now go back before I do it again.”
I stumbled back to the other side of the courtyard where my class’s recess was ending. “Danny, where were you?” My teacher asked, turning her head with a mix of suspicion and worry.
It was hard to speak. “With the big ki—“ I coughed a little more blood.
“Oh my God,” my teacher dropped her clipboard and ran over to me.
“Call 911,” she yelled to another teacher.
“I’m fine,” I tried to say but ended up whispering. I turned around and bent over, spit out the blood, and kept my hand held out behind me as if to say, “Stay back, I’m almost fine, just give me space.”
An ambulance came to school a minute later, but when the life saver people came up to me, they saw me on my feet, so they told me I wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. They just did some doctor stuff to make sure I was okay.
I looked up outside from where my ambulance was parked up to the window where my classroom was. All the little kids, my people, were looking out the window at me. I wished they knew what I knew.
The school called Mom to pick me up. They told her what happened to me, the coughs, the blood. But no one knew why. I wanted to keep it that way. All I know is that for now, I don’t want to be a big kid.
The juice can wait.