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Peggy Butler ^(4,247) Bronze Level Author

Peggy Butler

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Later Homie!

Posted Thursday, November 05, 2009 (2 days 22 hours ago.) Viewed 632 times.

Will the hip-hop culture be in existence 50 years from now?

That depends on whether the homies or homeboyz choose to remain in their current state, or make dramatic changes, not only to ensure their survival, but transform themselves into men who are capable of becoming an asset to their community and society in general.

The future: the year 2059-- Browsing through textbooks, the students in Ms. Larsen's 10th grade history class uncover a rare photo. The picture is that of a Black male with chains around his neck, wearing baggy pants and a scarf-like apparatus covering his head. The caption beneath the snapshot reads: This is the 20th century icon known in cultural circles as 'Homie' or 'Home boy'. Looking at the photo prompted the students to ask, "Whatever happened to the Home boy Ms. Larsen?"

Sensing her students were genuinely interested in learning more about this relic, the teacher thought it was only fair that she answer the question. "In 1987, during the waning months of the Reagan Administration, America as a whole, suddenly became aware of a group of young Black males who identified themselves by the slogan 'homies or homeboyz,'

said Larsen. "Where did they live?" asked a student. "They were everywhere," said the teacher. "Television, in newspapers, and in the streets dressed in their official wardrobe: baggy pants, gold chains, caps turned backward and armed with a dialogue consisting of hoes, chillin' and bit..es.

Shortly after Homeboyz became the phrase on everyone's lips, the mainstream media picked up the name, and rap music took on a whole new dimension; invariably becoming the music of, by, and about the Homeboyz and their cultural woes."

"What were they all about?" asked a Black student, staring intently at the photo? "I'm not sure," mumbled Larsen.

"They said they were the result of America's misconception regarding young Black males. The Homeboyz remained a fixture until 2040 when rap music became passe."

Fast forward to the present---In analyzing the demise of the Homeboy, I'm one of the millions of African-Americans, whose life has been touched by this chaotic mortal, borne out of despair and frustration. My homie is a distant cousin who goes by the name of T-Bo. His real name is Tad Bosford, but he feels that T-Bo is more in sync with his "playa" image than the subdued Tad monogram.

At 22, Tad, er T-Bo, is a college senior majoring in Computer Science, hardly your typical "Homie." That's why Tad insists he's not hard enough. However, when he goes out in public, women clutch their purses. Not realizing that he is a gentle giant, whose desire to fit in with his contemporaries is more fictitious than reality.

One day while visiting Tad at his apartment, I sat through countless rap videos. As the 35- inch screen filled up with images of bikini-clad women gyrating unabashedly, I was preparing to ask him what he found so fascinating about this tasteless diversion, when I was interrupted by a knock at the door. And judging from the look on his face, Tad knew the identity of his visitors, but was reluctant to let them in.

To create the appearance that no one was home, he turned down the volume on the TV. Surprisingly, the more he turned down the sound, the louder the knocking became. Unable to stand the pounding any longer, Tad opened the door.

There they stood, three of the goofiest homeboyz this side of Compton. Looking at them, I could understand why predictions of their demise were imminent. Not only were they loud; they were rude, disrespectful and down right obnoxious. As the door swung open, allowing the men to enter at will, I heard one of them say, "Yo, T-Bo, wazz up?" "Nothing much," my visibly annoyed cousin replied.

Knowing it was common courtesy to greet people with a customary hello, I threw my hands in the air and gestured what looked like a wave.

Tad introduced his homies as Wack, a mathematical genius; Weed, a drug dealer; and Headquarters, an aspiring rapper.

When another video with more "hoochies" came on; the boys went wild, with the exception of Tad. "Yo, T-Bo, check out the booty on that hoe," said Weed. "Woo wee, baby got back!"

"Yeah and front too," said Wack, reaching out to slap Weed's hand in a half-concocted high five.

Observing the horny spuddings rubbing their crotches, I quickly realized why society is so down on the Homeboyz.

Knowing this was my chance to find out what makes these young men tick; I ventured into what I knew was dangerous territory. But to satisfy my curiosity, I was prepared to take that chance.

"Hey, I want to ask you guys a question?" I said. "Yeah, what's that?" asked Weed. "Since you all groused the Dizzle Betizzle. I've heard nothing but bad things about you. Now tell me what are you trying to do? And are you the thuggizzles that everyone says you are?" In utilizing this form of slang, I was hoping that the language used by rapper Snoop Dogg would cause them to open up. Luckily it worked. And the trio proceeded to give me a rare glimpse into the minds of the infamous homeboyz.

"Those questions are easy to answer," said Wack, hoisting up his pants, which were midway between his hips and knees.

"The homeboyz are about chillin and dissin. We are young bloods, and people have been on our case ever since we got here. Now all we're doing is retaliatin." "Homeboyz is about expressing ourselves without fear or shame," echoed Headquarters. "This is reality," asserted Wack, referring to today's problems. "War is real. Drugs are real.

Unemployment is real. Crime is real. Being poor is real.

AIDS is real. Hoes are real. But people are pissed off because we represent issues they choose to ignore, or refuse to talk about."

Weed, who had been unusually quiet, chimed in. "For a young Black man with no skills and no education, jobs are hard to find. So they have two choices: steal or sell drugs." "I understand all that" I said nervously. " But don't you see how you are influencing future generations to sustain this same sense of insecurity and hopelessness?"

"People think that just because we have a biracial president in the White House, it causes society to look at us differently. But the truth is, as young Black men we don't amount to crap," chirped Tad, his voice teeming with anger. "Everybody looks down on us, even our own people ."

"But Tad," I said, trying to reason with him. "It sounds like you don't care about anything." "You damn straight!

We don't care," shouted Weed. Trying to instill in them that things weren't as bad as they seem, I said, "The one thing you have to remember, is, respect is not given freely, you must earn it. And secondly, you must respect yourself before others can respect you."

Thinking, I had gotten through to them, I turned and saw Headquarters staring at me. "Well I guess that's never going to happen, cause we're young Black men. Who the hell respects us? After all, we're the original gangstas of crime, right?" I wanted to say no, but the videotaped image of, Derrion Albert, a 16-year old Chicago youth brutally beaten to death by four teens last month, clouded my brain, putting a lump in my throat. Unlike the young men allegedly charged with his murder, Albert was a good kid and a honor student. How pathetic is that?

As I looked into the angry faces of Tad and his friends, my mind drew a blank, as I rationalized that in 50 years, the homeboys may in all likelihood become extinct. And in their places will be young men who will have learned the true meaning of life and all it symbolizes. Or will they?

While the homeboy generation may differ with the way society views their lifestyle; the fact remains that they are not rebellious misfits, nor are they the by-products of the self-indulgent 80s. They are by and large, young men who have not learned to respect themselves, their race, their women, or their children. And that is a fact Black America must learn to grasp and come to terms with. Thus, to the Homeboyz, I say, Later Homie. It's Been Way Too Nerve Wracking.

* Not the subjects real names

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Show Me the Hair!

Posted Monday, October 05, 2009 (34 days ago.) Viewed 838 times.

Contrary to what has been said and written, Black women can grow long hair. Now hair this!

I was recently engaged in a scholarly review of the new Chris Rock documentary "Good Hair," and when it was over, I was, appalled by the idea that some people actually believe a woman's hair texture, is a crucial factor in determining her self- worth. I know you're saying, can a film actually emit such feelings? You betcha.

Good Hair, which debuted October 9, gives a riveting glimpse into the world of Black hair culture; with emphasis on the obsession with fake hair and the millions of dollars spent annually on wigs, weaves and other popular trends. In viewing the film with four friends, 2 men and 2 women, I was struck by the extent to which they agreed that Black women wearing weaves is akin to breathing. What? Are you serious?

As a woman with coarse tresses that hang slightly below my shoulders, I have opted to wear my own hair. However, I have been asked on more than one occasion, why I don't wear weaves, which usually prompts the following response: "I don't wear a weave, because my hair is long enough to stand on its own." Usually the person asking the question pauses momentarily and says, "but most Black women wear wigs or weaves, what's your problem?" After years of hearing outrageous comments like those above, I was compelled to write the following editorial from a controversial albeit satirical viewpoint. So without further interruption, I present, Show Me the Hair.

A blustery wind rattles the trunk of Christine McNeely's Toyota Corolla, parked on a hill adjacent to Sylvester's House of Beauty. Looking ahead, she observes dozens of people standing in line waiting for the doors to open. As the wind swirls, so does the grumbling. One woman is overheard asking for tips on how to keep her weave from frizzing after showering. "My kids need shoes, my boyfriend need his car fixed, and I took all the money and brought $125 worth of hair extensions. "And look at it," said the woman pointing to her head. "Every time I take a shower I come out looking like Buckwheat."

Her complaints were met by more grumbling and nodding heads. "I know what you mean," said a woman sporting platinum synthetic braids. "My hair costs me an arm and a leg to maintain," she said, brushing strands of hair from her eyes. "If I could get this nappy stuff underneath to grow, I wouldn't have a problem." "Girl, you know Black folks can't grow no hair," came a screeching voice, followed by laughter. "And since that is the case, we just have to settle for fake hair."

Eyeing the women intensely was Christine McNeely. "Chris the Bliss" as she is known, is blessed with miles of hair. However unlike the other women standing in line, it's all natural: scalp, roots and strands. As Christine listened, she wondered if the people in line knew that the hair hanging below her shoulders was all hers. And since they didn't, why should she tell them, unless she was asked, which rarely happened.

After 10 minutes of chitchat the doors opened, and the customers rushed in. Taking a seat, Christine noticed the woman who made the comments regarding Black people being unable to grow hair. Looking up, the two women locked eyes and said hello.

As she read her magazine, Christine had a strange feeling she was being watched. Looking up, she observed the woman staring at her hair. "Can I touch your hair" the woman said reaching out to touch Christine's tresses. "No, you may not" she roared. "What are you anyway, a hair freak?" "Those other women let me play in their hair," said the woman rising from her chair. "Well, those other women might like it, " said Christine, frowning "but I don't." Realizing, her remarks were drawing unwanted attention; Christine took a vow of silence. "Hey, you act as though that hair on your head is real," said the woman. The woman reminded Christine of one of those loud-half-baked-rubber-neck-twirling guests on The Jerry Springer Show. "For your information," said Christine pointing to her head, "this is my real hair, with emphasis on the word real. "And even you have to admit, it's all good."

"Ah come on," said the woman. "Since when did Black women get the ability to grow hair?' "That's right," another weave wearer chimed in. "You know we can't grow no hair." "What is wrong with you people?" cried Christine. "No wonder everyone thinks we can't grow hair. We've even brainwashed ourselves to the point where we are starting to buy into the hype," she said. "Never in my life have I seen a," before she could finish the sentence, one of the women grabbed Christine's hair.

"What the heck are you doing?" she screamed, struggling to free herself. Within seconds the salon was transformed into a boxing ring, complete with screaming fans and two irate opponents. "Stop pulling my hair fool, you're hurting me," yelled Christine, frantically. A little girl who less than two minutes ago was sitting on her mother's lap, was now standing in the middle of the floor shouting "Get her, get her."

Suddenly, the woman stopped pulling Christine's hair. "Dang, what kind of glue do you have on that thing?" she demanded. "I told you this is my real hair," warbled Christine. "That's my scalp you were pulling, not glue you idiot." Taking a closer look at Christine's head, the woman was now convinced she was telling the truth. "I'm sorry," the woman conceded. "I guess I was wrong, we can grow hair."

Christine had frequented the salon for years, but because of what happened, there was an uneasiness in being there that she had never before experienced. Rising from her chair, the stunning brunette informed the owner that she would not be returning to the salon. And after witnessing the embarrassing altercation between the two women, the owner understood her reason. Before leaving Christine turned to the woman she had fought with earlier and reminded her, "Don't forget Lard brain, we are capable of growing hair," she said, twirling her mane. There was a hush silence, and all you could hear was the droning alloys of discomfort.

Despite the popularity of weaves in the African-American community, there are thousands of women who can still call their long luscious locks their own. Two prime examples are singer Alicia Keys (Yes, I know she's biracial, so what?) and model Wanakee, developer of the Verifen Complex System, which offers women of color a healthy way to care for their hair.

An ex model with hair cascading to her lower back, Wanakee says one of the reasons Black women tend to have long hair as children, but shorter hair as they grow older is based on the fact that when they are younger the hair is kept in plats or braids. But as they grow older, the hair becomes damaged via chemicals and electrical appliances. However, for those women who know the secret of maintaining long hair into adulthood, they find themselves at war with skeptics and weave dizziens who're convinced that Black women cannot grow hair.

So the next time you see a Black woman with hair hanging to her buttocks, don't assume it's a weave. It may be her very own hair. And if you're still not sure, say to her in a calm voice, "Show me the hair." If she flashes an embarrassing smile, her "hair" was probably purchased from Mr. Chows Beauty Emporium But if she gets a strange look in her eyes and her nose twitches, you can bet the hair is hers. No Faking. No Doubt.

* Not the subject's real name

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