Get up, stand up!

Years ago, as a result of both interest and boredom, I ventured into my grandmother’s homemade library. It held two, dusty bookshelves that were stacked to the brim with such classics as Gone with the Wind, Oliver Twist, and Song of Solomon. My childlike curiosity led me to dive into the forbidden text of The Autobiography of Malcolm X as told to by Alex Haley. I didn’t know what to expect. Throughout my life up to that point, Malcolm X was painted as this villainous, gun-totting devil that spouted cacophonous babble, but accomplished nothing in his lifetime. I quickly absorbed Malcolm’s life, transition, and his insight about America’s social conditions, and I emerged from the pages a changed person.

Malcolm X’s bold assessment of the times darkened the 544 pages of text. It forced me to open my eyes to the aftermath of Jim Crow and the days of blatant racism. There was change. And there was some progression. But still, I saw vague etchings of oppression, slavery, and discrimination that I thought were erased half a century ago. I didn’t know what else to do but write. Afterall, it had become second nature since my grandmother would make me to write short stories during church service to prevent me from nodding off—and, consequently, embarrassing her. That has been her policy since I was seven years old.

Writing became my voice. The black words waltz on the white paper. With every click of my computer keys, I hope to inspire. My worst critic, the person I loved most in my youth, calls this form of activism passive and ineffective—berating it to the point where I write more, while letting my mission manifest itself, on its own.

Today, writing gives life to my opinions. I write exactly what I think about the neglected ghettos east of Troost Avenue in Kansas City. Those neighborhoods are home to me and hundreds of others who live under the same shameful conditions. There is little trust in those areas and even less hope. I jot down a story about the little, brown children who shuffle barefoot up and down those streets and the lives they are forced to live. I write about the public schools in Chicago that become a pipeline to the prisons, to borrow from the Children’s Defense Fund, an organization that I have long admired. My words reach inside the community and pull out everything that needs exposure and improvement.

On a much lighter note, my writing has the power to awaken the imaginative soul. Words, memories, and people that slumber in the recesses of my mind rise and reveal themselves. I write them down, giving them new life. I could easily articulate what I believe in an oration or through song, but I write (partially because I am tone-deaf). I write because there is something intriguing about the energy of the reader; their gaze shifting from left to right, consuming every word almost effortlessly—on the CTA, in their living room with a toddler zipping about in the background, in a restaurant, in the morning, with their coffee in hand.

It is one thing to write what I see, but that isn’t the struggle. I hope to impact the reader, much like Malcolm X did for me. I want my readers to want change. The best response I can get from a reader is, “I want to do something about that.” Writing is my weapon against the dangers of our society. It defends the vulnerable. It is a remedy for the spiritually ill. It embraces the shunned. It is me. Now, tell me, what is your weapon?

Warning: This is a rant.

Two weeks ago, I witnessed 30 high school students (also known as Freedom Fellows at the Chicago Freedom School) express their passion for social justice through performance – from hip hop, to dance, poetry to skits and personal mission statements. Anyone who was in the audience was instantly inspired and moved to do something, anything for the Cause. What is this capitalized “Cause”, you ask? If anyone has ever asked you “Are you down for the Cause?” they are asking you if you are willing to fight for freedom – freedom from racism, sexism, discrimination based on disability or sexual orientation. Freedom is one’s natural right not only to survive, but to live. That is the Cause. As I continue to rant, Sweet Honey in the Rock’s “Ella’s Song” is humming in the background, “We who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes.” Too many of us are resting. Which leads smoothly into my next point: what’s with luke-warm sentiments about issues today?

I once had a close friend who half-jokingly described himself as an “angry Black man” simply because he cared about issues and vocalized his concerns. He had a strong interest in disparities—particularly dealing with the incarceration rates of Black males and its effect on the Black family. I always admired his passion and personal investment in the issues; he was never afraid to look silly and often welcomed criticism. Sadly to say, his voice didn’t carry because it wasn’t accompanied by action. However, I will always respect him for having the courage to speak up in a world clumsily glued together by silence and complacency.

Generally speaking, we lack conviction. Maybe it is fear that makes us hold our tongues when facing injustice. Perhaps it isn’t socially acceptable to speak up when we witness imbalances. Or maybe we are comfortable and have all of our needs met, so why ruffle feathers and take that risk?

Why don’t we stand for anything anymore? Rugged individualism, a classic American value, is at the core of our current state. Unless it directly affects us, we don’t want anything to do with it; that is until an event of catastrophic proportions hits (i.e. September 11th, Hurricane Katrina).

I am pleased to see so many people excited about the upcoming Presidential election; however, I hope that this interest in change doesn’t vanish after November 4th. We have a lot of work to do before we can rest. I strive to be like those 15 and 16-year-old Freedom Fellows, using every day as an opportunity to make a distinct mark on society by speaking from the heart about the issues that concern me.

Reader, I leave you with this: speak with conviction, act with passion. Don’t be afraid that you won’t change the world, make an attempt. There is no such thing as failure when it comes to activism. Any step toward a solution is progress. Don’t concern yourself with what others think, stay poised and believe in the work that you are doing—especially in the midst of struggle. Live your life as if it is a hyperbole; make a strong impression, every action emphasizing the one before.

Caramel toned skin. Post-barber shop visit, his hairline surrounds his oval shaped face with precision. His freshly pressed white collared shirt stands alone. Oddly enough, he's not wearing a tie. His crisp oxford shirt is only accompanied by a navy blue suit. His style is subtle. His words are concise, yet woven through with a charm that only movie stars possess. He has captivated thousands, shocked millions. His plan for the United States is flawlessly flexible—people, who never trusted the government, now find themselves slipping into a trance, losing both traditional balance and pessimism. He has accumulated a fair amount of "hate" from opponents and critics. But all in all, he has achieved rock star status.

More than that, he gracefully dances on the age-old colorline DuBois gregariously articulated. He injected America with the most potent serum: hope; all the while feeding us daily vitamins promising change. Barack Obama is an inspiration, a constant reminder that with enough tenacity, the "impossible" is merely a lingering afterthought. However, there is one question that has been bothering me like a day-old mosquito bite: is Obama's success just one great, big distraction?

Although I have always been skeptical of the political arena and the politicians who actively engage in it; I view it as a sport, and I, the spectator. Throughout the years, I have witnessed controversy, broken promises, harsh words, reputations assassinated. But I must say, unabashedly, that I am a supporter of Senator Obama. He seems, for lack of a better word, pure. His dedication to providing the country with a government that works, has protected him from corruption. However, Barack Obama is not the lone savior of the American dream.

It is not that I have little faith in Senator Obama and his message. I genuinely trust his vision and intentions. But he is one man who is seeking to run a country that has for centuries rested on the backs of the poor. In the most recent issue of Rolling Stone, Obama is described as the paradoxical candidate and it's true. I fear that his unprecedented success will paralyze progress.

Believe it or not, if Obama is elected the next president of the United States in November, Chicago's rising poverty rate will not magically decline. I know readers don't want to hear this, but there will still be illiterate high school students who will be thrust out of the Chicago Public School System on the day of their graduation. There will be an even more alarming number of students who won't graduate. And next year, just like last year, half a million Chicago residents will rely on emergency food from the Greater Chicago Food Depository. The teen birth rate in Cook County will continue to climb. These are not simply cynical predictions, but it is reality. (If Senator McCain, as creepy and seasoned as he is on the political scene, is elected, I am confident that those numbers will rise—if not instantly, then gradually.)

The average Chicago citizen is the solution to the city's educational, economic and health disparities. Yes, it will help to have someone like Barack Obama at the top to act as a model, but on a small-scale, we have to take back our own communities. We have to be the movers and shakers that don't get media coverage. Legislation can't give a child hope, like a mentor can; it can't protect the youth from stray bullets like a community center can; it can't solve our issues like we can. As activists, we have to be a watchdog and ally for our government; holding up our end, while keeping public officials on their toes.