The Velt: Chapter 2, Seven Years Removed

Having mapped out the syllabus for a 12-week curriculum of slam poetry and theatre improv, the after-school program was prompted to begin. Michael, the principal of Roosevelt H.S., sat at his desk in the usual position of back turned and staring at his computer screen like an oracle. “I think we can start this as soon as next week?” I said with a slight question at the end. The entire operation had been tedious at best. Although Michael and Hassan had been brimming with enthusiasm to calibrate a theatre program- a drama program- some kind of program for the students to have an artistic outlet, their understanding of the syllabus seemed to be non-existent. I had engaged with Michael less than a handful of times and he was already entrusting me to teach a 12-week after-school extracurricular for $3000. I mean, the guy barely knew me, had never seen me perform a lick of theatre let alone slam poetry and was handing over the keys to a 90/90/90 high school after-hours to teach kids how to… speak for themselves.

Problem: Again, this is a fng 90/90/90 school. Reference The Velt Chapter 1 if you have no clue what 90/90/90 is, and also you shouldn’t be reading Chapter Deux if you haven’t read Chapter Uno- shame on you. However, taking you know what I’m talking about- a 90/90/90 school is in absolute need of an after-school organized activity to assert students to speaking for themselves in an artistic or formal manner. The opportunities were limitless in this position; we’d study Bao Phi, Augusto Boal, Neruda, Shane Hawley, Shakespeare, KRS-ONE- we’d cover it all. This is unprecedented. This wouldn’t be Hot Cheetohs & Takis, we’d turn it to Politics & Hegemony! I was excited, couldn’t wait to get down to business.

First thing was first, in any form of introducing a new class or event to a populous, time to print posters. I put together an 11x17 bill to promote the after-school’s presence and plan of action. Pause- what’s the name of the thing- I mean, what’re we calling said after-school activity? Politics & Hip-Hop- Slam Poetry 101- Fight The Power, Write For Hours? Christ, I hadn’t even thought of this. “So, I’m sending out the FYI to the faculty, what’re we calling this?” Michael said bluntly with his back turned at his computer. “Umm, Hip-Hop Theater” I said. It was ballsy, not over academic, but a bit much- almost an oxymoron. Hip-hop is theater, and theater isn’t necessarily hip-hop… jargon aside, it stuck. The kids had to know that hip-hop was involved, that they’re voice would be given a stage to say what they felt or had been feeling for some time and never had a proper setting to voice it. In the latter, they had to know that we’d be dealing with scenes that they’d be curating the scripts for and playing out reflections of their lives in and outside Roosevelt H.S.

A majority non-white high school, on the brink of getting shut down in a city that had all but pulled the plug on its life feed, was putting me in charge of a hip-hop theatre program… this is serious shit, man. There are no arbitrary moves made in this building, you can damn near see the tension wafting from the walls of Roosevelt H.S… from the outside.

After plastering over a dozen posters around the school, my time had come. Michael gave me the option of using the writing center’s room or going with an abandoned band room. The band room was a sad sight while empty. Outside of it sat a poster of Tapanga from Boy Meets World promoting kids to not drink and drive. Michael played a good Fix-It Felix for the while I was there, but at first sight of a poster from the early 90’s sitting on a door… it gave me reason to think twice. Was Roosevelt actually invested in seeing their students succeed, or was it just a farce with the name “Wellstone” tagged to its title outside the building? Something was amiss. Something didn’t sit with me well, like a rollercoaster I had already been locked into, my only options were to defy logic and make a bloody jump off the ride… or travel the predestined rails it had already set in place. Couldn’t back down at the beginning of a job. It would be a balancing act of trusting Michael and implementing  a space for students to talk about sociopolitical subject matter through art.

First day on the job- I avoided the dungeon/cavern of broken dreams from the 90’s (the old band room) and opted for the cushy writing center. Plus, the first day wouldn’t necessitate a lot of space, just room to sit and chat. The goal was to get a feel for the subject matter the students wanted to talk about, the direction they wanted to take their writing, and then integrate that into the hip-hop theater’s plan of action. I sat on the stiff red couch which looked more welcoming than it actually was. Felt like I had sat on a brick bench once I hit the damn thing. Ok, it’ll get better. Can’t wait to meet the students and see what ideas and words they wanna throw forth to paper.

Five minutes pass… No one in attendance yet. I grabbed some papers from my bag to go over the syllabus a 2^nd, 3^rd  - enter the first student… and another. Sidenote: I’m not going to go into any detail of anything discussed between the students and I during the after-school program. It’s arbitrary to the point of the story, and plus... that shit is private. Working with youth has been one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever come across in my lifetime, and now, engaging with primarily youth of color at a city high school to create poetry was beyond ideal.

The hurdle now, was getting kids to actually show up to the program… consistently. If we were to put on a performance at the end of the curriculum, how would we make it happen with spotty attendance? It was going to take a team, and after two weeks (4 classes) passed, it wasn’t working. At most, I’d had 4 different students show to Hip-Hop Theater and 2 students show at a time. The subjects and work we created for those two weeks were absolutely amazing. We’d covered sociology inside and out of Roosevelt, hierarchy within the household, and street politics.

The idea and space was creating a dim glow- some kind of light nonetheless, and I wouldn’t stop at it there. Wrapping the 4^th class, I made an impromptu entrance to Roosevelt the next day to visit with Michael. Always busy with something or what seemed absolutely nothing, Michael welcomed me to his office. “The turnout for the hip-hop theater after-school program is pretty dismal, and I want to make a go of garnering more interest in the program.” I confidently declared. Brimming with energy as usual, Michael replied “Yeah- sounds great!”

“I’d like to go into a few classrooms and perform some slam poetry to give the kids an idea of what it is they could be a part of after-school”, I proposed. Michael again enthusiastically agreed. I was determined to turn the general student populous of Roosevelt High School’s attention toward their potential to speak through art for just a second, if even. I hadn’t performed serious slam poetry for over 7 years. Honestly, nothing scares me more than being on stage with no beat and my own words. It’s possibly the most vulnerable I’ve ever felt; to get up in front of a crowd of strangers and speak with the promise that my word is worth everyone’s time. I also, fucking love it- love being at the precipice of a moment to orchestrate a skill and instrument I’ve been passionate about since birth.

I couldn’t just roll up to each English class and rock a poem I’d written years ago about some opinion from some political or personal issue. I’d have to reach even the most checked out kid in the class room. Beyond 7 years of not performing serious slam poetry, it’d been even longer since I’d written a new poem. So, what better time to start than now- write a piece revolving around the issues Michael had communicated to me at the beginning of this whole thing; 90/90/90, lack of enthusiasm enrolling to a school that was your 2^nd or 3^rd choice, being the most diverse school in the state, student violence, etc. The list could rant if it wanted to, but I’d have to be direct. Make a straight shot to the heart of Roosevelt’s current circumstance sitting as an dim star on the edge of South Minneapolis. Question was, how would the students respond to the poem?

What occurred next was nothing short of an ugly success. (To be cont.)

The Velt: Chapter 1, 90/90/90

It’s clear this room hasn’t been refashioned since the 70’s. With the makes of a studio police cubicle farm or library, I would not change a single thing within the Roosevelt High School Principal’s Office. I’d visited a principal’s office on more occasions for breaking something, disobeying a teacher, or fighting. My middle school days were notorious for running through the hallways without a hall pass, conspiring against authority, and prying the self-esteem apart from bullies older than me. All of this accomplished with dedicated partners in crime, Idrissen and Tony. We’d separate as we grew older, and little did I know that I’d be attending many principal offices in the future working with adolescents, special education, and now art.

Already late for the meeting, the arrangement was more official than I had presumed. I entered the glass encased office. A tall gangly white gentlemen, Hassan and a shorter brown woman who I presumed to be the principal sat at the only table in the room. I sat. “My apologies for my tardiness, traffic”, I discreetly fibbed as I pulled up to the table.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m Michael” introducing himself. “This is Denise, our assistant principal.” Realizing the tall gangly white man to be the principal I turned my attention toward him. The shorter brown woman I had mistaken for the supreme authority of the school still had an air about her that wreaked of “I don’t play that shit”. A little intimidated I let Michael  the talking. “So, can you all give me some kind of background on Roosevelt as of right now?” I asked.

“Well, we’re a 90/90/90 school, which means Roosevelt ‘s student population is 90% of color, 90% at poverty level, and 90% studying at or below grade level… “. My thoughts blanked for a moment. I’d realized working with the kids in pre-K and 3-5^th grade that it was bad... Kids of color disheveled in classrooms, mentally checked out dealing with anything and everything outside of the building, leaving school to trek back to an abusive home, leaving school to enter a world of apathy and classism. When you’re standing toe-to-toe with a 9 year old that has emotional behavior disorder while clutching their forehead in frustration, there’s a point of understanding that this can get better, that we can potentially make it- that no one is here to fix or change you, but to see you become the person you were meant to be and quite possibly become the success your imagination has stretched to fathom. Fast forward half-a-decade and those same kids are in high school. Imagine it never got any better, imagine it got worse. This was the graveyard for the aspirations and hopes we had for our students in elementary school... this was a Minneapolis high school that didn't have the word "south" anywhere in its title, this was reality. Sitting next to Mr. Bradley and the clean-up crew, there is an understanding that it will get worse before anything begins to turn down a better path. In my head, I’d screamed “holy fucking shit man, let’s get these kids out of here.  90 90 90??!!?!?! This is bad man- fucking MAY DAY!” several times, but kept myself to sitting, smiling and listening.

Michael went on, “We also had a student who was shot and killed this past June just before graduation. It was a real tragedy. He was well known in the school, everybody was really impacted by this, and… yeah. Denise, anything you want to fill in on?” Michael spoke with contrition, but still there was something in the damn room that was missing. It wasn’t Michael the short brown woman’s intimidating army lieutenant demeanor, or Hassan’s concern to see this all work out- a necessity to this conversation was horribly absent. Not a second to waste man, get it together and listen to these people! They have money and they will pay you for art! I’d subscribe to the devil on my shoulder, but I was curious about this school and the mystique to a building that had been underfunded and neglected to near death.

With nothing to lose, but a job, I asked “Is the school in any jeopardy to be shut down due to everything you just told me?” Michael sighed and responded “Our enrollment has been on a decline for the past decade. Since I’ve become the principal two years ago, the school has seen its first incline in enrollment in a long time.”

Fascinated none, I continued “How many students attend Roosevelt High School?” “802” he answered. The discussion continued of Michael s vision to have every student involved in an extracurricular activity at the end of the day. Since he had graduated with a theatre degree from the University of Iowa, he was enthusiastic for me to work with the students on theatre and slam poetry. Pressed for time, we halted the dialogue to pick up at a later date.

Days later, I emailed Michael a schedule and syllabus propositioning the after-school theatre program we had discussed. It would take place twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) after school for two hours. The students would create their own performance, rehearse it, and present it to the city- blah blah blah the formalities of creating any performance between an artist and institution of academia. What drew me in further than anything was exact thing that had been absent in the room at the meeting. Although Michael's mouth was moving, the short brown woman carried the “no shit” attitude, and Hassan had a 200% genuine interest in helping the school- sweet Jesus, something was gone- something intangible. Wait, you mean to tell me a leader of the student body was shot on the southside of Minneapolis less than half a year ago, 90% of your students are performing at or below their grade level, and last year you cut the varsity football team! It boggles the mind that a high school rest on academic failure and have no football team to bury the conversation with it. I mean, nothing covers your ass like “we suck at school, but we kick ass in athletics”. My petty concerns aside, the subject that lambasted me was the enrollment of 802. Roosevelt High School is a huge building that could fit 2000 students, if I had to gander. To see it at less than half-mass is relative to watching a 2 on 5 basketball game. 

Minnesota is #1 in the country for racial disparity in education, meaning the gap of academic achievement between white students and students of color is largest in Minnesota…

Zoom in.

Minneapolis and St. Paul are the bane of urban culture in the state of Minnesota, carrying the country’s 2^nd highest racial disparity in the country where people of color are 20 times more likely to be pulled over, coveted, or questioned by police than white people…

Zoom in.

Roosevelt High School has the highest population of students of color per capita than any other Minneapolis High School let alone in the state of Minnesota. To say it’s on the fringe of failure would be a lie. I will be absolutely truthful with you, the school is already a failure in a system that has already failed it. In a society where a C is a passing grade, there are places where anything below an A is failure- anything below an A is a means and request to do better. Here, at Roosevelt High School, the life support has been trashed and is a mockery of what it could be. We all may differ on standards of academic success, but I dare challenge you to challenge yours. Just because someone drew a line and told you it was where the race finished, doesn’t mean you should stop running.

Leaving the building, looking at the YMCA across the street my family friend, Barb Jones, had cultivated into a haven for kids of color, bi-racial kids, and interracial families, I remembered her brazen daily war waged against the societal standard set for the city of Minneapolis. Barb was from Cleveland, so you can imagine her perception of the Twin Cities’ passivity toward white privilege and race. She instilled a fire inside every employee at that YMCA to break the frame of their perception and re-calibrate their standard of success right now. Years ago, Barb passed away from cancer. With every fiber of me and minute of life I have on this rock, I can only hope to accomplish a fraction of what she had accomplished in her legacy. I want these kids to have a voice outside of a building that had become the crux of racial disparity amongst the worst in the country.

It was then I recognized what was missing in the room. Here, a school quickly becoming the nation’s leading definition of institutional racism, abandonment, and negligence… and nobody in the building acknowledges it. Although Michael, the principal, spoke with conviction toward Roosevelt’s situation, I had just realized that not a single student understood the actual gravity of the circumstance. I’d dare them to speak on it, write on it, and perform it through the program Michael commissioned me to teach at Roosevelt. The problem now lie in getting the students to actually care about something they had a stake in.

The Velt: Prelude

I can’t withstand it anymore. The Spyhouse Coffee Shop has to go. Some of my best work was written there- entire albums, play scripts, most my literary livelihood can be credited to the damn place, it was a sanctuary for concentrating. However, the shitty internet connection and effortless condescension from the baristas have gone beyond the point of return. This morning has to be christened with a new venue, a fresh start, a place where no one knows my face or name… the Loring Park Dunn Bros.

I pack my belongings and backpack and make way to the new location to write. Enter Dunn Bros, any Dunn Bros, coffee bean scented with newspapers rustling about. It's perfect- this table’s comfortable, hell, I could start a new home here- Baristas are nice, the place is huge, beautiful view of Loring Park without getting held up for your wallet- I’m in. “Hello, you are Toussaint Morrison”, a soft voice in an East African accent quietly interjected to my left. “Are you still writing plays”, the voice asks. I turn, it’s a familiar face. I’ve seen this man- dammit he’s familiar as all hell- I feel like I’ve known him my entire adult life, but never exchanged a word or name with him. “Hi, I’m Toussaint” totally not answering his question.

“You know, you should come to Roosevelt. They need some kind of theatre there. You could teach the students!” the familiar East African man excitedly clammered. This guy clearly doesn’t know me as well as I think I recognize him. “I mean, I don’t know how much they could pay you, but the school could really use someone like you around”, he went on.

We ran track together- recognized him from the old city track & field showdowns at Washburn H.S... as well as the social grid of the University of MN. I’d been in proximity for the past decade with this guy and still didn’t know his name. “Hassan. I work at Roosevelt”, he said.

Teach theatre to kids? What would I say to them? Hi, I'm Toussaint. Most times I open my mouth, people get pissed off, I get slapped, I get paid, or I win a poetry slam?

Hassan, it is. I’ll take you up on the offer after I finish working out the details on this song about Risperdal and emotional behavior disorder. This should be damn fun. And by fun I mean I have absolutely no clue of the opportunity you just extended. The little I do know of Roosevelt High School is that it’s the alma mater of several of my best friends, several infamous athletes, and an easy target if you had to point your finger in the direction the school you most likely did not want to wind up at. Sitting right next to perennial academic success school Minneapolis South H.S. and a not too distant Minneapolis Southwest H.S. (#1 in the state).

Distressed by what I just said? Don’t be. It was the first thing I was informed of when I stepped into my first meeting at Roosevelt. “Most kids wind up here that applied for Minneapolis South or Southwest, and are a bit discouraged that they didn’t get in”. F that. I want to give these kids a voice, a stage, a mic- something in which to brand their creative thumbprint on their city.

Somewhere along the line, the city had failed the building, abandoned it beneath the shadow of South, Southwest, and a deplorable public school system that ranks dead last in the U.S. for racial disparity in education.

Some while ago, somehow… the bar was settled near the floor for the standards of Roosevelt H.S. I was going to challenge that- change it, even. Most importantly, I wanted to know what the students had to say about it.

The Biggest Hands I Ever Did See

It was exactly what I had hoped would happen, to be socially stranded at some bar while my friends made off with their friends and be forced into the realms of the awkward. Brooklyn had been stand-off’ish, but nice up to this point. I had come to the Brooklyn Whiskey with Lucia to meet her Teach For America buddies, a circle of broughams from separate corners of the country all brought together for two things: to teach a low-income/neglected student base, and say “yes, I lived in New York for a time or two, let me tell you…”  They were a brotherhood of sorts, and as time passed on (20mins) the riotous pack of Teach For America fellows became enthralled with Lucia. It seemed as if they’d been denied something for the past, oh, year or so.

“What time do you guys usually have to be up in the morning?” I insisted to the tallest of the Teach For America fraternity pack. “Usually 5am, but not tonight. Tomorrow’s a government holiday.” He replied from the side of his mouth while scouring the scene of Sunday late-nighters and mid-Autumn skirts. I glance back to my go-to, the New Orleans Saints game on one of the dozen television sets hanging from the ceiling.

“I can’t wait to be the fuck up outta there though” the frat pack For America leader murmured from the side of his mouth again. “Really? How often you think about just up and leaving the Teach For America job?” I asked. “Every God Damn day” he replied still scouring the floor. “So why don’t you ?” I retorted. The Teach For America frat leader turned from his skirt scour and looked me in the eye from the half a foot he stood above me. “Because I made a promise. I gave them my word that I’d complete two years with the program. After that, never again” He grimly replied. The amount of integrity just emitted was beyond my limitations for the night, radioactive perhaps.  I had not anticipated words to be delivered with the contrition I had received them from this man.

“Shit, sucks to-“ Shit, Drew Brees just made a play and it’s under review. This could be the God Damn game. I broke from the conversation while pack leader corralled a circle of women. My gaze widening into the television set with hopes the Saints would break their two-game losing slump.

The referee trots to the center of the field, opens his mouth to give the verdict- BOOM! A hand slaps right in between my shoulder blades. My arms flail back for a split-second from the impact of the blow. This can’t be an accident. No one bumps into somebody this hard unintentionally. There was a purpose to this strike- a message I was being sent. Before I could gather my balance, the same hand that struck me pulled me in tightly by the right shoulder. I could feel each callus from the hand forcing me closer to the perpetrator- each callus a pillow, but the hand almost touching from the top of my shoulder to my elbow- is this person wearing a fucking catcher’s mit?!?!

“Are you fuckin’ Dino’s brother!?” a baritone voice bellows  to my left. “Ah- wha-what?” I respond in all respects, the bar so loud, this gentlemen speaking in a pitch that matched the DJ’s bass, I couldn’t make out a single syllable he was saying. “Dino’s brother?!?!?” He bellows again. This man is on a mission. I still couldn’t make out what he was saying, but turning into him was like turning towards your father for the first time as a toddler. The man was a giant. Short in stature, but his features absolutely huge in relation to everyone else in the bar. He would have no problem managing an NFL running back to the ground, he would give a pro-wrestler and career ending injury, he could quite break my arm right off with his drunken choosing. This man is a reckoning. Anyone choosing to physically oppose him would put himself in discreet jeopardy of losing his life or having to suffer multiple broken bones in the process of eeking out an unlikely victory. 

I've seen how these things work out- I've watched the treachery of drunken bar brawls end in skulls slamming against the sidewalk, internal bleeding, ambulance speed racing through the night to rescue some unnecessary violence spilled onto the streets outside some bar in some town over some bullshit.There would be no fashion or finesse in this situation if I didn't look this man in the eye. 

I turn toward face of the inaudible voice. Breath wreaking of dark booze, a bomb-shell cougar to his side, and a few other friends staring me down at the bar, I had to think of something quick. “Ahhh, no” I said. I had no clue what I was speaking to, but I figure to deny whatever this gargantuan gentlemen might be accusing.

“Really, you don’t know Dino!?!?!” he laughed. I could hear him now. “Ha.. no, no clue” I timidly smiled back. “Hey, you Dominican?!?!?!” he asked.  “Uhhh, no. I have an uncle in the Bahamas though” I shouted over the bar speakers. “Alright! Alright! I thought you were this motha fucka, Dino’s brother!!! I was gonna punch you right in the fuckin’ mouth y’know!” he confessed with a celebratory smile, almost relieved he wouldn’t have to deal out a mandatory ass whooping to the guy he thought I was. “Oh… Ha… Nope, not me. I’m in town from Minnesota. Couldn’t be me.” Still holding a nervous smile.

Our conversation continued onto complex subjects such as the ominous state of the Vikings and the potential bright future of the New York Giants. After bidding adieu, I returned to the Teach for America crew still corralled around Lucia, and exhaled a sigh of reluctance at the topic of discussion being once again Teach for America. It is memorable to stand toe-to-toe with another human being that admits they were going to punch you in the face at first sight of you, rather than to discuss how much you hate your job. Later that night in a taxi cab en route to the Fat Cat, the driver asks me if I'm related to ex-Major League Baseball  player, Moises Alou… again, Dominican. Alas, I am not. We chat in Spanish for the rest of the car ride, the least I can do for the deflated excitement he faced thinking I was related to baseball greatness. Whilst avoiding getting pummeled by the biggest hands I ever did see, the amount of reintroduction required to be racially ambiguous in New York City is enjoyable… when visiting.

The Meanest Thing Someone Ever Said To Me

A gust of wind hummed softly down Grand, the final breaths of the hurricane resonated upon Brooklyn. She mercilessly had her way with Queens, shut down electricity to the largest borough in New York, but Williamsburg would have none of it. Helen and I walked Grand on my last night in New York. No one had carried me through this trip chalk full of cancellations and unexpected adventure more than that of Helen. We’d been friends for the better half of a decade meeting at the Purple Onion studying at the U of MN, and by some unlikely series of events, we’ve remained friends since. Helen let me crash on a foam bedding at her apartment while I settled in town. We kept each other company throughout the past week of cabin fevered rainy days,  credited to our love for music, beer, and conversation unveiling vulnerability. Sharing your worst fears, shittiest past happenings, and untold stories with someone will eventually bring you closer to them in spirit and friendship… as it has for Helen and I.

Neighborhoods forced upon themselves with the MTA shut down, streets gridlocked in cars fending for their spot by way of four-block lineup to the gas station, ATMs thoroughly dried of every dollar- I felt I’d done and seen it all this past week; Harlem to Connecticut, friends past and present, artists and DJs from 6-digit incomes to no-digit incomes. My mind was going into a blur and could only think of one thing: sushi.

“What’s the place called again?” I asked Helen. “Hirachi- Hobachi…” she answered. We’d know it when we saw it, I figured. Still blocks away, we chatted up our favorite subject: relationships. As it came about, Helen told a story that brought her to a stutter. Usually we tell each other arcs and tales of our experiences in friendships, relationships, family, etc. Something was different about this time. Helen had ventured down a road, peeling back the layer of a memory she didn’t want to revisit.

“It’s cool, you don’t need to tell me” I handed her the least awkward out I could think of, even though it was still damn awkward. “No- No, no. I’ll tell it”, she persisted… and then stopped again. It was like jumping the high dive for the first time. Once she stepped off the board, there was absolutely no coming back. I felt nervous for her.

She spilled the story. It was horrible, not the story but what the happening in the story. Helen had told me one of the meanest things anyone’s ever said to her. Although it had been years since Helen experienced these hurtful words, her face welled with tears at the thought of it. “That’s fucked up” crossed my mind to comfort her, but everybody says that shit when someone starts to expose their heart right then and there.

“That’s fucked up…” I said. “It just hurts y’know- it fuckin’ hurts.” Helen went on.  “Have you forgiven this person for saying this to you?” I asked. “Fuck no! Hell no” she declared.

“I’ve seldom experienced anything more powerful than forgiveness”, somehow came aloud from my streamline of consciousness. “Might be something to look into”.

I then thought about all the hurtful words that have been dealt my direction. I’m in the business of spoken word, written word- I’m in the business of language, so for me to be viscerally shaken by someone’s word- well, it’d take something pretty damn strong.

We sat for sushi. “When people say something, or even write something, with the intent to maim your emotions… you have to understand the source. If Person A were to shout to Person B across the street, “Hey you’re a fucking prick bastard son of a bitch” and we happened to pay witness, who would we be staring at?” I said. “Person A, the person that shouted the insult” answered Helen. “Correct. It’s classic. A maneuver we master in elementary school, and engrain into our psychi throughout adulthood. If someone says something- well, it must have some merit to it, right? Again, we should concern ourselves with the source… it’s shitty, we exacerbate what’s been said by collapsing stories about ourselves on top of it. Our self-esteem shakes to pieces, and we’re left with a horrible feeling at the pit of our stomach- the intended result of our culprit… Mind if I tell you the meanest thing that’s ever been said to me?” I asked Helen. “No, not at all” she replied.

“Ok…” I had to figure out how I was going to say this. I’d never told anybody this before- I mean, folks have said some crazy shit to me in the past, but this had taken the cake by a long, long shot. “Well, here it goes…

… I was in Mexico with my girlfriend, Consuela, at the time. We had been together for several months and had already taken on a pattern of breaking up and getting back together, arguing like we were fighting for child custody (hence, we had no children), and trusting each other as far we as we could throw one another. Yes, it was a relationshit, but here we were in Mexico. Aside from the bad, there was an immense amount of good to Consuela and I. She had the ability to go calm under pressure and make a decision out of her best reason. I admired her at the moments most would panic. However, there still lay the eye of the tiger layered deep beneath the surface, Consuela could unleash a heat unbeknownst to hell. At the precipice of her anger she would just… walk away. Didn’t matter if it was a family dinner or hanging out in a remote city on a road trip… she’d just walk away. Her ability to dissociate, and my ability to emotionally shut down made for a vendetta. In the end, I’d swear we were sleeping with one another under the code of “keep your enemies closest”. I digress, we were trying- she was a dreamer, I was/am a hopeless romantic. For what it was worth, we were in Mexico.

I flickered through my book of scribbles, verse, prose, and things not to forget. “Read me one of your pages” Consuela asked. Usually I laugh at the person, give a uber-serious comedic stare, and not read them anything from the book. Consuela was different. She was a talented writer, and had a genuine interest in what I was translating from my brain to pen to paper, so I took pride in sharing any current work with her. I read her a page. “Now, you read me a page from your book” I asked. Consuela was always writing in her journal. I’d never had an interest in it, but figured to return the favor while we passed the time in a 20^th floor hotel room in Cancun.

Consuela paged through her journal to a random spot… her face fell for a split second- “What is it?” I jutted. “Noth-nothing” she claimed. Something was up, this wasn’t like Consuela to emote hesitation… ever. “Umm, so ya gonna read it?” I egged on. “Not this one. I really can’t” she dodged. “How ‘bout this one- ok here we go”, Consuela read me an excerpt from her journal. It was nice, pretty, civilized, everything she’d have the universe believe she always was and is. We adjourned to get ready to go out for the night. I finished up writing, Consuela took to the shower… leaving behind her journal wide open on the bed.

My eyes pulled away from the verse I’d been focused on for the past hour. What the hell had she written that she couldn’t share? Consuela had never been the type’a gal to go gunshy. She’d curse out a war veteran if she felt it was justified. She’d relayed nearly every ugly inch of her past to me, or at least I thought. Dammit man, get the idea of out your head! Opening that book can do no God damn good!

I did it. Creasing open the page she’d forbade herself to read, I noticed “father” of all the words on the page. “Toussaint tells a sob story about the absence of his father throughout his childhood. I think it’s just to pin himself as the victim and create some kind of sympathy for himself. Honestly, I believe he’s afraid of his father because he subconsciously knows he’s going to end up just as shitty a father as him, if not worse.”…

…

…

…

And there it was. The meanest thing I’d ever paid witness to that had been put out into the universe. Sure people have thought worse, said worse behind closed doors, written worse in books out of sight… but that was the worst my attention had ever paid witness to. “Holy Shit, that bitch is cold as ICE!!!” I thought to myself. I went numb, and then apathetic, and then to logic; well, God forbid I ever have children with this woman, she’d frown upon my every move- well, if I can’t have children with the gal I’m with based on the fact that she thinks I’d be a terrible father, then I could never marry her- shit, if I can’t see myself marrying her, what the fuck am I doing in Mexico with the chick?!?!?- oh, that’s right. Christ, I gotta get outta here… details aside, we broke the day we returned to Minneapolis. With that said, that… was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me.

I know what you’re thinking “Oh, but it wasn’t said, it was written”- dammit, in my book it’s the same accountability. If you’re gonna write it, you should accept responsibility like you said… aloud… with a megaphone… directly in the ear of the listener.

The thing with hurtful shit people say is that you learn to forgive them. The anger turns to disappointment toward them… and you move on. The word, the action, the source of the malicious intent has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the person producing it.” Helen picked up her jaw from the table. “Waaaaoooooow (high pitch Fran Drescher voice), that’s rrrrreally fucked up!” Helen gasped. “I know” I smiled. “Forgiveness, though. You might wanna put some thought into that” I concluded before we dove into our sushi as if we’d been starving for the past two days, then to galavant Brooklyn ‘til the wee hours of the night. 

The Honda Chronicles 4

January 22^nd, 2010

Toussaint here. While Honda lay at 4-Star Auto and Double Bogey sit somewhere in Dinkytown, I figure I have the best perspective on what happened next.

I have pride, but not enough that I couldn’t ask Liam for a favor. The only way to get the car from Dana’s father was in cold hard cash (a banker’s check). I knew I would have the cash from The Blend’s show in Cedar Rapids within the next week, and would soon have money from a modeling gig I’d done to pay back The Blend as well. All in all, I needed an advance. I felt like a low-down dirty vagabond. The world around me would affirm that feeling, but a part of me was still fighting hard to ignore the scrutiny.

Liam lent me the cash. From there I made the payment to Dana’s Father. The only thing left was to pull off The Blend show in Cedar Rapids without a hitch or hiccup- no easy feat. The Blend was already unthreading itself at the seams with a cocktail stewed of alcohol, prescription drugs, ego, and lack of spirit. The group had the chutzpah & talent to kill a football stadium stage opening for U2, but didn’t want to hand out a flier for a local show to save their lives… let alone click “invite” on Facebook. Team morale was at an all-time low and you couldn’t blame a single person in the group for it. A band that’d never received a single handout, pulled off a grossing tour, or fell into the lap of luck- we folded. We’d made our own luck, and by the grace of a higher power we’d be back in the future (5 years or so later) to prove ourselves as the greatest band the country’d never heard… but not now. Steam and time were running out, and I knew it.

We pulled up to Volume, the club in Cedar Rapids we’d perform at. The night wreaked something awful and empty. I stepped out of the bus into dark downtown that'd recently been flooded, now overrun by startup businesses and bar-close bar fights. “Just get through this” I told myself. I’d brought Lazlo Supreme along with Jimmy & The Threats to the venue as well to cover the night front to back with music. It’d do no positive that night. The crowd was more interested in covers and would have none of the a capella/hip-hop of Lazlo and Jimmy opening.

The Blend was up next, however what would take place then was a nightmare on stage… at best. Three songs into the set, the guitarist broke a string but would continue to play as if it’d never happened. I looked to him while still performing and gave him an evil eye as best I could. He didn't read. He just kept on like a kamikaze pilot, except in this case there were four others aboard the flight other than just him. He was going to crash this motherfucker as deep and fiery he could before we'd officially call it quits. Cedar Rapids, The Blend, and the soul of music would suffer a blow that night. The clash of flats and sharps would run through the set and into the end of the night. Again, the audience would have none of it, not even during the few covers we played.

Linden, the piano/sax player, sat off-stage peering toward the ground while a few of us packed up equipment. I didn’t need to ask, rather just knew. Something else had to be done, just not with this group. The circumstance was no longer ours to have.

I collected the 1500, paid out the dues due to the performing artists, and vowed to never insult the game in such a manner as was wrought that night. My spirit was at a low. Not an all-time low, but a God damning low.

Carefully, I steered Double Bogey through a treacherous wind of snow and freezing temperature. The path bore no favor in our travel. Icy roads, snow blowing sideways, it was a deathtrap as much as the bus was. I’d manage the over-sized vehicle four-and-a-half hours bordering on Faribault… and then it happened. The absolute worse thing that can happen at 5am in sub-zero cold just outside of Costco and a closed gas station.

“ReeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” went the engine. The sound became louder and louder paired with a smoking scent of burned rubber. The smell stung the air worse than the high-pitch screeching sound. What was happening? Unbeknownst to all of us on the bus, was the slow melting death of the bus’ serpentine belt. I coughed profusely, Linden covered his mouth with a giant mitten. “SHIT!” I cursed the air helplessly. The wheel seized up on me like rigamortous. I could muscle it a tad, but not enough to make it back to Minneapolis. We were 45 minutes outside of the city and would have to pull over at the next exit.

Coasting on momentum, it took two hands and all of my weight to steer the wheel off onto the next exit to a gas station that’d just opened. From God damn low to here. This was the all-time low. Everything Dana had notioned, everything her family had thought, every evil thing my mother or father had muttered while questioning my career in music or on stage… all came true. A prophecy of sorts I usually shrugged off with a faux smile, as if I were to nab the next bus to downtown and schedule an interview for a big boy job I never intended to have, I laughed in the face of post-graduate norms and 9 to 5s. However here, the joke was on me. A sad, sad joke indeed. The little musician that never could. Feeling bullied by the universe, I had no one to blame for the circumstance. "Get it together" I demanded of myself. There was no blame in this situation. Shit happens, now it's time to fix it, move on, and get our asses back to Minneapolis. 

A cover of frost glazed over Double Bogey cementing its uselessness. It could best serve as a popsicle to a homeless giant or ice cube to God… but nothing to us. Nothing but circumstantial failure and a clear symbol of The End of something.

Linden, Todd, Pat and I barreled into the gas station. “When does the Costco open?” I asked. “Thirty minutes” replied the cashier. Fucking Christ. Our lodge would be the coffee shop built into the Costco, but not before we’d spend 30 minutes standing in the tightly packed gas station pretending to read magazines. It was still dark out, 20 below, the day hadn’t started yet and I was already done with it.

“Hello”, my mother answered the phone. “Hey, we’re stuck in Faribault. Our bus broke down.” I stopped right there. My mother isn’t going to leave her slumber, leave her comfortable bed in the dead of winter to come pick up her son’s band in Faribault. Although it may come or seem as an indictment to my mother, there was just no way she was going to pick us up. I knew it before I called her, she knew it before I called her, and I just wanted to call her to make sure nothing had changed. Ever since my mother sat me down as a 10yr. old and said “Look, if you ever wind up behind bars for doing something stupid… I’m not bailing you out”. From then on, it has always been known that this is on me.

We were stuck until someone was actually willing to bail us out of Faribault. Some sort of cruel punishment & karma was being doled out and I didn’t fucking like it one bit. The cold had set into our bones long before the trip took place- Double Bogey being without heat and all. We were sick, hurting, and in no shape to rally. The one man in our camp that could potentially get us out of this shit hole was the one that had bled the most cash and time up to this point… Linden.

“My parents are on the way” muttered Linden. “Fucking kidding me?!?!” I said. “No” he replied puzzled. He’d taken my question literally, which was usually a credit to our misunderstandings, but this one would breeze over. We’d wait for another hour or so, Robin and John packed our things into their van, and we’d abandon Double Bogey to the Costco lot for the next month or so. I wanted to cry, but the elation of being rescued from the depths of a frigid hell in St. Elsewhere blinded me for the moment. “Get the car”, I thought to myself. “Just get the damned car”

Money returned to Liam, money returned to The Blend. I was square with everyone except for 4-Star Auto. Honda still sat upon the oily turf of the lot. I didn’t have the cash to save her right away, and the longer she sat, the more it would cost. There was more money coming in from another acting job I’d picked up, however it would pay in a month or so. I didn’t want to deal, at least not for the next week. Double Bogey would have to wait to figure out if it’d be buried in Faribault or Minneapolis. A proper goodbye seemed in order, I just didn’t want to wrap my brain around it now.

I’d divulged this entire story to a friend of mine, Tes. He was something like Linden, an eternal optimist, forever seeing the bright side to everything. “Ha, perfect!” Tes laughed. I wasn’t impressed, not even humored by his reaction. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean”? I asked him. “You’re absolutely free now. Think about it. Dana can’t tell you what to do anymore, you bought the car so you don’t have to hear from her dad anymore, and- well, you’re free to go wherever you want.” I’d already knew the latter, but didn’t really strike me until someone outside of my own head said it.

He was right. The book was closed. I was a free man.

I had been stalling out on answering a friend’s invitation to New York for the past few days, focusing on the car and all. I emailed her, Gale, that week upon returning to Minneapolis from Cedar Rapids, “searching for flight prices. Hopefully, I’ll have something worked out by tomorrow”. Cripes, the prices were so ass-low that I worked it out that night. A leap from Minneapolis to NYC, then to Milwaukee for a show with The Blend. We had a few more shows left on our tab. I would try to make the best of them as the talent distanced itself further and further from the basic function of taking stage. It was clear, I had to find a way to operate The Blend to the end of its tour schedule, begin maneuvering a solo career with more efficiency than a death-trap barreling the highways as a bus, and finally to pay Honda’s way out of 4-Star Auto.

There would be no mercy from 4-Star if I couldn’t get the money together by the time I returned from New York, but I’d bust out Honda even if I had to hotwire the damn thing. With liberation comes an even greater responsibility to one’s future. I could see it now. The entire thing rolled out directly in front of me daring my reflex to hesitate. Such a powerful a point and intersection to stand on that I couldn’t waste a moment. I’d never cared for the future as I did now, I had never recognized it- figured it’d always work itself out. I’d never seen it during the several years I had been with Dana, let alone the immediate days after the break-up. I had settled, become comfortable. The cruise control had to be dismantled, and what better place to do so than in New York under the tutelage of Gale, an expert in impulse and organized chaos. I was a wreckloose who subconsciously didn’t believe in himself, but always projected the absolute opposite. I’d bought into all the negatives that’d been advised to me throughout the past years and let the worst morning of my life (at the Costco) affirm it.

So, off I go to New York to save a license-plateless car sitting in the cradle of certain death. I'd rather it by my hands than not.

Carnage&Toki&Botzy&Moonlight&Me...

Never mind the edge of the stage creeping closer to your literal fall to public embarrassment. Before I could realize it, I had stepped onto a raised platform not intended to support the weight of 8 (or more) human beings. Just as FDR had finished his set to coronate a new album he’d released, Toki Wright and Carnage swiftly maneuvered a cypher to take place on stage. This is Minnesota, there are no swift maneuvers to co-opting over half-a-dozen musicians to get on stage at the same time- hence the brilliance of it all.

In a scene padlocked with passivity and great intention, getting to the point takes brute tough love. Toki wasted no time in assembling the mass and heading up a cypher that’d put the finale of the BET Hip-Hop Awards to a crying shame. The air came electric, ripe with possibility & talent, and a looming question of “Can it get any better?” Step one, Carnage mandated everyone take 4 bars each. This way you cut the malarkey to a minimum- keep cats on their toes- warm up to the idea of sharing the mic. Some went bashful at the forced peer pressure from Toki to take the stage, others pushed a stare into the ground something fierce searching for the next words they’d freestyle into the hearts of the audience. At a moment’s glance, one could fall from respect to rookie freestylist McGillicuddy. No one wanted the latter, everyone longed for greatness. Thus the beauty of the cypher; battling for rights to expression, building from the immediate past, sharing present thought without restraint to then laugh at how serious we all took ourselves soon after.

With so much testosterone and ego wrapped into one set, I could feel the gravity of each thought passing through my mind. “Don’t fuck this up” began to fade into a blur of white noise until Toki mandated the mic to me… we rhymed, we laughed, we closed house.

Talent gathering to one area, joining forces for a cooperative blast, and retreating with nothing but smiles is hardly a common instance in the Minneapolis area. The trick rest in the cojones of Toki and Carnage. Beatbox, vocal prowess, and raw talent aside, they remind me of a quote from a great actor I worked with by the name of J-Dub. At the end of my internship with the Penumbra Theatre, J-Dub handed me a key chain with a quote he would always voice in the midst of our acting workshops. “Always Do The Thing You Think You Can’t Do”. Going firmly against the city’s normative wallflower character, I couldn’t think of two people more suitable to revolutionize the wiring of Minneapolis music and business.

The catch to all of this was a common name- phrasing- title what have you- between each lyricist on stage. “Adam J Dunn” or “Adam Dunn” was referenced in the midst of the majority of freestyles performed that night. Not a record label, not a press figure, not a local blog, not a venue- just a guy… a guy who directs music videos responsible for the majority of Minneapolis music turned video. If you’ve seen a Minneapolis artist on YouTube, then you’ve most likely seen the work of Adam J Dunn. It behooved me to ask if it be inches or miles we’d stand behind the curve if it weren’t for a local director to put so many musicians in front of the world beyond the bubble of our city- beyond the awkward silence disrupted by the bright lights of Toki and Carnage- beyond any stage.

Adam J Dunn makes his case this Friday at the Nomad forhis very own Music Video Showcase.