Oddly Closer Than I Thought

To say I knew Joe Sodd III, would be fairly accurate. It wasn’t an acquaintanceship- it couldn’t’ve have been. It was more than an acquaintanceship, but definitely shy of friends. If we saw each other on the street, there would have been immediate recognition in the form of a two syllable handshake- you know the kind where you clasp palms wrapping the thumb, then clasp the four fingers without the thumb- who knows, it might’ve reached the third syllable of bringing it in with the pat on the back. It was the early 2000’s, the sun seemed bolder then.

The connection between he and I, lives in the vivrancy of my sister, Annie. Now, a mother, wife, and impeccable occupational therapist with far more (or just different) responsibility than I could ever imagine taking on myself, but back then: an exceedingly fearless socialite with the propensity to call the shots, stepping to the most courageous of frat bros who might’ve said something politically distasteful and shutting down whatever liquid bravery they thrived on at the moment. My sister was, and is, an amazing force to be reckoned with.

Annie and her group of surly female confidants traveled evening parties like debutantes social-circle hopping a gala in the Hamptons. They didn’t give you’re their presence, they graced you with it. Standing opposite to them, more than not, were the male division of my sister’s friends. What appeared to be lead by a tall ex-hockey prodigy by the title of Nick, the two groups of young folk combined seemingly  like a homemade Voltron. They biked day and night, took friendly to newcomers, and were the antithesis of MN Nice in that their circle always had a spot for you.

Joe occupied an arc of that circle. I had run into him on numerous occasions during evening galavanting. In that time (2002 – 2008), I was known for throwing parties that would soon turn into remakes of Animal House. In these events the cops were always on cue (3am), the obligatory fight betwixt a Minneapolis South Side division of large white gentlemen and a Minneapolis Southwest Side division of large white gentlemen arrived religiously before or after the cops, and always- seemingly always, love would find its way amidst two college campus wayfarers that would never have acknowledged the others existence had they not stumbled paths at said party. Friends, Love, & Fights (Beats, Rhymes, & Life) These occasions served like wedding receptions. As my run-ins with Joe became more frequent, my understanding for his character became more familiar. You come to understand people differently amongst chaos rather than a controlled environment. (i.e.: house parties, special education classrooms, concerts, sociology classes, yelling at a dinner table, school buildings, a coffee table I’m sitting at, etc.)

He would greet me, usually at the beginning of the night whilst the Annie & Nick Gang funneled into my apartment building. Standing short, but solid as a fire hydrant, Joe had the physical makings of an unbeknownst Peter Parker. If news hit the next day that a real-time Spider-Man was seen webbing thru downtown St. Paul, I’d take no surprise in finding out it was he. Beyond the aesthetic, his demeanor and cadence struck me genuine as friend or family would. I’d like to think perhaps he and I were somewhere nearer to friends than acquaintanceship, alas…

Summer 2008

I awoke in a closet I rented from a large house in Dinkytown. Always on the road or crashing in another city or campus, I didn’t necessitate much, and a closet was pretty much all I needed at the moment for me and my belongings. While clicking & photoshopping away furiously on a poster for an upcoming show, my mother called for the 2^nd or 3^rd time. I can screen the first, where the call is usually about taking the dog out or a leftover dirty dish after family dinner. A 2^nd or 3^rd usually prompted something more urgent… naturally.

Sobbing sordidly from the get, my mother poured out to me “You remember Annie’s friend, Joe??? He was found killed on a street outside the Triple Rock!!!”

She fills me in to a few more details I possibly could have done without, but nonetheless assisted the understanding in what the fuck just happened. My heart ran a furious several beats and then subsided. Our conversation ends, I go back to the photoshop at the same pace I was before being informed of the disaster. I’m able to focus for a few minutes more on the graphic design before me, beaming off an antiquated computer screen. I stop.

Nothing is flat. Everything plays on a spectrum. Joe Sodd III’s death expectedly struck me as the loss of a family friend. I take no pause in the expected if I’ve already experienced such a loss or event. What blindsided my nerves to a boggling hault was something else. The murder struck me as something oddly closer.

I quickly gathered one of the two pairs of shorts I owned, put on my Adidas, hopped onto whatever fixer-upper bike I was riding at the moment and sped to Riverside Plaza. I cruised near the area Joe’s life had been claimed. Locked up the bike and walked the entire neighborhood- every level of the plaza, as if I’d find out what the hell happened the night before. Nothing… it was as it always was… as the West Bank and Riverside Plaza had been my entire life since I arrived to Minneapolis in 1986… it still wreaked of home.

The familiarity in every crack, crevice, hint of racial disparity and socio-economic suppressant conjured damn near two decades of my existence on earth. Today, it sounds absurd, but then I felt an accountability to figure out the “why” in the equation of Joe’s life being taken, due to the trivial fact that he fell where I was raised.

There’s a specific tragedy in knowing the street, the past friends that used to occupy that stretch of road, and the past friend that was murdered on that same surface. I've always known this, however it bares little to no resolution being reminded backdrop of my childhood rests on a hairline trigger and a thin halo. No one is ever truly safe, and we willingly take the risk everyday by simply daring to live.

I digested the event to a summer of reckless abandon, while misunderstanding my own processing of death with heavy exchanges of booze, coffee, writing, and impulse. There’s never a moment you need to tell someone you don’t give a fuck.  When the life of someone you know is untimely ripped from the fabric of tangibility and left only as a memory in which time does its damndest to fade with each passing second, I’ve found myself to fashion a glaze of apathy to the world… until it strikes me while sitting in front of a laptop or piece of paper, to write.

Summer 2015

I have no place to bare the tattoo of “III” in memory of Joe Sodd III, because I didn’t know him like that. However, I find myself still dealing and walking with his memory to better understand him and the events that transpired. On day’s baring absolutely no hint of him, my mind will sometimes sharply turn to thinking “Shit. I swear I’ll see that kid biking around the corner any day now.” I can say now, that unexpected death is unbelievable to an extent. There isn’t a day or moment you’re truly over it, and there isn’t a day or moment you should be over it.

Loss is something we live with, not something we move pass. It’s in how you live with loss that defines who you are and the legacy you will lead. Honest to Godly, I have no effing clue as to where it will lead me, but I’ve come to grips with the fact that there will always be a part of me that won’t go without writing about that kid. 

Unleashed The Dragon

A team of young gents decided to take on the costumes of super heroes for Hamline University’s International Dodgeball competition. They were down to two competitors in the 2^nd round of their game versus the Rag Tags. I wouldn’t assume their team name was the Rag Tags, but due to the amount of tattoos, lean muscle, and gray hairs, they had the look of an aging gang from The Warriors.

I had the time, as I waited with my team to compete in the championship round. The Rag Tags were down to one player against the two costumed super heroes. A lone 40-something year-old woman with a dark shirt and yoga pants steadied herself on the short side of the court ready for the heroes to unleash, what they hoped would be, the final throws to out her from the game. When a team is down to one member, the rules state that the opposing team can cross the middle line to a red line that marks ¾ of the court. Least to say, the 40-something was in dire straits.

Her dexterity maneuvered her through the first onslaught of three dodge balls from the teen-boys. They were all high- the woman literally matrix’d back, leaning to her tailbone, bending both knees in an awkward position and then rolling over back to balance. The teen titans regathered slower than molasses. They reloaded for what felt like the length of a Will & Grace episode, and returned to the red line.

You see, the Rag Tags were up a round on the costume crusaders, so if this 40-something woman were to oust the young gents, she’d have won the game for her team of tattooed dodge ballers.

The teen-boys, lethargic in their pursuit, made a game-ending mistake. The kid dressed in superman tights, dawning superman underwear over them, took his sweet-ass time to wind up his throw. Just as he prepped back, he hesitated. Poor sucker, I couldn’t feel bad for him by the time he’d realized he’d been moving too slow for the game. She’d already unleashed a small ball high enough to dodge, but superboy was already caught in his own fear of missing. He’d dismissed the fact that she’d had a cannon on her, and as the small ball pegged him in the elbow, he stood there for a moment. It looked that his brain was lagging behind the actual real-time event.

Super-teen dropped his head, looked off to the upper-right, shamed himself with a small murmuring from his lips, the crowd cheered… and before we (the audience) even knew it, the woman had unloaded the final blow.

It’s important to take note, here, that these people didn’t just mosey into a dodgeball tournament on a Sunday in the middle of St. Paul for absolutely no reason. They’d entered with intent and the deliberate goal to end every other team against them. So, there would be no reason to throw a middle-aged woman to the wolves unless she was able to wipe the smirk off your presumptuous face with a foam ball across the jaw.

Wearing an X-Men t-shirt, super-boy’s compatriot was the last one standing on his team. His prep was even slower, he’d reacted so poorly that the woman had enough time to grab another ball, wind up and release. By the time he realized what the hell was going on… he was out. She struck him with the same blow that had taken out super-teen beforehand.

The crowd erupted in absolute hysteria.

I felt compelled to run out and do cartwheels until my arms gave out, grown men jumped up and down as if the Vikings had just surprisingly won the super bowl (or anything), the other festively dressed teams fist pumped and gathered round the woman. Her team began cheering a chant that seemed pre-scripted before the game. And as the super-teens pathetically lowered their heads in a state of disbelief, and other teams hoisted her into the air cheering her, you could think nothing outside of how much that could make someone’s month, let alone year. Any of us would be privileged to blast two super-hero dressed 19-year olds out of a dodgeball competition… at any point of our lives.

A Missing Element To The Rhyme Scheme

Cast deep into the back of the Spyhouse on Hennepin Ave, across the street from Fifth Element, we sat at the room’s center table. His girlfriend checked in and out on her phone while he and I wrote the final 4-bar exchanges for a song. In what felt like two hours, but was only a half, we finished the final verse of our song.

Wrapping up, he asks “So… why are you letting me… even be on this?” This, meaning the mixtape.

It was an obvious question, and should have been a given before we sat down to go to work. I stand absolutely nothing to gain by letting some kid from the burbs feature on a project of mine. I could’ve easily reached out to collaborate with a more staple name and brand, but it might’ve gone redundant in the features already amassed on the past mixtapes.

What it comes down to is the kid's brimming with potential talent. and if I throw my name in the hat of assholes who have limited his opportunities, then I’m no better than the whitewashed hip-hop elitism coursing through Minneapolis already.

“Good question…” I watched my words carefully. This isn’t a question I wanted to answer, because I knew if asked, I’d be cornered into a brutally honest response which I wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear. “After I taught the workshop you participated in, you reached out to me to feature on your song. I turned it down. So, figured to put the offer out there to collaborate on this, because when I was in your position, I emailed, called and reached out to artists in town as well- to maybe open up for them at a show, feature on a track, or something, anything. I’d reach out to a lot of artists for help and support, when I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing… and hardly any of them ever got back to me. Begrudgingly, every single one of them that didn’t get back to me… I never forgot. This city is the exact opposite in regards to what I’ve experienced in other artist communities. In Brooklyn, we’d collaborate, exchange numbers, commiserate, give each other guidance. In Milwaukee, everyone is seemingly down to offer help, or willing to book you for something at the drop of a hat. But here…  it’s this.”

Detail wasn’t necessary at this point. We had an understanding of the “this”. I forwent the racial connotations, did delve into the politics, and left it at a point of “it’s up to you”.

Regardless of another community’s proactivity toward assisting artists, Minneapolis might damn near break your spirit to take another stage. 

If this kid has any sense he’ll either remain in town to make the scene a better place than it already is… or run. If he wasn’t white, I’d advise him to take up the latter.

The Ride Home With Roger

Reception to my T9-embarrassment phone in this basement bar is non-existent as the Vikings’ Super Bowl ring. It’s just not gonna happen right now. In the company of Mack, Francis, and Daniel, making crude comments to each other betwixt talking 90s baseball greats, out of the corner of my eye a man stumbled into a bar stool in the middle of the floor. I know this man, I’ve known this man, he’s visibly drunk. It wasn’t a pedestrian-passing move where it seemed his brain was cognitively avoiding the stool, it was a sliver of a second that his attention disregarded the presence of the chair. Not acknowledging an animate object in front of you is forgiveable when moving at a fast pace and an fng deer jumps out in front of your car, but this was plain-sight action that couldn’t be regarded as a mistake.

His next movements gather his balance, to which he then directs himself toward the nearest female. Whereas his face is smiling, the female’s is not. For a moment, I imagined the two knew each other and just now ran into each other after searching the bar for minutes on end. In reality, not my imagination, this is not to be. This woman clearly doesn’t know this man, and it is now clear that he’s blacked out.

Ahhhh yes, that region of the brain one has gone to upon over-consumption of booze, perhaps just one shot of tequila, or maybe just too little to eat paired with too much to drink.

What is intangible in this equation of 21+ adults, evening wear, peanut shells cracked about the bar floor, and spilled alcohol, is the bond I share with this blacked out gentlemen directing his solar plexus toward the nearest woman in sight- any woman in sight. Him and I were part of a fraternity in college, and aside from learning the cliché dos and don’ts of joining a house, you develop a connection beyond classmate- beyond brougham- beyond a friend… you bond with them as extended family. We can get into my entrance to a fraternity, later. Tis another story for another time, but nonetheless a good story.

So, as any brother to the house, I have to take care of this man and get him the fuck out of the bar ASAP… rocky. The first thing I make sure of is that he doesn’t get into a fight. If it comes to violence, I will undoubtedly throw down for him, but it’s the last thing anybody in here wants. I’ve seen this guy get brazen and it wouldn’t be pretty. Whereas most men talk until the fight comes to them, this man is the type to throw a hook at your buddy next to you, kick your other friend in the nuts, and then come after you. He’s a fighter, and nobody wants the tiger to get out of the cage in a basement bar.

“Roger, buddy, let’s get you outside.” I say to him, tugging on the underside of his elbow. “Hay hay! Let’s talk to these girls. C’mon, let’s-“ he turns his head to look at another girl, breaking his attention mid-sentence.

Now, racing to the bar’s entrance to exit to my car, where I can drive this man to his house, Roger paused at the sight of girl’s cleavage bursting into public eye. The damn things were calling more attention than a fire truck on the move. Roger places his hand on her back and smiles, she turns and giggles at the sight. Any longer, and the situation wouldn’t be funny. It was a novelty. She read the picture of a friend helping a friend to the door of the bar for reasons of belligerence bordering on the problematic.

“Roger, homestyle, we’re almost there. Keep up” I call to him. He paces away from the girl.

I pray now that every woman on our way to this exit is wearing a turtleneck. Any more cleavage and it’ll take more than me to get Roger out of here.

“Vwooosh” goes the entrance door as we barrel into the sidewalk from the bar. “Hahahahahaaaahahaa! You high yet homie?” Roger says. I can’t even understand the subject matter this man is inferring. We’ve now left the black out and are in the Twilight Zone. Beyond drunk, Roger’s mind is in a floating aquarium of random memory and impulse.

“Hey, how do I get to your house?” I ask Ned on the phone. Ned’s a mutual friend, and was hanging out with Roger earlier in the day before they all split up. Plus, Ned lives near uptown and would be an earshot away to drop off Roger and for me to get the f home. “Yeah, we’re near Hopkins” Ned answers. “Sweet Agatha Fng Christie” I thought to myself. “Ok, just text me the address, and I’ll be dropping Roger off in 15”.

Unable to imagine how far Hopkins was from where we were, I just began driving in the general direction. “Hahahahahaaaaa, man we high! You high yet?” Roger bantered. “Could really go for some food. I’m hungry. Hey… hey… Hahahaaaaaaa!”

The sheer ridiculousness of him made me snicker a bit. How can you not laugh at a grown man broken down to sporadic laughter and obscenity.

“Hey… hey…  remember her?” Roger toned down.

“Her who?” I said.

Roger then said a name that I have not heard for a damn long time.

“Yeah, I remember her.” I said.

“You know what… you know what, man?... She fuckin’ loved you… a lot” Roger said.

And right there, every memory, every story, all the colors of the past came rushing alongside my car as Roger and I steam rolled to Hopkins. The recollection of an ex-girlfriend, or someone speaking for them wrought the past up to speed with us on the highway. Along with the memory, came every reason why you had to part, why you had to move on, and why you love your life the way it is now. I could’ve thanked Roger, but he won’t remember this moment.

We coast to Ned’s. I drop him off to where he’ll wake up and wonder how he got there. They’ll tell him Toussaint brought you, but what they won’t tell him is that even in his state of blitzkrieg drunken madness, he was still able to recall a genuine feeling and share that with a friend… making the ride more than worth it.

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.)