Andy Allo - Yellow Gold

They don’t need signs

by Donny

Actually, no. 

They don’t need signs to tell us how much they dislike us;

They don’t need signs.

They don’t need signs to treat us like animals begging for our children to graduate from high school; begging for our youth not to be shot down in the street by other youth; begging for that one police officer not to work the shift when my black child is walking home from football practice…

They don’t need signs.

They don’t need signs to tell us we are overqualified, hard working and the perfect candidate for a job they will not offer us.

They don’t need signs.

They don’t need signs when they tell us we are “working on diversity” and the only people on campus who look like me are the janitors. 

They don’t need signs.

They don’t need signs when other community members marginalize, dismiss and exclude me from important conversations about my black people; They don’t need signs when my people tell me I hate black people and I do not. They don’t need signs. They don’t need signs when leadership in the black community has been contracted to keep us uninformed, uneducated, undocumented, unemployed and unfit.

They don’t need signs.

It is 2014 and…They don’t need signs.

The Barbers and the Young Boy

By Don Allen

Who knew a belt might change the world? 

…On last Saturday, I needed a haircut - so did my son. My usual barber was on a well-deserved vacation. I went over to West Broadway and found a barbershop open at 8:15 in the morning. The brothers who worked there are in the middle of a war zone with

Drugs,

Crime,

Hunger,

Poverty and

Blight on West Broadway. The barbers stand firm on their beliefs.

One barber a tall, robust fella with a quick wit and knew all the names of the players in the ‘hood.  The other barber, in his early thirties, was a mild mannered, soft-spoken black man who stood about six-foot two at two hundred and fifty pounds. Needless to say, in that neighborhood, the meaning of "the right men for the right job" was key their longevity in that location. 

The reason why I tell this story is because a young boy walked into the barbershop, he was 17 or 18 years old. His pants were sagging, way down below his butt, exposing his underwear. He was thin with very dry skin and his hair looked as if he spent the night in the corner of vacant lent factory. In his conversation he wanted to be like the drug dealers and rappers on the street – not understanding this is Minnesota, not New York – the chances of you emulating 50 Cent in Minneapolis will probably only get you fifty-cents.  The two barbers told him, "To be in this shop, you have to pull up your pants." Without hesitation, the young boy pulled up his pants. “I’m from Chicago, this is they way we roll,” the young boy told the barbers.

One barber asked the young boy, “Do you know how sagging pants got started?” The young boy said, “No.” The barber explained, he did not always own a business and made mistakes when he was young, which lead to some time in prison. The barber told the boy, “When I was in prison, sagging pants was a signal given off by the homosexuals in prison to alert others they were available for sex.”

The boys eyes widened, he had a look of question on his face as he held tightly to his pants – around his waist. The barber went on to explain, “There is nothing sexy about letting your ass hang out in public, unless you want someone who has been in prison and formed some bad behaviors to be attracted to you for sex.” 

The barber looked at the other barber and said, “We should start a belt campaign on the corner of Bryant Avenue North and West Broadway. Every young buck that walks by with his pants sagging below his butt, we’ll give him a brand new belt and tell him the origin of saggy pants.”

The one barber turned and looked at the other barber and said, “But what if a female walks down the street with her pants sagging?” The barber said, “If I ever see that, we are lost for real.”

It’s funny how when you don’t expect an education, you learn in the strangest places.

Gun Violence in the Twin Cities out of control; Politicians and local leaders want more meetings…#fail

By Don Allen

Two people dies yesterday from gunshot wounds suffered over the weekend. The city is in chaos. Local leaders want to have more meetings to talk about the senseless violence and untimely deaths of people who in some cases will never have the opportunity to be a father or mother; or see the evolution of life unfold before their eyes.

More meetings. A friend of mine, author Tim Wise said, “Conversations hardly ever result in actions.” There are some who want to study the black animals in the Twin Cities who kill by weapon. Some leaders abandoned facts and rationale thinking in order to start Soul Patrols. A soul-patrol to address youth death and violence in the Twin Cities? How about a patrol to address youth opportunity? Nobody thinks like than anymore.

Yesterday a huge fight broke out at a church in north Minneapolis during a funeral. Knives, police and the mortician confused on how a day of death people could fight in the street.

Politicians who are born to believe in war have started a war on young, unemployed and poor youth, who search for something that cannot just appear out of thin air.  

Maybe if these kids had a job?

Maybe if these kids had a better education?

Maybe if these kid’s parents were able to show them what a hard days work and the payment looks like? Nobody thinks like that anymore.

That’s what cracks me up.

His first kiss...

(photo: random photo - not Sweet Thing)

He kissed her; in her mouth; on her lips - where she spoke from. It made her his girlfriend. “Sweet-thing,” her nick name; a 15 year-old former prostitute who found religion and ended up right in front of him, in the same church, willing to give an offering to a lucky fella, although luck had nothing to do with Sweet Thing's juices.

He did not notice or understand.

The kiss on Sweet thing’s mouth did not have any meaning for her. It was just another kiss from a man, a boy; men had already fucked her, she, Sweet Thing. What could a boy in the church offer her? It was dusk, right after hot summer Sunday night church service. The Holy Ghost had not left the building. Traffic zooming by on the freeway drowned out the conversations of church members socializing outside the big stone alters on the cool sidewalk. A world within a world; created it was; for him that night, a virgin of the first kiss, lie and eternal ignorance.

He did not notice or understand.

The naïve man-child hunting prematurely for something to put his penis in other than one-hand while the other hand held the cold uncaring Penthouse magazine. “Splush.” The city lights from downtown started to light up the skyline. The church mother’s kept a keen eye on Sweet Thing. Her tight dress clinging to her shapely ass; a body with perfect teardrop breasts; and skin that glowed and her walk, a sexual manifestation that set off ten-alarm fires of, “fuck me if you can,” made the old deacons watch her closely, wanting to take her in the back room of the church and lift her dress and feel the taboo heat she was so willing to share in the most sacred place, including a van parked around the corner. Some female church members too searched on how to taste the red lipstick on her lips and be close enough to see the blue eyeliner surrounding the eyes of this worldly creature. At 16, his first kiss was from someone who knew what happens next; the order of things to come; and come again - because he did not.

He did not notice or understand.

A church musician, a good boy; a straight a student was ready for that feeling his friends talked about behind closed doors. She played the game of first kiss like a Wordsmith writing a sonnet; 13 lines with meaning, if you can find it. He whispered to her; she smiled while looking at the church drummer.

He did not notice or understand.