Words of Freedom
Products and Commodities
Racism, the predication of
decisions and policies on
considerations of race, for
the purpose of subordinating
a racial group and maintaining
control over that group.
Black culture has been reduced
to liquor stores, beauty shops,
burger joints, rib shacks, and
barbershops packed with ghetto
niggas clogging their arteries
with double cheese burgers and
barbequed chicken wings, all
while hooking up their tight
fades so they can sport them
deep waves made by swap meet
bought du-rags.
Pants hanging so far off their asses
you can see shit stains. These
cats greet each other like
competitive alpha males instead
of brothers. And God help you
if you inadvertently smudge the
shell-toed Addidas of a khakis
suit clad soldier because gang
signs being thrown in your face
will be the least of your problems.
Preoccupied with death, these
niggas walk around bare chested
showing off tattoos of skulls and
crossbones, guns and low riders,
bud leaves, west side, tear drops,
and gun shots. Niggas wear bullet
wounds like badges of false bravery,
street honor requiring them to
brandish semi automatic weapons
while waving their flags from
their back pockets. The gun
becomes an extension of their
manhood, these niggas stand
huddled comparing muscles,
tattoos, and gat sizes in a
quasi-homoerotic ritual rite of
passage while narrowly escaping
the grim reaper’s grasp. Because
chasing after death doesn’t make
you brave, it makes you foolish.
Niggas trade in blessings
for 50 cents worth of bullshit.
Commodified culture you can
purchase on compact disc.
Emulating this corporate
contrived culture instead of being
ourselves–whatever that is.
Walking the way of the wicked
path littered with empty
bullet casings, chalk outlines,
cigarette butts, and shattered
shlitz malt liquor bottles. A path
that leads to the penitentiary or
the cemetery. ‘Cause niggas know
penitentiaries, from the grooves
in the wall to the texture of the
iron bars. And dead niggas know
the cemetery, from the worms that
feast on decomposed flesh, the
the screams in Hell from other
niggas waiting for them.
Black people ain’t black no more,
now we’re marketing gimmicks
singing songs of Kool Aid, and
fried chicken wings. Mammies
and House niggas hawking
syrup and cream of wheat. Middle
class niggas cruising through the
hood in pimped out BMWs,
thanking God Almighty they no
longer live here, because
success in the black community
has always been measure by how
far we move away from one
another. Celebration of individual
wealth over community health.
And black businesses fade into
the back alleys of obscurity where
the crack heads play hide and go
get it with the whores from down-
town, and the children sing
nursery rhymes that spell out
survival.
Caged screams are made of these.
Who has the mind to disagree?
Sold all over the world and across
them seven seas. Ironically, the
only one who can’t afford me, is me.
We come strapped with mac10s
and AK47s. Stories of ghetto turmoil
prepackaged and shrink wrapped,
guaranteed fresh and stereotypical
for the MTV viewing masses. Drippin’
in diamonds that bleed all over our
neck, wrists, mouth and arms. Sportin’
baggy jeans hemmed and stitched by
wage slaves in Cambodia.
We have become the massa’s field
niggas hoeing a field of dead black
bodies, listening to music from dead
black rappers. A culture that eats death
like so much collard greens and cornbread
Tupac was never worth so much alive,
but to Interscope, he’s worth millions
dead. And we concoct theories of Pac
alive sippin’ Pina Coladas on an island
off the Atlantic groping the female natives
while screaming “Thug Life, baby.”
Hip Hop ain’t even ours no more. Like
Rock & Roll, it’s been co-opted and
transformed. White music with black
faces shuckin’ and jivin’ on camera.
Hoodwinked and Bamboozled. Industry
controlled niggas banging bitches
and video vixens in over-glorified
gangsta rap songs for 14-year-old
impressionable white and black kids
whose only wish in life is to be some bad
ass niggas. Their sole goal in life is to be
niggas.
Once upon a time, a black convict
was a story far and between, now these
dreams of urban renewal and
college bound kings are deferred.
Instead we hustle and flow and sport
wife beaters and chuck taylors and we can be
found in every movie theater,
on every CD and boom box and on every
street corner. Niggas talking to their baby’s
mamas from the other side of three inch glass
on a two-way phone, leaving their women
alone to handle a man’s responsibilities.
Destruction of the black family instituted
as social services since the inception
of slavery. And white folks
complain about affirmative action and I
want my actions to affirm that I am more
than just a prison number.
I’m sick of being a nigga.
I’m sick of my life being some
sick joke to a bunch of suburban white
kids whose only insight into being black
is what they see on BET.
I’m sick of The Source Magazine and
Vibe being my only means of identity.
I’m sick of being called militant because
I’m angry.
I’m sick of being called angry because
I’m militant.
I’m of people asking me why I’m so angry
when if they open their eyes, they’d
see that they should be angry too.
I’m sick of the only time a black man is
given respect is when he either makes a record
or has a record. I’m sick of my history being
denied existence. I’m sick of being a nigga.
I’m sick of being a nigga. I’m sick of being a
nigga. I’m sick of being dead.
© Obi Adisa Asad 2008
decisions and policies on
considerations of race, for
the purpose of subordinating
a racial group and maintaining
control over that group.
Black culture has been reduced
to liquor stores, beauty shops,
burger joints, rib shacks, and
barbershops packed with ghetto
niggas clogging their arteries
with double cheese burgers and
barbequed chicken wings, all
while hooking up their tight
fades so they can sport them
deep waves made by swap meet
bought du-rags.
Pants hanging so far off their asses
you can see shit stains. These
cats greet each other like
competitive alpha males instead
of brothers. And God help you
if you inadvertently smudge the
shell-toed Addidas of a khakis
suit clad soldier because gang
signs being thrown in your face
will be the least of your problems.
Preoccupied with death, these
niggas walk around bare chested
showing off tattoos of skulls and
crossbones, guns and low riders,
bud leaves, west side, tear drops,
and gun shots. Niggas wear bullet
wounds like badges of false bravery,
street honor requiring them to
brandish semi automatic weapons
while waving their flags from
their back pockets. The gun
becomes an extension of their
manhood, these niggas stand
huddled comparing muscles,
tattoos, and gat sizes in a
quasi-homoerotic ritual rite of
passage while narrowly escaping
the grim reaper’s grasp. Because
chasing after death doesn’t make
you brave, it makes you foolish.
Niggas trade in blessings
for 50 cents worth of bullshit.
Commodified culture you can
purchase on compact disc.
Emulating this corporate
contrived culture instead of being
ourselves–whatever that is.
Walking the way of the wicked
path littered with empty
bullet casings, chalk outlines,
cigarette butts, and shattered
shlitz malt liquor bottles. A path
that leads to the penitentiary or
the cemetery. ‘Cause niggas know
penitentiaries, from the grooves
in the wall to the texture of the
iron bars. And dead niggas know
the cemetery, from the worms that
feast on decomposed flesh, the
the screams in Hell from other
niggas waiting for them.
Black people ain’t black no more,
now we’re marketing gimmicks
singing songs of Kool Aid, and
fried chicken wings. Mammies
and House niggas hawking
syrup and cream of wheat. Middle
class niggas cruising through the
hood in pimped out BMWs,
thanking God Almighty they no
longer live here, because
success in the black community
has always been measure by how
far we move away from one
another. Celebration of individual
wealth over community health.
And black businesses fade into
the back alleys of obscurity where
the crack heads play hide and go
get it with the whores from down-
town, and the children sing
nursery rhymes that spell out
survival.
Caged screams are made of these.
Who has the mind to disagree?
Sold all over the world and across
them seven seas. Ironically, the
only one who can’t afford me, is me.
We come strapped with mac10s
and AK47s. Stories of ghetto turmoil
prepackaged and shrink wrapped,
guaranteed fresh and stereotypical
for the MTV viewing masses. Drippin’
in diamonds that bleed all over our
neck, wrists, mouth and arms. Sportin’
baggy jeans hemmed and stitched by
wage slaves in Cambodia.
We have become the massa’s field
niggas hoeing a field of dead black
bodies, listening to music from dead
black rappers. A culture that eats death
like so much collard greens and cornbread
Tupac was never worth so much alive,
but to Interscope, he’s worth millions
dead. And we concoct theories of Pac
alive sippin’ Pina Coladas on an island
off the Atlantic groping the female natives
while screaming “Thug Life, baby.”
Hip Hop ain’t even ours no more. Like
Rock & Roll, it’s been co-opted and
transformed. White music with black
faces shuckin’ and jivin’ on camera.
Hoodwinked and Bamboozled. Industry
controlled niggas banging bitches
and video vixens in over-glorified
gangsta rap songs for 14-year-old
impressionable white and black kids
whose only wish in life is to be some bad
ass niggas. Their sole goal in life is to be
niggas.
Once upon a time, a black convict
was a story far and between, now these
dreams of urban renewal and
college bound kings are deferred.
Instead we hustle and flow and sport
wife beaters and chuck taylors and we can be
found in every movie theater,
on every CD and boom box and on every
street corner. Niggas talking to their baby’s
mamas from the other side of three inch glass
on a two-way phone, leaving their women
alone to handle a man’s responsibilities.
Destruction of the black family instituted
as social services since the inception
of slavery. And white folks
complain about affirmative action and I
want my actions to affirm that I am more
than just a prison number.
I’m sick of being a nigga.
I’m sick of my life being some
sick joke to a bunch of suburban white
kids whose only insight into being black
is what they see on BET.
I’m sick of The Source Magazine and
Vibe being my only means of identity.
I’m sick of being called militant because
I’m angry.
I’m sick of being called angry because
I’m militant.
I’m of people asking me why I’m so angry
when if they open their eyes, they’d
see that they should be angry too.
I’m sick of the only time a black man is
given respect is when he either makes a record
or has a record. I’m sick of my history being
denied existence. I’m sick of being a nigga.
I’m sick of being a nigga. I’m sick of being a
nigga. I’m sick of being dead.
© Obi Adisa Asad 2008
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Louise Marquis on -
Wow, this is intense! You enable people who have been alien to the world you describe to see through surface appearances to the deeper realities. Very well done. -Louise
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Permalink Reply by Obi Adisa Asad on -
Thank you very much.
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Permalink Reply by Akesha Horton on
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Your prose is powerful. Would recommend any examples of your work that speak to the several other dimensions of black culture not present in the piece above?
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