connecting*the*dots

Each Sunday, I’m going to spotlight a Hip Hop artist who isn’t a product of the music industry and can’t be cornered into representing the stereotypes that are so convenient for American mainstream media to manipulate.

This week, it’s Dead Prez.

Let’s kick it off with an interview of M-1 by Tao Ruspoli of LAFCO, where M-1 breaks down both his inspirations and his very real decision to make revolutionary choices on a daily basis:

Now stic.man, the other half of DP, who shares an experience from childhood — and the American educational system — that put him squarely on the path of self-determination, self-expression, independence and freedom. Again, brought to you by the folks of LAFCO:

Every revolution needs to be documented, otherwise who would believe that it was ever happening in the first place? Atlanta based photographer, Shannon McCollum, is the man who does just that for DP:

Are you feeling what goes into their work yet? Now, the product itself:

Uh, uh, uh, 1-2, 1-2
Uh, uh, 1-2, 1-2, uh, uh
All my dogs…

[Hook]
It’s bigger than..hip..hop..hip..hop..hip..hop..hip..
It’s bigger than..hip..hop..hip..hop..hip..hop..hip-hop

[M1]
Uh, one thing ’bout music when it hit you feel no pain
White folks say it controls yo’ brain
I know better than that, that’s game
And we ready for that - two soldiers head of the pack
Matter of fact, who got the gat?
And where my army at? Rather attack and not react
Back to beats, it don’t reflect on how many records get sold
On sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll
Whether your project’s put on hold
In the real world; these just people with ideas
They just like me and you when the smoke and camera disappear
Against the real world *echos*
It’s bigger than all these fake-ass records
When po’ folks got the millions and my woman’s disrespected
If you check 1-2, my word of advice to you is just relax
Just do what you got to do; if that don’t work, then kick the facts
If you a fighter, rider, biter, flame-ignitor, crowd-exciter
Or you wanna jus’ get high, then just say it
But then if you a liar-liar, pants on fire, wolf-crier, agent wit’ a wire
I’m gon’ know it when I play it

[Hook]

[stic.man]
Uh, who shot Biggie Smalls?
If we don’t get them, they gon’ get us all
I’m down for runnin’ up on them crackers in they city hall
We ride for y’all - all my dogs stay real
Nigga, don’t think these record deals gon’ feed your seeds
And pay your bills, because they not
MCs get a little bit of love and think they hot
Talkin’ ’bout how much money they got; all y’all records sound the same
I’m sick of that fake thug, R&B-rap scenario, all day on the radio
Same scenes in the video, monotonous material
Y’all don’t here me though
These record labels slang our tapes like dope
You can be next in line and signed; and still be writing rhymes and broke
You would rather have a Lexus? or justice? a dream? or some substance?
A Beamer? a necklace? or freedom?
Still a nigga like me don’t playa-hate, I just stay awake
This real hip-hop; and it don’t stop ’til we get the po-po off the block
They call it…

[Hook 2x]

[Repeat 6x]
D.P.’s got that crazy shit
We keep it crunked-up, John Blazed and shit

(*”They call it, call it, call it” -> stic.man*)
(*”Fake, fake, fake records” -> M1*)

More Dead Prez:

• I Believe
• They School
• These Are The Times
• Radio Freq
• Mind Sex
• Hell Yeah

With the massacre of Haditha already drawing comparisons to the My Lai massacre — where up to 500 unarmed Vietnamese men, women and children were killed in cold blood by American forces — proponents of this war are holding fast against this incident becoming the tipping point of complete anti-war sentiment.

Local blogger, Joe Guarino:

[…] We cannot take these unfortunate events, and then somehow generalize and amplify the Big Message they convey to suggest that the overall war effort is unworthy. We cannot make general assessments of the war in Iraq (or in Vietnam, for that matter) on the basis of tragic events that do not reflect the overall pattern.

The media would be wrong to muster a drumbeat on these stories, but if they do in stereotypical fashion, the public should ignore it.

Unfortunately for Joe and his agenda, the American public will discuss the role this atrocity plays in the overall war effort.

Whether Haditha represents an accurate assessment of the US military’s tactical MO or not, it has marked a clear shift in our collective perception of modern warfare. No longer do we live in a fantasy world of surgically precise operations; we’ve all awoken to the reality that combat-stressed groups of men and women in a war zone are capable of murdering civilians on their own accord.

That 21st century, smart-bomb warfare meme is kaput; we’re now all aware that the US is knee-deep in a grudge match.

But in the end, it truly doesn’t matter if this one incident is indicative of the pattern to the entire war effort or not, because to the Iraqi people — the people on the other end of the gun barrel in any circumstance — it signifies a terrifying escalation of chaos, murder and occupation that cannot be erased with clarifying words.

Not that our words would do any good anyways.

The Overall Pattern In Iraq

From pg. 39 of the September 2004 Strategic Communication report, by the Defense Science Board — a federal advisory committee established to provide independent advice to the secretary of defense:

2.3 What is the Problem? Who Are We Dealing With?

The information campaign — or as some still would have it, “the war of ideas,� or the struggle for “hearts and minds� — is important to every war effort. In this war it is an essential objective, because the larger goals of U.S. strategy depend on separating the vast majority of non-violent Muslims from the radical-militant Islamist-Jihadists. But American efforts have not only failed in this respect: they may also have achieved the opposite of what they intended.

American direct intervention in the Muslim World has paradoxically elevated the stature of and support for radical Islamists, while diminishing support for the United States to single-digits in some Arab societies.

• Muslims do not “hate our freedom,â€? but rather, they hate our policies. The overwhelming majority voice their objections to what they see as one-sided support in favor of Israel and against Palestinian rights, and the longstanding, even increasing support for what Muslims collectively see as tyrannies, most notably Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Pakistan, and the Gulf states.
• Thus when American public diplomacy talks about bringing democracy to Islamic societies, this is seen as no more than self-serving hypocrisy. Moreover, saying that “freedom is the future of the Middle Eastâ€? is seen as patronizing, suggesting that Arabs are like the enslaved peoples of the old Communist World — but Muslims do not feel this way: they feel oppressed, but not enslaved.
• Furthermore, in the eyes of Muslims, American occupation of Afghanistan and Iraq has not led to democracy there, but only more chaos and suffering. U.S. actions appear in contrast to be motivated by ulterior motives, and deliberately controlled in order to best serve American national interests at the expense of truly Muslim self-determination.
• Therefore, the dramatic narrative since 9/11 has essentially borne out the entire radical Islamist bill of particulars. American actions and the flow of events have elevated the authority of the Jihadi insurgents and tended to ratify their legitimacy among Muslims. Fighting groups portray themselves as the true defenders of an Ummah (the entire Muslim community) invaded and under attack — to broad public support.
• What was a marginal network is now an Ummah-wide movement of fighting groups. Not only has there been a proliferation of “terroristâ€? groups: the unifying context of a shared cause creates a sense of affiliation across the many cultural and sectarian boundaries that divide Islam.
• Finally, Muslims see Americans as strangely narcissistic — namely, that the war is all about us. As the Muslims see it, everything about the war is — for Americans — really no more than an extension of American domestic politics and its great game. This perception is of course necessarily heightened by election-year atmospherics, but nonetheless sustains their impression that when Americans talk to Muslims they are really just talking to themselves.

Thus the critical problem in American public diplomacy directed toward the Muslim World is not one of “dissemination of information,� or even one of crafting and delivering the “right� message. Rather, it is a fundamental problem of credibility. Simply, there is none — the United States today is without a working channel of communication to the world of Muslims and of Islam. Inevitably therefore, whatever Americans do and say only serves the party that has both the message and the “loud and clear� channel: the enemy.

That last sentence (with my emphasis) represents the overall pattern that I see in the Iraq war.

We’re a 100,000 strong force of monolinguistic, armed men and women on a foreign soil.

Our soldiers have little to no training in the local customs of the Iraqi people, and practically no one can verbally communicate with either civilians or the enemy.

Essential building blocks of communication with Iraqi’s — humane, personal connections via idle chat during a convoy exercise, supportive conversation in local establishments, calming direction provided during a house raid — all become lost opportunities to gain a semblance of trust or credibility.

This simple inability to communicate waters the fields of insurgent seeds.

So when an atrocity such as Haditha occurs, the Iraqi people’s understanding of the act can’t be contextualized or messaged into obscurity by our military.

Worse even, the sheer brutality of such an incident doesn’t need to be framed or spun by operatives of al Qaeda or the leaders of local insurgents to build a greater resistance to American forces.

The atrocity speaks for itself, with a clarity of message delivered via a deafening tone of dead relatives, neighbors and friends, all never to be seen again.

Iraqi citizens have lived with the fear of a potential Haditha massacre for years now. Their daily lives are filled with various degrees of similar experiences with American forces as we consistently sweep through house after house in the middle of the night, searching for insurgents. A Haditha massacre does only one thing: it confirms their worst fears, leading to more fear and more aggression towards our troops.

No matter what we want to tell ourselves, perception is reality.

The DoD knows we’ll never be able to control the perception of Iraqi’s, so this cry of the right to look at the big picture of the war is a nothing more than panicked attempt to control the perception and reactions of Americans that might question this war effort.

To suggest that the American public should “ignore” the “media mustering a drumbeat on these stories” — these atrocities — in order to protect the overall pattern of the war in Iraq is a failed intellectual position. This incident might only be one data point in the overall pattern of war, but it’s a glaring one — one that exposes more elements going wrong over there than going right.

The Role Of The Media

Iraqi war planners aren’t overly concerned with critical journalism, such as the March 2006 Time magazine exclusive on Haditha, affecting the average American’s take on the state of the war.

Sure, it’s a concern, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg.

If not managed, the mainstream media can become a major threat to war efforts because it is exists via the same capitalistic infrastructure as the government it supposes to watchdog.

In other words, when media institutions begin climbing onto editorial limbs, foregoing their inherent responsibility to the interests of corporate advertising, it clearly signals a shift in times to American corporations who become placed in a position to make certain decisions they’d rather not have to make:

• They can remove themselves from media buys that are beginning to serve the reflected will of the consumer (poor PR) or
• They can keep their advertising in place as a public relations strategy, while implicitly distancing themselves from our government’s effort to wage war

See, the real concern isn’t with the common people in as much as it is with the flow of money, for once the majority of corporations are off the bandwagon of a war effort, its future becomes rather short-lived.

An Example Of The Power Of Media

Lieutenant William Calley — the American officer in charge at the My Lai massacre — faced the scrutiny of the much more centralized, mainstream media of 1970. Advertising legend George Lois provides context to the media exposure of the atrocity at the time by describing the decision and experience of placing Calley on the November, 1970 cover of Esquire magazine :

“Lieutenant, this picture will show that you’re not afraid as far as your guilt is concerned. The picture will say: ‘Here I am with these kids you’re accusing me of killing. Whether you believe I’m guilty or innocent, at least read about my background and motivations.’” Calley grinned on cue, and we completed the session.

When I sent the finished cover to (Esquire editor, Harold) Hayes he called to let me know that his office staff and Esquire’s masthead bureaucrats were plenty shook up.

“Some detest it and some love it,” he said. “You going to chicken out?” I asked. “Nope,” he said. “We’ll lose advertisers and we’ll lose subscribers. But I have no choice. I’ll never sleep again if I don’t muster the courage to run it.”

The notion that some editors might feel a sense of duty to a global community — and not just to a sovereign position or a bottom line — marks the potential for transforming the media into the greatest, political equalizer on the face of the earth.

In 1970, the attack on the “liberal” media — outlets that didn’t explicitly recognize corporate interests over human interests at every turn — was eerily similar to the conservative banter of today. From Into The Dark: The My Lai Massacre:

[…]

On April 1, 1971, just two days after the verdict, Nixon ordered Calley to be placed under house arrest while his appeal worked its way through the courts. “The whole tragic episode was used by the media and the antiwar forces to chip away at our efforts to build public support for our Vietnam objectives,� he wrote.

Across the nation, there were many demonstrations of support for Lt. Calley. The American Legion announced plans that it would try to raise $100,000 for his appeal. Draft board personnel in several cities resigned in groups. Several politicians spoke out in public criticizing the government’s prosecution of the soldiers at My Lai. “I’ve had veterans tell me that if they were in Vietnam now, they would lay down their arms and come home,� Congressman John Rarick told the New York Times.

But prosecutor Aubrey Daniel also did not remain silent. He wrote a highly publicized letter to President Nixon criticizing him for releasing Calley to house arrest: “How shocking it is if so many people across this nation have failed to see the moral issue… that it is unlawful for an American soldier to summarily execute unarmed and unresisting men, women and babies.�

[…]

In the end, we have to recognize that an atrocity such as Haditha is a symptom of the behavioral patterns of all warfare.

To brush it aside as a random act of violence would be to remove the complicit nature of war planners from the equation and lay it squarely on the shoulder of the brave souls that serve our country, no matter the call to duty.

When I walked into the Jersey City office of Big Brothers/Big Sisters in the Spring of ‘04, I had no idea what to expect. I had tossed around the idea of becoming a Big Brother ever since my boy, Derek Haley, did it a few years after we left the ‘cuse, but I kept rationalizing my decision to not do it due to me having a hard enough time getting my own shit straight in my 20’s.

That was where I was dead wrong; for the longest time, I thought it all was about me.

Wendy, the director of the office, gave me a form with an inordinate amount of personal questions for a background check. After I completed the paperwork and she disclosed the rules of the Big Brother/Little Brother relationship, she then asked me the most obvious question, one which I had never even considered.

“What type of kid are you looking to match up with?”

Not knowing what to say, I quickly blurted back that I didn’t have any preferences, I mean, what kind of person would I be to shop for a specific type of little brother? Wendy expertly paused and explained that there were kids as young as 8 and as old as 16 looking for a Big Brother, but the older they got, the harder it was to place them. “As a matter of fact” I told her “the older the better.” I was looking for a brother, not a son. My answer seemed to please her, as she quickly dipped into her paperwork, searching for a case file. After a few minutes of licking fingers and opening dusty file cabinets in her ceiling fan cooled office, Wendy told me to come back in a few days. She thought she had found a potential match.

When I returned for my next appointment, I passed Branden and his mother, Felicia, sitting patiently in the hallway. Before I knew it, Branden — a 14 year old kid from across the tracks — and myself were in the midst of documenting our own shared rules of our relationship, the most important being that there was to be no lying. This was real. This was surreal. I had another little brother in my life.

Here’s the thing… and it may be the most used cliche’ of all, but it’s the most truthful statement I think I’ll ever make; Branden has taught me more about myself than any girlfriend or friend I’ve ever had. Sure, I’ve exposed him to a lot of new things; like Sushi dinners downtown or a Mos Def concert in Central Park, even a late-night showing of Sin City (sorry, Felicia). I tried to keep him focused when focus was needed and a kid the rest of the time. I know I’ve made a difference in his life, but I can’t even begin to express how much he’s changed mine. Not my perspective on life mind you, but my life.

When I was coming up in the ‘burbs of Montclair, NJ, I thought I was less off because the kids on my block had a new pair of Jams for each day of the week, while I had to cycle through mine every other day. After watching Branden watching his own back, both in school and out, spending his afternoons at his grandmother’s house because it’s not safe enough to go outside and hang out with his friends, well, shit becomes real. The kid has more street smarts in his first 16 years on this planet than I’ve garnered in my 35. As for how he changed my life, just take a look at the thin postings from 2004 on this blog and take a guess how career-focused I was; how consumed I had become about bettering me and mine.

I’m now volunteering my time, efforts and money with numerous causes as a direct result of our relationship.

Back in July, I was forced to make one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made in my life. I decided to leave Jersey City and move to Greensboro, NC. Felicia understood what was happening; the woman I loved was here and I needed to step, but Branden and I had just hit our stride, and he was in JC, still a few years away from the end point of the commitment I had made to him through Big Brothers. Yet, here I am, posting away from my village townhouse apartment, smack dab in the middle of the bible belt.

Words can’t express how tough that decision was.

But here’s the thing… Branden and I don’t relate to one another through the lens of the Big Brother program, we haven’t since the first time we hung out. We’ve shared enough special moments together that we consider ourselves brothers, for real.

A few weeks ago, Big B promised me that for my birthday, he was going to drop lyrics on his blog, Prestylin’, and dedicate his flow to me. Tonight, during my nightly ritual of Bloglines info-digestion, there it was, the Prestylin’ feed was black and bold, reaching out for my eyes to behold.

Check it.

What can I say? I miss ya’, kid. Keep it real up there, mind your mom and keep on doing your thing in school. I’ll be back up there in the New Year, kicking your butt in Madden quicker than you can say “That’s dope.” (haha)

To my friends and fellow web travelers, if you have a moment, stop on by and show Big B some love. Not only is he keeping it real, but he’s keeping it right.

I tag like a 15 year-old kid in the South Bronx with a box full of Krylons and a yard full of freshly sandblasted cars.

I tag like I just got jumped by a handful of punks who made the mistake of letting me follow them to their trailer park homes adorned with freshly cleaned aluminum siding.

I tag like I get told who I am, what I’m supposed to believe and how I’m supposed to act on a daily basis.

I go all city, hoping that one day, the vehicles I’ve touched get stitched together to form a complete sentence.

I tag because I saw you leave your mark and it was dope.

I tag because I know how to freeze, watch TV and (kinda) avoid the kissing bugs.

I tag because the words I drop in time will find a way to form a cohesive rhyme.

I tag because the world may be getting smaller, but it’s damn sure not coming together.

I tag your name, your spot, your position, your mood, your frame of mind when it’s too hard for you to see it for yourself.

I tag the expected terms of modern constructs.

I tag the post-modern undercurrents of miscellaneous descriptors.

I tag my tags so that when structure is forged out of chaos, you’ll know how to find me.

I tag so that it’s me you won’t be looking for.

When I tag, I’m regurgitating the meal I’ve caught for the chicks in my roost.

When I tag, I feel one with the universe of the collective unconscious.

When I tag, I can see the pillars of control quaking in their foundation.

When I tag, I experience therefore I understand.

When we tag, anything is possible.

————

Tag! We’re It! Part II
Tag! We’re It!

what is that
that is not craft?
the time it takes to shake and bake?
the time spent coughing up a good laugh?
the time it takes to find a large enough room?
room for one?
room for all?
the time it takes to see June in December?
the time it takes to March to a Fall?

leaves drift down every year
dried up and dead in just a few
all eyes land in the gutter
while buds refresh anew
no, you don’t need an MD to bring back
your man from the edge
your jen from her pitt
here’s my option to hedge:

drama is just drama
except when it hits off in the street

you feel me?
’cause you do steel me
from passing the solid yellow line
from counting down the time
for when my tv guide is on hold
for when the story has been told
the knowledge of self-determination
the common source of a nation
the feet in the shoes when a toll has been hiked
"the ones i like to wear when i rock the mic"

some days are just like the last
one moment you’re slow, the next moment you fast
forward two years
beyond the transition gears
late night fears
early morning tears
you up to get down
with your whip bumping through town

dropping off the clown’d

still going round and round
about time
the project is straight
we organized the wait
off the world
we stopped, dropped and rolled on a dime
the three man weave was something to save-
or
the bassline screen freed up the man-
or
the dribble, drool and school rocked the D to sleep

broken ankles cause reactionary heaps

piles form left and right
100 breakdowns form without the sight
stumbling out to fight the win’d
stunned
shunned
run’d…

shoot for five
my man has my spot
i’m out to be alive

the get to know process
is as sweet as the got
butterflies inside
got my shit tied up in knots
and then all of a sudden
i’m placed on the back of the stove
but she didn’t drop me on simmer
i hopped up myself and drove…
there
there
stop having a fit
she’s been all together straight up
you don’t listen for shit
well, of course that’s not true
my ears are tuned in like a mutt’s
i’m just trippin’ on her mixed signal vibe
like a jerry lewis inspired klutz
so i guess this weekend i’m back out in the game
time to call up that chica from last thursday’s night entertain
meant…
nothing
but now it most definitely does
because our timing was spot on
it’s time to see if i feel the same way
i can’t play this game for too long
you see i’m all about a struggle
and i’m all about hard climbing
but this woman is has my world on a swivel
and i’m tired of all this rhyming
so yeah i got butterflies inside
and my shit’s tied up in knots
but just give me the long weekend
and i’ll clear this ventricle blood clot

not too much to ask
three servings of blood, sweat and
tears
shaping my world
hurled
a morning of adjustment
meant i had moved on
c’mon
it’s not where you are
but where you’re going
knowing that i plan on getting myself straight
hit my weight
re-create that half of confidence
the present will become the past tense
unrelent
spent
i went to it
i’m just doing it
lit my ass with the passion
a lastin’ reaction
taxin’ my ass 70 minutes per
grrr…
i’m back in the game
off the bench for good
before i slept
and then i stood
time to shut up and run
’cause i told myself i would

society breeds the open wounds
digging in to conquer tunes
of nature and beauty
but somehow you must move me
with those classic ads
cyclical campaigns
now i’m all caught up in your brain
a participant in the game

what am i to do?
when my existance become more than one, but two?

one is who i am in my heart
allowing me to stand tall and part my hair if i need to see
all that surrounds the essence of me.
but the second is profoundly another
like a long lost distant brother
a slave to this society
a direct contradiction to me

contempt comes from where we stand
and how we fall
the nature of moving forward
the gift of standing tall

standing tall…
for what?
have we just overlooked the gluttony of our american history?
oh, wait, i’m sorry that would be "society"
where everything is hyped and nothing is for free