From Tanzania...To Brooklyn (BUY TIX HERE)

PURCHASE TICKETS FOR DEC 8th EVENT HERE:

Ticket Prices

Regular $20.00 VIP $100.00

In 1969, founder of the Black Panther Party in Kansas City, Pete O'Neal, was facing imprisonment on trumped up charges from the FBI.

Over 40 years in exile later, his wife and fellow former member of the Black Panthers, Charlotte "Mama C" O'Neal touches down in Brooklyn for a night of poetry and music with poets and filmmakers from Lisa Russell's upcoming documentary film, MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND. Film clips from our visit to the O'Neals community center this past summer will also be shown.

Hosted by Carlos Andrés Gómez and beats by DJ Stone, this night will feature some of the best spoken word poetry from Tanzania to Brooklyn!

Tickets: $20 Regular/$100 VIP (includes dinner with Mama C) Profits benefit the O'Neal's UAACC Community Center and production costs for MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND.

Visit www.mythofthemotherland.com

There is limited space. Tickets are first come, first served. There will be no ticket sales at the door.

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For more information, email Lisa Russell at lisa@governessfilms.com
For information about UAACC, visit www.uaacc.habari.co.tz/
For more information about MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND, visit www.mythofthemotherland.com

Poem 1 (By Tahani)

Like a piano lesson
Patience Passion and Poise
There is a woman’s in the distance
with words written down her face
that I can barley see them
I can close my eyes and see a reel of life’s dedication play for me
I know one day I will have to thank her
for teaching me to listen to the stories of my heart beats
I am grateful for blinking eyes and gods kiss of faith
I know I will be the one standing
When it happens
when chaos enters the room
I will be the one to protect her me you and us
Wind will force pockets of wisdom to live lifetimes in my blood stream
I am not vain
Nor
God complex
I am pen, paper and hope
I am no Barack Obama
Obama is no Barack Obama
To be honest
I cry when I think why really write
There is a chair that sits facing a wall in a corner
where no one looks
Like a neglected child
We scream words
That takes shape
Into bullets piercing the chest of the un-kissed by god
I am the sun rising
For those mother whose sons will never rise
This is an anthem
Of sunsets in thunder quacks
Of heart beats of a people
I write poems
I write to keep from going insane
I write poems so people know that I am sane
I write to keep my tears from falling
I write to keep your tears from existing

Roxy from Egypt

So i know this post is long overdue seeing as how I have been studying abroad in Egypt for a little over a month now. I have just been trying to soak in all of the information. And to be honest, I think the beauty of this country intimidated me from writing. I mean I definitely wrote but I think I was just scared to share my experiences publicly because it all just seems too precious to describe into words. This week however, it dawned on me that all the indescribable beauties that I used to admire have become just another aspect of my day and that I have become immune, or I guess naturalized to my environment.

I have only just come to terms with this immunity as I flip through the pages of my journal and read all of my entries from my first weeks here. When I first got here I took note of every single detail describing the houses and the faces of everyone I was encountering. My eyes were constantly observing everything and anything in front of me. I wrote a great deal about noticing the vast disparity between the rich and the poor- it is so weird to me to now become immune to the differences and just think of it as Egypt. I learned in my ancient Egypt class that the ancient Egyptians believed that you did not have to be born in Egypt to be considered Egyptian. All you had to do was live there and live like the Egyptians to be considered Egyptian. Is it weird that I almost feel Egyptian? I have gotten into the swing of things, and already have my routines and it scares me. I was going through old journal entries reading about all the little children that would come up to me at the beginning and ask for baksheesh (money). I wrote about all the conflicting emotions that where going through my heart. Whether it was wrong or right to give them money what was fifty cents to me? But was I only feeding into a horrible cycle? I would compare these little children to me as a child, and when I was six years old my biggest concern was what the colors blue and yellow made. I had no concept of money. Then I go to the university here and I see rich Egyptians wearing Gucci and Prada, and I was so flabbergasted at the vast difference between the two classes. Reading all my old thoughts saddened me because I no longer have this eagerness to observe burning within me. I think I have become so overwhelmed with my classes, friends, and exploring that I have forgotten to savor the precious moments that are building my experience here. I have let the normality of everyday life here consume me and have temporarily put out the fire within me that used to burn with questions. Now that I have become aware of it. I am going to pay close attention to the beauty of this gorgeous country and its people and start again from scratch, and in poet terms that would be a pen and notebook.

I think I will leave this post with something I wrote in my journal on on September 4th, 2008, not for those reading- but more to remind myself of the me that came to cairo and the me that has so much more to learn.

I am trying so hard to savor these moments
in a jar to place
within my heart
holding on with a tight grip
afraid to let these moments leave me
before I appreciate them
I don’t want this experience to become just another journal entry I refer to
when I’m nostalgic
So I watch the people pass
Every smile, every car, every cat-call,
And try and recall every detail
I don’t want this time to become a memory that seems so distant
I question if I’ve lived it.

Africa is Beautiful (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

From the glory of it’s ocean to the broken hospital windows, Africa is Beautiful. From the cloudless sky to the amputated leg of a guy who hates to beg but has to eat. Africa is Beautiful. Futbol in the streets, families sitting down together to eat, and a young man singing as he speaks. Africa is beautiful.

The atlantic sits calmly just beyond the shanty towns. Africa. The dust covers bare feet playing amidst the burning trash. Beautiful. Palm trees sway in the breeze. Africa. Crickets beatbox heavy in the evening to accompany the buzz of traffic. So Africa. And radios rumble jubilant sounds slowly waving away the day. Beautiful Africa. A mother in a doorway calls her children inside from where they run and laugh. It’s a soothing tune, a restful moment that fits together like sand. For Africa is beautiful. A grandmother stirs the fufu and listens to her granddaughter’s stories of another day at school. You are Africa’s. There is always time. Beautiful. Fences are falling into crumbling streets. Africa is Beautiful. From open door you can hear faith flow out, gospel congas and the people saying, ‘amen’. Africa. And yes, those busted out, cracked and broken windows of the hospital are caked with dirt and beautiful as a girl sings hallelujah in a high pitched voice as she walks by them. Africa is beautiful.

And just in case this seems as complex and unclear as life- and you perceived some sarcasm or poetic irony. Sorry. Its just true. Africa is beautiful.

Liberia Poem (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

Liberia

Liberia sticks to my skin
Hot thick dusty air and the gangster stare of five year olds cover me
And I can’t see past Pangaea-
Cuz the connected soul of la tierra entera is all up in my face here
I peer into pages of palm trees, dirt roads, and bloodlines
Find myself sitting around laughing with young cats in the earth’s womb
As normal as fries with a burger
As Liberia as potato greens with enormous fish heads,
As “my parents are dead”, as telling me that Jesus said, ‘Love your enemy’
I’m drenched in Liberia and I’m ready
To let this be what it is and not act like my opinions are epically informed

This layer of Liberia, feels endless in my pores
Like Mildred’s sisters baby and what Stephen lost to war
Ends been cut off along with electricity, innocence, and limbs
And the day’s last light dims Monrovia golden
A mother holding her child nurtures hope
She the turner of pages, the book of life an Atlas
Carries worlds up on her shoulders and laughs

I’m near collapse
Cuz Liberia is pressed into my chest
So tight I can’t even get an ‘I love you’ out my lungs
Liberians could answer all my questions but they’d rather have me guess…
If I can show ‘em love with a hug? I’m gonna have to go with Yes
Cuz unless mama earth tells me no,
I’m gonna join the Youth in planting seeds and wait to see what grows
In Liberia
Things are 1822 times more complex than they appear
90% indigenous population saying, “love of liberty brought us here”
Fufu on the table, Usher on the radio and cousin’s in staten island,
Reverence for the states that don’t even know you’re here singing, dancing and dying
Ready to sell your gold coast for a visa but where’s the silver lining?

Finally, I see it at a youth group meeting in a hood called soul clinic
Keeping it realer than their tin roof they push aside the pain
Young women and men waging an anti-rape campaign
Planting season over, they know damn well they are the rain
Wearing fearlessness and t-shirts that say my body is mine
They own themselves and the future and right now is their time

Suddenly, I realize I’m seeing tomorrow being born in Liberia
Breaking day in Daniel’s voice, Woloquoi’s eyes, and Fatumata’s song
And in Liberia, it’s rude to simply hum along,
this is survival music, head just above water, fresh out of the fire,
you still alive so you inspired music,
belted out with our hands held tight,
for healing and for food, for rains and human rights…
Liberia like liberation, Love sung in desperation
Sticking to my skin, sweating and letting go
The last note has to say it all, but I can’t hit that key
The song of Liberia- endless here within me-
Will it echo inside my mind like the gunshots in the dream
Plastered to my skin, will you see it when you look at me
Liberia’s dust, sun, and broken hearted glances
Sticking like memories and the smell of the streets
To my skin,
To my heart,
To all my days to come.

Eyes Like a Lighthouse (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

Daniel.
I wouldn’t trust a picture or a thousand words to tell my brother’s story. I wouldn’t even trust a thousand pictures. He is a survivor of chaos and conflict but his is not a war story. Despite it’s pain and trauma, it’s not a tragedy, but a song of joyful possibility. Daniel tells it to me sitting on a porch next to a dusty road in the community of soul clinic where he is widely known and loved as a brother, friend, activist and organizer. Our conversations are interspersed with a steady flow of greetings from people passing by- he’s a politician but not at all. And without asking, his story starts to flow out gently.

One of five kids born to a mother and father who were police. Come war time this made the whole family targets for torture and murder. So when the rebels came and his parents fled, he was left alone with his brothers and sisters. When they had to run, he recounts, they went in all different directions and he kept running until he found a house where he was taken in by a woman who cared for 20 children. This became his home. The woman could only afford to send five of the kids to school so Daniel couldn’t go. He articulately describes the frustration of being deprived of the learning he so boldly advocates for today. Daniel says he ate anything he could find and somehow persevered as one of twenty kids in a time of desperation. A child separated from his parents and all his siblings. Eight years later, his mother returned from a refugee camp and found him. He smiles, looks at the ground and says, “oh yes, we cried that day.”
And now, here we are in the thick heat of a Liberian afternoon, speaking of collective struggle, of nonviolence, of organizing the youth to lead their nation toward a better future. His posture, calm and confident, is so clearly heroic. I’m inspired to the point of tears by his faith in hard work. He volunteers his time, day after day, traveling all over Liberia to educate people about Gender Based Violence in an Anti-Rape campaign. As the Deputy Director of the United Youth Movement Against Violence, he works tirelessly for his people. He laughs and tells stories. He is gentle but ready at all times. Ready to keep loving, keeping fighting, keep writing his story of hope.

I look him in the eyes. Twenty three year old eyes that have witnessed more death and birth than the eyes of most elders. Eyes like a lighthouse. Eyes that write stories, better than any words or pictures. I’m watching him write in bold, on streets, against all odds. He writes with that idealism that youth have the audacity to carry between our shoulders. We hug goodbye. Not one of those is-it-ok-to-be-hugging-? hugs- We hug like life is fragile, beautiful, and worth every single sacrifice we make. We hug because we trust each other to keep making sacrifices, making change, making peace. We hug to remind each other, that despite any distance, we work together. And as we walk down the dusty road together, I realize the best part of the story: it’s just beginning.

Pictures from Liberia (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

Poker Faced 5yr Olds (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

The streets of Monrovia are busy. Kicking dust up onto the brilliant colored clothing and radiant black skin moving in every direction under the booming sunlight. Its seriously hot. Liberians are doing their thing- ducking in and out between cars, pushing carts of plastic water canisters, walking down the streets in business suits, school uniforms, and sunglasses. and making it look good. -not easy, but good.

In spanish we say, 'sigue luchando!' (keep struggling!) - No need to remind Liberians. One look at the streets pulsating with every kind of hustle and its clear: Survival must be searched for, faught for, and attained by constant efforts. And it shows in the people's eyes.
I feel like I’m been either grilled or laughed at from all directions. Yet I’m comfortable. I quickly realize that the most gangster poker face is instantly transformed into a dancing smile by me giving a nod, wave or pound. But the eyes of infants and elders both, inspire in me a feeling of humility. Like everywhere, Women carry, balance, manage, and overcome to a mind-boggling extent. Try raising that many kids. Try carrying that many plaintains on your dome. Try overcoming statistics like 90.8 percent of females were sexually assaulted or abused during the war. Try maintaing up in here. But don’t try this at home.

By the way, Liberians put the rest of the world to shame by using two hands to wave hello. I’ve decided the rest of us are lazy and that they are right to recognize a first encounter with so much enthusiasm. Two thumbs up. Get outa here with your one hand... Hopefully, I remember that next time I give a straight faced head nod to somebody on the street. So if yall do see me give you a real enthusiastic two handed wave when i get back- Don't be thinking i lost it when i went to Liberia. Cuz actually, I think I found it.

Where Brooklyn At? (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

WELCOME TO BROOKLYN…
Brooklyn, Liberia. Fill Fulton St. with sand and watch waves crash down on Flatbush and Nostrand. Take off your shoes and most common (mis)conceptions. ---Where Brooklyn at?... More places than you thought my people.

Out here it’s where universes get up as the sunset illuminates young people doing what they do. If beautiful could mean countless colors bumping floating and flowing into loud laughter, swaying hips, splashing ocean water in the golden warmth of a brave sun- then this is beautiful. Beautiful and Brooklyn. And Harlem and Lagos and Santo Domingo and Accra and absolutely Monrovia. So it turns out maps, like schools and declarations of independence, only kinda work.

The energy glistens off the water and reverberates in madd hearts beating strong and close together. Straight up dance party in the sand. Big speakers pump the beats and fresh-ed out young folk are getting down. Akon, Alicia Keyes interspersed with African Hip Hop keep us all moving. Knicks Jerseys, Yankees hats, fitteds worn just right…and if anybody was wearing kicks…they’d be fly for sure. But that wasn’t everybody. Others were just rolling in their tattered shirts, ripped jeans or soccer shorts and some plastic flip flops. But it flowed into what it was: BK remixed by West Africa.
I can’t help but wish so bad that Tahani and Jamila and Janine and Kessed and Gaby and Waddada and Shaun and Swift and Native and James and all my Bk fam were in this Brooklyn with me. What would your eyes see? Words say? Reflections ignite?

So there is an area outlined by some string for dancing. But you couldn’t contain this throw down with a thirty foot brick wall let alone a string. There's people grooving right in the ocean with the waves crashing over them. There's drinks in hands, bare feet in sands, and a distinct lack of tension. Young lovers cover each other with their arms and besitos. This many hugs simultaneously has a magical effect on a place. But, I remind myself, because it is necessary, that this is real.

This Brooklyn consists of about fifty yards of Beach with three walls made of interwoven leaves and some scrap barbwire. The other wall is the Atlantic Ocean. The floor is sand. Population: Liberian Youth. As we go in a young friend we just met in the streets takes note of Brooklyn’s vibe: “it is a nice Sunday afternoon. Everyone here is happy.” Word to the 3rd. I seriously can’t ever remember thinking that about one place in one moment in New York. Even on the first day of Spring people got issues. But to throw the breaks on idealizing Brooklyn, Liberia- a seven year old gets sand thrown in his face and a loud Hey! We turn to look and little man is holding a ‘drug needle’. He is scolded fiercely by the nearby teenagers because the needle has been used. He runs away. Bed-sty, East NY streets flash through my mind. It’s more like the hood than I thought.

A wave crashes, the music cuts to let the crowd sing out “Hearts all over the world tonight…”, and I look up- straight into the eyes of a five year old girl. Again, beautiful won’t suffice. She stands like a ballerina with a filthy thin cotton dress hanging precariously from her little shoulders. She smiles, outdoing the sun. The music comes back on, the boys playing futbol by the water yell goal, and life resumes its journey. It keeps on moving, taking time to dance to hug to feel to heal to forget to ignore to drink to believe things can be better to breathe to be together and alright. It’s good to be in Brooklyn.

Still, I turn to the young Liberian next to me and inquire: ‘Excuse brother, where’s the Bronx at?’

Now it's Real (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

We step out into the thick warm night of Liberia. Liberia, land of freedom. Land of life and war. Land of African American Hip Hop Rebellion Villages Tupac Civil Conflict Dead and Born Again. Land colonized by the freed men. Land shredded by ethnic violence. Liberia, right here right now. March 29th 2008 year of Liberia, Land of anything.

Life is here. Liberians walk or stand by the side of the one lane highway, waving for us to stop as we pass. Looking for a late night lift toward the capital. Dark skin, bright eyes open wide glisten in the headlights. Children skip as they walk. young men chat as they wait. Women carry heavy loads. Some walk. Some wait. Short hair, long thin legs. Colorful t-shirts, shorts, skirts, and dreams.

Inside the truck, we discuss how rape is the most common crime in Liberia. Its lamented that even to advocates it’s practically accepted as normal here. My heart hurts in my chest. Tears being made.

We roll and bumble down the road into the capital city of the land of freedom. Monrovia’s streets are pulsating slowly by the candlelight of small food stands and headlights of the passing traffic. Many young people fill the streets. Moving, walking, heads held up. Moving.

At the entrance to the parking lot, David smiles like the world is a just place. We shake hands. Watch the traffic go by on foot, motorcycles and cars. A girl walks by and looks at me with one eyebrow up like I was a possibility of some sort. She is wearing her work clothes. Short skirt, tight tank top, and her hair down. She is sad and beautiful through my tired eyes. David smiles his smile. We agree that Liberian women are beautiful. Quiet.

I notice David furrow his brow. What’s wrong man? - “ahhh, the electricity. Its liberia’s biggest problem.” He points out that the hotel and the supermarket across the street are the only places with power. I look farther down the street and see he is right. People walking, waiting, moving in the glow of candles and cars. Across the street young men sit amidst the pitter pattering illuminations with their backs against the wall. One plays a smooth rhythm on a plastic barrel. Laughter and conversations bounces off the wall and over to me and David. Why is there no electricity? I ask. –“It was destroyed by the war.” The smile is gone. “Everything was destroyed by the war.” Quiet. Now it’s real. I am in Liberia.

My eyes are on the ground where dusty feet track home or away from home. Moving. I try to sum things up with David, so what’s up with Liberia?
-“Oh, Liberia, well… it is free.”

Welcome to Liberia Sir (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

“Welcome to Liberia, Sir.” Even though it’s weird to be called sir, I feel that strange anxiety in my chest start to come undone with the warmth of his smile. We’ve just landed in a small country on the west coast of Africa called Liberia. It was ‘founded’ by freed slaves from America in 1822. The lineage of these ‘Americo-Liberians’ runs clearly into the present day as they control most of the countries economic and political power, despite constituting only five percent of the national population. Even today Liberians of all ages show an intense interest in all things American. The country was recently ravaged by a 14 year Civil War that ended in 2003 after taking the lives of 300,000 Liberians and displacing 1 million. The country only had roughly 2.1 million people. But five years later, Liberia is bustling and moving forward, and here we are to sit and listen.