Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

25 April 2011

The hero-villain dichotomy

The idea of the hero is one that seems to preoccupy Western culture, forming the basis for much of the literature, film, philosophy, and other popular-culture mediums that compose it. Our willingness to decorate soldiers and firefighters, play cops and robbers, obsessively consume old Western cowboy films or ancient mythology, and immortalize comic-book super-heroes all point to our eagerness to ascribe “hero” and “villain” roles. However, as one often comes to conclude, we must take a more discretional approach when examining who is a hero, and conversely, who is a villain. In fact, the issue is far more complex than a mere categorization of individuals or groups under either of these titles—most of the time, things are not always so black and white. Recently I devoured a book that reawakened these exact sentiments in me:

In her collection of poems under the title Ghettostocracy, Canadian author, poet, and spoken-word artist extraordinaire Oni the Hatian Sensation reawakens the “Black” community with a strong message: in order to understand the community’s needs and work to rebuild it, we must first work from within. An important step in this process is to reexamine the important figures that we collectively hold to be heroes. Oni invites readers to reassess our widely-accepted, if not imposed, understanding of what it means to be a hero or a villain in a number of ways. One important approach Oni takes is to present alternate perceptions of the hero and villain archetypes in our society by referencing specific individuals and general archetypes.
One of the most obvious themes in the Ghettostocracy poems is epitomized in her presentations of characters such as cops, politicians, church leaders, etc.—all who share the common denominator of being categorized as archetypal heroes in modern society. In fact, what Oni’s work suggests is that such figures are more often the “villains” than they are the “heroes”. Conversely, in her presentation of the “hood-hero” (inner-city neighbourhood “hero”), Oni shows that what mainstream society has deemed villainous may actually be held as valiant by certain members of society.

One of these perceived hero-types is characterized by “Reverend Seymour Cash”. This self-proclaimed “man of God” (who was at onetime a pimp) is still nothing more than a corrupt, greedy, evil man who exploits the community he pretends to uplift. Rev. Seymour, as Oni explains in the poem “Ghettostocracy” has “just raped the ghetto to escape into the upper class.” When he is presented again in the poem “Church” Seymour Cash is still the “sinistah ministah” he was in “Ghettostocracy”, this time explicitly partaking in deviant sexual activity with members of his clergy; one of the most revered community leaders, often looked to for moral guidance and leadership, is reduced to nothing short of a villain.

Other such embodiments of this concept are the cops and politicians found throughout Ghettostocracy. Unlike the courageous, caring, public-service-providing figures mainstream society idealizes such characters as, Oni’s references present them as detrimental, dishonest, and doing less to help the community than to exploit it. For example, she challenges the heroic legitimacy of our elected officials and politicians in “Elocution”, suggesting that the only way these people attain such sight-after positions is through a combination of sexual deviance and manipulation:
“Illiterate children in high school  
Sucking teacher’s dick to get through
Shortly, they are on their way to college-acknowledged.
Some get raped and graduate,
Then become head of state…” 
Such lines also draw attention to the tragic cycle, suggesting that had these “children” been properly guided and educated, rather than exploited by their teachers, they may have acted as positive agents within the community instead.

 Even the United Nations is not spared from this criticism. Rather than actually function effectively, if at all, Oni renders the U.N crippled, helpless, and compliant in their silence in the poem “Why Keep Score”:
“United Nations, who are we?
Invisible witnesses to world catastrophes.” 

But perhaps the most-visited hero archetypes in Ghettostocracy are the cops. We live in a society that largely idealizes the role of the cop in the personal lives of community members. But, the cop characters in the Ghettostocracy poems are instead portrayed as brutal, unjust, and racist, effectively blurring the line between cop and criminal. We are first introduced to this motif of villainous police in “New York Streets”:
“Police, cops, walking the beat,
On their feet, in the streets,
Are beating big Black boys, with their toys…” 
This scathing criticism is revisited in “I Am Not Ashamed To Say That I Am in Pain”, as she comments on what she perceives to be a lack of “morality” from our police heroes:
“Morality?
Hah! Most police aint got none:
Pulling triggers on a gun,
Aiming at the young (cause they think its fun),
Having brothers on the run until their lives are done…” 

Ghettostocracy is rife with references to popular cultural “hero-villain” figures- two of the more notable references being, first to Al Capone, then to Michael Jackson. In “What Happened to Michael Jackson?”, Oni attacks the race message she insists Michael Jackson makes through his orientation to typically “white” norms. When asked by her son whether he too will “be white when I grow up?” Oni replies that rather than naturally progressing to this, Micheal Jackon’s bleached skin and “political perm” are nothing more than sad attempts to surrender his “blackness”, playing into “hollyweird’s” obsession with trying to “make black colours nonexistent”. Oni’s critique of Michael Jackson reaches its climax when she suggests that Micheal Jackson is aware of this black demonization, but continues to sustain it: “Me thinks that Michael Jackson really knows this…”.

In “Gangster Alliance”, Oni speaks about the rampant gang violence within inner-city communities, particularly the streak of violence in South Central L.A in 2002. Oni’s allusion to Al Capone is particularly interesting in that she seems to absolve him from wrongdoing in this specific instance, a blame that has been imposed on the notorious mobster explicitly and implicitly by those in power. Al Capone is on one hand often characterized as a ruthless, manipulative, violent man of crime, and his legacy is often that of giving birth to organized crime in America. Whether this is wholly or in part true is of little concern to Oni, and as she suggests, should not be to us. The “inner city war zones” she speaks of in “Gangster Alliance” are “not caused by Al Capone”. On the other hand, Al Capone’s services to his community cannot altogether be ignored by his participation in criminal activity, as exemplified by his common characterization as a Robin Hood in popular culture. Oni asserts this dichotomy in “Iambic Pain”:
“Moors are not bandits
Some are misunderstood.
Robin Hood was cool-
Trotting on minions rule…” 
Oni’s reference to Al Capone implies this idea of dual-identity—what some may view as hero, others view as villain, but who is right? Perhaps, as the character in “Making Scents” exclaims “And to think I once thought you were a winner!” what the community would benefit much more from is a reassessment of those people they deem “winner”- or heroes...

Canadian author, poet, and spoken-word artist extraordinaire Oni the Hatian Sensation

11 March 2011

The CHRONICles: I can't take back the words if they're said

You ever wish you could do something right?
Like life is laughing at you out of spite.
Every corner you turn,
You hit a  d e a d  end.
Keeping your enemies close,
You lose all your friends.


Relationships aren't getting any clearer,
I can't face the person in the mirror.
Can't distinguish between comfort and pain,
Try to look for sunshine
Only thing visible is rain.
My sins start outweighing every good deed,
Its like the rose that grew from concrete
Is still an unblossomed seed...


But how do I begin to grow?
When a million seductive voices
Are calling me from below.
Echoing, screaming all my pride and sin
Apathy mixed with doubt bursting from within


Why's everything I touch seem to waste away?
Everytime I demolish a wall
It wont stay that way.
Can't figure out who I'm going to be
And when I see my dreams getting closer,
Thats when they always seem to flee...
From me.


 Is this just self-pity from a disillusioned mind?
Or is there a TRUTH I'm looking to find?
If writing's the escape and the pen TRIUMPHS the sword
And every idea is immortal,
And salvation is in the almighty word,
Then how come we all linger
On the brink of self-defeat?
Threatening to implode from our self generated heat...




If every soul has its mate,
And to every night there is a day,
Then where do the broken souls go
To find their own fate?

c.e.

02 February 2011

Out with the old, in with the NEW

I guess you probably noticed things are a little different around here.


Different theme, different colours, and a different header- yay!
Let's just say its time for a bit of an early spring cleaning. 
Consider this a fresh, crisp pair of undies on your romps... ahhh... smell that? that's fresh. :)


Anyway, maybe I got some 'splaining to do.
I cannot stress how much I appreciate blunt honesty and abhor white lies/people lying to protect my feelings. So when my friend and I randomly started discussing my blog and he told me it sucks, I could've bear-hugged him. His beef? That the "beautiful struggle theme" was kinda corny, and that my header (which featured a- and I quote- "CHEESY" photo of me smiling up at the sun) especially sucked. 


So, what did I do? Took that constructive criticism and had some fun with my header. That's right, FRIEND, I got rid of that cheesy picture to replace it with several more and some rookie graphics! HA!
Anyway, in the process of smoking a doobs and having fun with the collage tool, I decided to come up with a new name. And I kid you not, that shit came to me on the spot. 
Why "Journey of a Self"?
Because, as the good cliche goes, life is but a journey. We're basically thrown in front of an infinite number of windy, confusing, forked, scary, appealing paths and with every conscious and unconscious decision we make, we take a step on one of those paths. Thus, each one of us is "a self" on the "journey" of life.
What makes me any different?
I'm on this journey as a:
self-indulged 
eccentric 
lost 
female.


My worst critics and best supporters have always made a remark or too about how much I allow myself to indulge- in shopping, in food, in spending my time, IN LIFE. But what can I say? You try living with me for 21 years and tell me if you don't fall in love :)
(* NOTE: if anyone messages you protesting the often argued about use of the world "self-indulged", I will put a curse on you)


I'm eccentric and to try to explain or prove that to any of you would just be uncharacteristic of me. You either get it or you don't.


And finally (on the assumption that I need not explain the "female" part), I'm lost. But that's okay, I can admit it. Indeed, the only thing I am quite certain about is that I'm not sure about anything. That's why I'm still on that journey. And one day, I'll spot a metaphorical street sign, turn round its corner, and finally know that I've found my direction.


So cheers to all who follow and continue to read, and a big "hollaaa" at all the newbs. 
Hey, I never promised it would be the best ride of your life. I just told you I'd give you some quality writing in return for some of your time...

14 January 2011

Freedom Vs. Tyranny in the land of the pharaohs...

"No cause is left but the most ancient of all, the one, in fact, that from the beginning of our history has determined the very existence of politics, the cause of freedom versus tyranny."
(Hannah Arendt)


Some weeks ago, I was googling (as I regularly do) news stories from my home land of Egypt. One particular story that kept coming up was about Kareem Amer, a blogger from Egypt who was imprisoned for such crimes as "insulting" the president. As a blogger and writer myself, and someone who has spent her summers in Egypt since a young age, you can understand why this particular story spoke to me. 
Kareem Amer, a former law student, was released from Egyptian jail in November after being imprisoned for 4 years.  He was the first Egyptian convicted specifically for his writing online, a trend that has been on the rise as the internet becomes more accessible and citizens grow increasingly weary with the critical political situation. Kareem was convicted of publishing "anti-Islamic" writing, and posts meant to incite insurrection against the government. Amongst his charges, he also got one year for referring to President Hosni Mubarak as a dictator (which, by any real standards, he is). 


Kareem has been on the radar of Egyptian authorities since 2005, when he was first arrested for his posts, and his writings were confiscated and destroyed. He was also booted out Al-Azhar University for criticizing some of his professors. Aside from the fact that he was first illegally detained and assaulted while in police custody awaiting the most recent trial, his experiences in the prison have been less than pleasant. Anybody who knows anything about state force and authority in countries like Egypt understands how devastating and life-changing a term in prison can be. Abuse at the hands of police and prison guards, all-out neglect, dangerous living conditions and torture/illegal interrogations are all routine things prisoners must deal with in these countries. 


During the trial period, Prosecution lawyer Mohamed Dawoud was quoted as saying:


"I want him [Amer] to get the toughest punishment...I am on a jihad here ... If we leave the likes of him without punishment, it will be like a fire that consumes everything."
Imagine that. A "jihad" against freedom of expression for fear that personal opinion will "consume everything" like a fire. A quick Google search will show you that this is by no means an isolated case, nor is it exclusive to Egypt or even the Middle Eastern region. An examination of such stories shows just how fundamental to human history the struggle of freedom vs. tyranny is.
Safely writing from my desk at home about anything from politics, to anti-government policies is such a common practice over on this side of the world. In fact, from an early age we're encouraged to think for ourselves, to question what's around us, and to express dismay when a government we the people have elected is not working for the people at all. Every empire has been founded on rebellion, revolution, or political dissent.


So imagine living in a country in which your basic human freedom to express how you think and feel is punishable, sometimes even by death*...
(*Note: if you've been paying attention to an global news over the past year or so, you will have surely come across stories of activists, writers, and bloggers who have been killed from the crime of having a different opinion. Just this past summer when I was visiting the city of Alexandria in Egypt, I was shocked to learn of blogger Khaled Saeed who was brutally beaten to death by 2 police officers in front of a crowded Internet cafe. In case you're wondering, amid angry protests and photos published of the victim's fatal injuries, both officers were released.)







20 November 2010

Under these silk covers..

Under these silk covers,
I've had dreams about you that fade with the morning sun...

Under these silk covers,
I've empowered my brain, brushed up on my knowledge, and consumed many books...

Under these silk covers,
I've learned what it means to feel loneliness, quickly replaced with longing...

Under these silk covers,
I've had contemplative thoughts, deeper than the ocean...

Under these silk covers,
I've felt the stinging, drunken pain of defeat as I waited for sobriety to wane...

Under these silk covers,
I've battled insomnia unvictoriously...

Under these silk covers,
I've discovered the pleasure of a morning doobie, and the agony of untimely spliff...

Under these silk covers,
I've woken up in cold sweats, wondering if I should make it through...

Under these silk covers,
I've giggled at past memories, reflected on current events, and hoped for future plans...

Under these silk covers,
I've battled writer's block, spent too many all-nighters, and written enough to stretch from one end of the world to the other...



Under these silk covers,
I've been forced to face myself..

...Because under these silk covers,
it is just me against the world...

21 September 2010

"Choosing His Coffin"

"You call yourself a son o' mine?... You come telling me you going to Canada as an immigrant? Where Canada is? What is Canada?"
- Austin Clarke, Choosing His Coffin

This semester, I'm taking a course at my uni called "African Canadian Literature" and among the 16 "prescribed" books, the first one we're covering is Choosing His Coffin. This collection of 20 short stories is written by Austin Clarke, a Bajan-Canadian who currently lives in Toronto and has been received and been nominated for a number of awards.


Now, I've gotta admit- based on the track record of U of T English Profs' Reading Lists, I wasn't exactly jumping at the idea of starting the year with a 384 page book. I'm glad I got around to starting it though, because as soon as I was through with the first story- one entitled Discipline, about an immigrant family man's challenges in understanding Canadian life- I knew I was hooked. 
The stories in this collection are witty and fun, sociological and emotional, honest and hilarious- all while asking the fundamental question of how to reconciliate a Canadian "authenticity" with your unfamiliarity of the land. Clarke's witty style is especially appealing with his no-holds-bar humour and openness to bring up even the most sombre of topics, such as suicide. The characters are dynamic, easy to sympathize with and more than one-dimensional.


If you are any of these:
- a Canadian immigrant
- black
- Canadian
- born to immigrant parents
- of Carribean descent
- a North American resident
- a fan of Canadian fiction


there's a goood chance you'll enjoy this book as much as I did!

10 September 2010

untitled for a reason

Today something inspired me to write. Maybe it was the feeling of impending doom, mixed with misplaced excitement about the new school year starting next week. Maybe my To-Do List was the inspiration- after weeks and weeks I can finally cross "update blog !!!!!!!!" off the list. Maybe it was the concerned phone calls or confused conversations I've recently had regarding my absence from the writing scene.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was that little thing within me that propelled me to start this little project in the first place. That tiny, almost inaudible voice that reminds me time and again that I simply do not exist as who I am without this outlet. I have forged an identity, I've had opportunities to share what would otherwise have been kept bottled up in me, and most importantly I have been reminded that if you actually believe in what you do, the sky cannot even limit you- all through my writing. Writing has kept me sane and grounded, giving me a sense of purpose and a sense of escape from day-to-day realities.

So what exactly has prevented me from updating my blog since July? It couldn't have been time limits- indeed my break from school, reduced work schedule and long nights spent awake would have been ideal for logging on now and then to write. Clearly, my choice to neglect this project over these past couple of weeks is something fueled from within.

Writing to me has been like your typical love story, full of ups and its share of downs (and anyone who knows me well enough knows I'm a failure in the "love" department). It has been like an honest, spontaneous, unconditional lover that helps bring out the best in me. It has led me to pause and honestly reflect on aspects of my own life as equally as I muse about the world around me. At the same time, I've seen the reproachful, critical side of this lover who constantly forces me to face my innermost thoughts, feelings, fears, and insecurities.

But this doesn't mean I should ignore this huge part of my life like a bad ex you avoid at the mall. That simply isn't even an option, because I LOVE writing. I love it because as much as I have shown my true self to it, I've allowed it to see Me from the inside out- a "privilege" I have long held back from my own loved ones. And because of this, I see my personal writing not so much as a task or chore or something I have to get over with, but a natural reflex to seeing someone's innermost being- mine.

That must be what led me back to this direction.