“Who is Justice and when did they shoot him?”
My young son asked earnestly as the people around him chanted marching through the streets their fists puncturing the air above their heads while their words railing against the deaths of young black and Xicano men at the hands of police swirled and roiled in the air around them like a cauldron of boiling rage.
The air itself was heavy with anger, as the people around us cried for “Justice.” I clarified Justice was shot when then the first Europeans took land that wasn’t theirs. when Malcolm was gunned down. when MLK was murdered. when Medgar Evers died.
I explained Justice limps on the charred and crippled feet of Cuauhtémoc. Burns in the heart of Joaquin Murrieta, flows in the ink of Jovita Idar, was jailed with Flores-Magon and grows in the soil of Chiapas – nurtured by Zapatista’s. I described Justice hiding in the mountains of Chihuahua with Villa, picketing with Cesar in the fields of Califas, bombing with Corky on the streets of Denver, conspiring with Gutierrez in South Texas, ringing the bell of revolution – “Death to the Guachupines”
MY SON. Justice dies alone in the desert forgotten, and haunts us in death, rotting and stinking of self-betrayal, calls to us from the phantasmal plane thirsty and unaided – wondering bewildered by the silence what is taking so long?
Justice rolls like mighty rivers from the mountains. Washing away weary self-doubt drowning the cruel mercy of the unjust. We, the weak and the poor of the world make our own justice in this world and receive no justice except that which we take. Relentlessly driven before the rich and powerful until we act out of Justice by confirming our bloody covenant and drinking deeply the blood of Justice washing away our perfidious sins.
Who is justice, my son and why did they shoot him? Because THEY fear the man you will be.
America, I am mad.
Pissed at the self-deception of our dirty conscience, trusting the just nature of law, unwaveringly resigned to the unjust dispensation of that law. We are the worst kind of fools.
Despondent I watch desperate fathers and frantic mothers try and walk starving children out of a soon to get the shit bombed out of it country that is just another name in a long list of places running across the bottom of the TV screen in 30 minute updates. Places and people utterly destroyed because it was their misfortune to have been born there, while the indolent smiles get a little blanker when demands to act as human beings are made.
You think slogans and tricky chants are going to topple capitalism?
Ever look at the enrollment numbers for MBA programs? The foot soldiers of your master are getting advanced degrees in fucking people over AND THEY LOVE IT! Master planners in how to screw people over keep the rest of you so-called revolutionaries in check with their blind unswerving allegiance to the bottom line.
That’s what makes them dangerous. They’re willing to kill - are you? Whoa — hold on their baby – what do you mean kill? I’m nonviolent you say. I gots a dream man - you talking crazy! Well I gots a nightmare called capitalism and it makes me scream, “We gotta put a bullet in the brain. That monster has got to die. Do it in. Make it suffer.” When we gonna learn we gotta put our gun in the face of that monster and pull the fucking trigger. Empty the clip.
The blame is ours to share, the blood on our hands too. We can wash and buy, wash and buy
but the symbolism is lost only on ourselves because, bottom line it’s a bloodbath for third world expendables and make no mistake us third worlders living first world fantasies are the ones pulling the trigger all over the globe.
“We have no permanent friends, we have no permanent enemies, we have only permanent goals.” The goal of permanently freeing ourselves and our enslaved brethren from the hegemonic harassment of individuals who have given up being human in the interest of their checkbooks.
I have seen the best minds of my PEOPLE dragging through dirty streets at dawn looking for an angry fix to their everlasting misery. Languishing in ignorance, petrify in poverty they stop on each corner trying some new self-destructive solution to total mind obliteration.
The neon signs flashes a cold chemical promise: “Coming soon to video, Coming soon to video.” The costliest movie ever green-lighted: The disaster flick we call LIFE. Flash the XXX rated previews approved for all audiences, Roll the credits It’s all there. Giant two story dimness depicting the downfall of a people.
Gleaming, pretentious shadow’s flicker across the silver screen of our minds grabbing for anything solid enough to halt the final climactic scene where EVERYBODY GET’S IT IN THE
MOTHERFUCKING HEAD. The best ones being the ones who really don’t understand why they have to die. “Is we sick boss?” “Is we hungry boss?” “Is we? Is we? Is we?”
The war at home. Racism bombs the house affirmative action built leaving poison with a billion years of half-life. Young children bright eyed happy, completely unaware of the axe over their head. The disaster of a lifetime, the destruction of a dream, the hip hop sound of a fantasy deferred, is it a call to action or a movement to sacrifice?
The quelling of uncertainty about our place – in society – the world. Who we are is decided by how we react to the monumental rejection Each of us face – every day, And ultimately the question is not - are we deserving of their recognition - We are.
No – we are stuck playing a game we did not invent. A game we have no chance of winning because the deck is stacked. We cannot continue to measure our identity against the scale of whiteness. Understanding this makes it imperative we understand as a people defining our own existence begins by declaring we do not exist in opposition to another ideal. We exist because we are. Our contributions cannot be measured against other people’s contributions. Neither is exclusive of each other or superior. They are unique in their contributions to their worldviews. It is important to understand – one is not unique because it is in opposition to another but because it is unique.
We cannot afford to fail. The consequences are too great. And so winning becomes an obsession. Winning isn’t everything – it’s the only thing. The tough part is understanding the limits of the situation. Do we define for ourselves what is winning or losing? Can it be that we win even if it looks like we’ve lost? The need to be victorious – Karma – every dog has its day – you picked the wrong guy this time buddy.
The universe doesn’t work like that – Small victories escalate into large ones – snowballing the momentum OF RESISTANCE The hopes and dreams of a people who fail to recognize their inalienable right to be proud of who they are. Warriors – crashing color lines – diversity Isn’t something you plan for? It’s present in the world, you plan for no diversity.
The essence of life is the art of war. The mediation/confirmation of your unassailability, the granite based conviction of superiority. The art of war is to fight without fighting.
How many times have we seen the struggles for justice, the sorrow, the broken hearted crying and weeping for change and here in America it remains the same – Wrapped in this cocoon of red, white, and YOU.
The taste for freedom moving further and further from the minds of my people as the
the significance of their BROWN skin fades like cheap paint from an old barn. Burned out dying fires of rebellion – traded for flat screens and a once in a lifetime shot at playing white with the masters of the universe. What terrible chain of circumstances has led us to their pathetic end, corralled in ghettos, trapped in crumbling buildings, walled schools and taught/indoctrinated into the endless despair of our certain inferiority.
Doomed we wander. Tattooed jail cells waiting for someone that will never come. Savior, Messiah, Deliverer we wait in vain. Empty promises of a dying consciousness makes for forgettable moments of almost rebellion when flashes of man or womanhood recalled to us by specters crying out for acknowledgement that stalk the living, the senseless living who refuse to see the past standing before them phantasmal arms outstretched recalling us to something we cannot conceive –
Freedom, Justice, Self-Determination.
War is the end and the beginning of all. The ultimate pronouncement of our remembrance opens the door between the living and the dead swells our memories to the point of insanity as we try and try to deliver the best we can do.
The exacting power of justice, which the Dead cry out for, pushes us forward to our fate.
Remember us. Avenge us. These are not the same.
Live for us. Die for us. Set us free. Cross us over back to where we strike blows on the side of our descendants who have forgotten us.
WE MARCH TO WAR! HAPPY, JOYFULLY SINGING NOSOTROS VENCEREMOS. Hear the chorus of ghostly voices rising up, a ruckus, a din of chanting – Remember us. Remember us. Spend yourselves dearly. We love you – join us. War is good.
It is real; the releasing of all with in us that remains a festering, septic, stinking wound –
Revenge, Revenge, Revenge.
It is a call to arms, for blows that cannot be taken back, we have chosen a warrior's way. We live to die. We sacrifice to understand, we are hunted, bound by law. How will we go on? Howling, Screaming, Raging against the docility of our lives, our existence, waiting for the rebellion, the violent surge that snaps the self imposed shackles of inferiority and the drums beat strong, hard, unrelenting, echoing the pulse of a growing anger – born from a determination to be free.