7 DAYS IN NEW YORK

New York, New York, big city of dreams. I’ve been to the big apple many a time before, but what makes this time different is that I am now a poet. An established poet, a confident poet; ready to invade New York with what I’ve got. I have merchandise, I have contacts, and as well as getting to know New York, I was going to visit family, visit my partner’s family and gain an all round NY experience. And document my trip while I’m away, so New York, here I come.


SATURDAY

New York has such a big reputation, that any artist that gets a chance to go to NY will automatically be excited. Hey this is the artistic hub, where they receive cultures from the entire world. Surely they got room for the Black British novelty.
Come Saturday, I linked up with my friend and film maker Cisco. He’s making a fantastic documentary on Capoeira. http://www.myspace.com/ciscouk He migrated from London to NY in August 06. He’s a free spirit and you can’t help to be infected by his energy, so I enjoyed hanging with him. We walked up and down downtown and met some of his colleague’s he’d connected with since being here. Him being confident being his extroverted self, made me feel at ease being me, that it was no biggie to be different.
I have to say, New York has the best conversationalist I’ve ever come across. They can make a conversation from the drop of a hat about anything and keep it going with an apparent sincerity that makes you believe you’re truly bonding. But because they have this gift, you’ll never know whether it’s just a hustle or genuine. Such a gift has enabled New Yorkers to benefit from the hospitality of people the world over, who are happy to be associated with anything New Yorkan, and American in general.
A few years back, poets from all over the States were practically flocking to London’s blooming poetry scene. When cats from the UK went over to the states, New York specifically, these same cats were rather less hospitable, or so I had been told by a number of contacts. I had sent emails round before embarking on my trip, but this was their experience. And I had my own contacts; I was looking forward to getting busy working the famous NY poetry scene. I wonder how I’d be received, I wonder if they would understand the accent. Would they like it? Would they support my merchandise? Of course they would.
Artistic wise the whole of NY seems to be on a hustle. Everyone from anywhere is here trying to get that step up. Cisco gave me the quote of the trip thus far. He said ‘New York is the place that artists come to, to translate cultural capital into financial capital.’ You see NY differs from London because the industry benefits from people’s will to want to express their art, so they embrace fresh cutting edge ideas, simply because you never know what will work. In Britain, however there is a perceived intellectual arrogance that the industry already believes they know what will work, so will snuff out new ideas they don’t believe in.

We were in downtown Manhattan; we walked passed street vendors selling anything from porn magazines to hardcore political DVD’s, music and jewelry. It’s supposed to be illegal, but it continues largely unabated. While walking on the street, there was a brother dressed in a purple velvet suit, he looked familiar. On closer inspection, it was the guy from Next American Super Model. The homosexual guy. Apparently I was told he was married, to a woman, not sure how true that is.
Anyway, we went to an addidas store where a friend of Cisco’s was cooking some food and drink to promote his food making business. He was late so we didn’t get to taste any. While there, Cisco met a street vendor he knew. (He used to do that himself) He was talking about his up and coming trip to Africa. She said how she would love to go to Africa. Some street brother who was standing in the cold all day handing out leaflets (who no one knew) decided to contribute to the conversation. He fancied himself as a street scholar and decided to advise Cisco on his up and coming trip to Africa. He basically said he watched a DVD about Africa and how barbaric they are. That they got it bad there, he ended by saying “we never had it so good here.” He said. “Trust me I know, I’ve seen it on DVD. I’m serious son.” I was going to tell him I’m Ghanaian, but Dr Lez once told me his mother said to not argue with a fool because a passer by won’t be able to tell the difference. I will allow him to finish handing out flyers in the cold, talking about never having it so good.

SUNDAY
I met up with Cisco and his American girlfriend as well as a designer friend of mine, Chanel and her husband Tristan (from Toronto by way of Jamaica.) Chanel is originally from California, her parents from Belize. I knew her while in Canada. They both talked about the weirdness of friendships in NY that you could speak in depth with someone on you first meeting, but it actually means nothing. You may think you’re bonding, but when you see them again they’d walk passed you as if you were strangers, like as if you never spoke in the first place. Interesting.
We were at an Area in Lafayette and Fulton. Apparently it was knick named Lil Africa, such were the number of black business. I had heard that this place was going to be hurt by gentrification as big businesses wanted to expand here.
There were so many black businesses, nicely presented be it bars, restaurants. There was once place called Mr. Cakeman. The owner was a lawyer, but quit to make cakes, specifically Red Velvet Cake. His cakes are so popular that he puts benches outside as there are frequently long queues, so long that the queue would spill out of the shop. I was told that when that happens workers come outside and give people waiting hot drinks. How nice is that? Chanel commented that she thought there would be more black business in the UK. I said outside of restaurants and bookshops. Nothing. That made some guy in front of me laugh. The queue was big but didn’t spill outside, we made sure we got some Red Velvet Cake and I have to say it sure was delicious.

We got on the bus to go to a Senegalese restaurant called Jollof. While on the bus. My cake was accidentally on someone’s lap. I apologised and he said. “Oh you got that English… English….” I wanted to finish his sentence. “You mean accent.” He said his friend was English, was close, until he conned his mother and stole money from her. I could see him getting increasingly vexed as he reencountered the story. I was gonna make a joke, that I didn’t know his bredrin. However in his mind I could see him thinking “maybe this English motherfucker knows him.” He ended his comment with “my mother meant a lot to me.” Luckily Chanel managed to change subjects, get him talking about his daughter, his job. Anything apart from the conman from England. On a final note, the Senegalese restaurant was absolutely amazing.
We met up with Sonia’s friends, a visitor from Toronto and a native New Yorker. The drove us to a train station, we sat on the bench waiting for the train. I looked to my left, and a young brother walked up the stairs with a girl. I looked at him, he looked familiar, I looked at Sonia. “SHIT! That’s the guy from The Wire Webay’s son.” Now the Wire is one of my favourite TV shows. This cat’s in the last series, and now in front of me, just boarding the train like a regular Joe. I wanted to take a picture, but we advised against it. Be cool Sonia said, be cool.

Poetman in NY

MONDAY

I needed to get in some shopping. Now where we Londoners get caught out is that because the pound is strong, things are cheaper, but that doesn’t mean you are rich. I was spending money in my over draft like I was Donald Trump. I had grossly over spent.

I went into once shoe store, which they have all over the place, big names like footlocker to people’s own independent shops, but all shops sell good stuff at good prices. While in once such shop. A poem came on the television; it was an advert dealing with stopping the violence in the neighbourhoods. It seemed that the spoken word movement had indeed crossed over, at least to some degree.

So the evening was approaching, and I was supposed to have my first New York performance. I had found this place on the internet. My NY contacts had been less than helpful, with the exception of my main contact Brother Earl, and a brother named Keith Boogie. (I hadn’t met him yet, he was just aware of my reputation from my Canadian poetry family) Brother Earl called me on the way to the show. He was laughing at me, He was aware of the joint I was going to. It was more left field to say the least, he said. I asked him if any black people would be there, “well you might see people with black skin” he replied.
I got there late and was not early enough to be part of the top 15 open micers. I tried to play the out of town London poet card, which usually works for Americans in the UK, hoping I could get a slot further up the list. However, like everybody else I was put on stand by, somewhere about 16. So if they had time cool, if not, tough luck try next week, or whenever you’re in town.
There was a gigantic poet named August, looked about 6,5. When he came on, he said, “Trust me for the first night I come here to be Queer poetry night.” he dropped his poem same way. It was tight; he sounded a lot like Talaam Acey. I think he said what he said to just let people know he wasn’t gay. After him the genre really kicked in. I decided I couldn’t deal with 14 more poems, so left.
I have to admit I was a little pissed, with the exception of Brother Earl; none of my contacts were really coming through. I shouldn’t have to be guessing my way through, shit I know the main players here, why on earth weren’t they representing? Even people I didn’t know that well, but had hooked them up were on a Flavor Flav shit. “I can’t do nothing for you man…”

I live with my Uncle in the hood. Sonia luckily lives quite near, but in a better neighbourhood. We had to get a bus from Pennsylvania Avenue to her place. I felt much better rolling with her then letting her get home by herself. Even though my stop is only two after, I had to make sure she was all right. So we stood by the bus stop. It was dark, no one was there, it was in the hood, this is essentially what New Yorkers mean by ghetto. We waited. No bus, Junkies were walking passed, general people were walking passed. We were cool; we just didn’t want to look too much like we were from outta town. Then a jeep, with tinted windows rolled passed. It slowed down, I wasn’t looking directly at it, but I could see from my periphery. ‘Oh shit’ I thought. Okay if they say something, I gotta speak to them in an American accent. I thought. I could tell Sonia clocked as well, but we’re both trying to keep cool. I think their window went down some. Then it sped up and away. “You see that” I asked Sonia. “Yeah,” she replied, “what was that all about?” We’re just glad we didn’t communicate. A couple of minutes later, a man standing by the corner underneath the rail way station screamed in a West Indian accent. “Lady, no more buses, here. There are no more buses” He came running over. “Lady after 1am, there are no buses. I have a cab; I can take you to where you need to go.” Sonia looked at me, I said yeah cool. He said “follow me to the cab” Sonia was like you have to come here, cause he could be taking us anywhere. He came round no problem. To be honest, because he was West Indian, I had no fear. If he had been an American, I would’ve been a lot wearier. We got in, he was breaking down how bad it was around here, people dying, shoot ups at parties. He was from St Vincent, and just hustled here, got some money doing a cab service and went back. I called him our guardian angel. He was sent at just the right time we needed him. He gave Sonia his number to call him, if we ever needed a lift. It mysteriously disappeared…

TUESDAY

My Uncle Emelyn was born and bred in New York. One of the early immigrants of first generations Africans growing up among African Americans. Growing up, he said people knew he was different, yet couldn’t figure out exactly how, when he told them he was Ghanaian, they were like ‘that’s why’.
As silly as it seemed, it suddenly dawned upon me that much of the famous characters we’d been familiar with in London he would’ve known, seen or heard about their real reputations. People like Malcolm X, Elijah Muhammad… and Frank Lucas.
Frank Lucas, the subject of the film American Gangster, based on the true story of NY king pin, drug dealer. The time Frank Lucas was notorious on the streets of Harlem, my uncle would’ve at least been aware of his reputation. This was more than just a film. He said during that period in Harlem, he was scared to go there. People were dropping dead all the time. He and Nicky Barnes were responsible for Harlem becoming so depressed as a consequence of the drugs trade.
I met up with Cisco and interviewed him about the new Capeiroia film. I have so much respect for him and his dedication. He actually learnt Portuguese during the time that I knew him so that he could communicate with his subjects in Brazil while filming. He also learnt Capeioria for the same reason, and now he teaches it on after school programs.
As we walked toward the subway we began speaking at how Americans are dominated and obsessed with sex. And there is a big confusion of sexuality by blacks here. Black males specifically. I had alerted him to a documentary called the effiminisation of the African male. He said he see’s it all the time with the workshops he embarks on. He said he isn’t as concerned about where this sexuality came from or indeed where it is now, but where it is all going.
We were walking on the street in Flatbush on the way to the subway as I was breaking down the DVD and supplementing the breakdown with my own opinions. As we were walking I noticed a brother who musta been just standing on the corner, dressed in a black baseball coat, bandanna around his head, just walking a long with us. His ear must’ve caught my accent or subject matter. He was just walking his head down listening, for a good while. I wondered what was going on, a set up? He seemed chill, so I just continued. He stopped at the junction, Cisco and I crossed the road to enter the subway station. We heard the same brother shout “Yo two brothers.” I turned, he put the peace sign across his chest, he nodded and said “Yo respect” that spirit is what I like about New York.
After I made my way to Harlem. The famous Harlem, where Malcolm X made his name, where the Harlem Renaissance unearthed its writers, where Marcus Garvey organized. There is just so much history to Harlem. You see it in the building, the famous Apollo theatre, even the street names. Names like Malcolm X Boulevard, Fredrick Douglas Avenue; African Americans may not own everything, but they sure have made a significant impact. The cinema I was going to was called Magic Theatre. Owned by former basketball legend Magic Johnson.
So I was watching American Gangsta. The most successful New York Gangsta and drugs runner, ever, also from Harlem. I watched it knowing these same Harlem streets in the movie, were streets outside this cinema. Unlike most films I watch in the UK, events didn’t happen in a land far far away. But right on these blocks. It was a weird sensation. People in the cinema could’ve personally been affected by what they’d were watching, been friends of the man, his associates, or indeed his victims.

After the film, I was heading over to my first performance in New York. It took place in a coffee shop called Mocha. Brother Earl had lined it up for me. He really lived up to his name as brother and treated me like family. He organized a small set. The turn out was incredibly modest. No more then 25 people there, but the talent was high. I was received well. The accent took people back. I didn’t give them any time to adjust, I just blasted them straight with a poem. Some couldn’t help smiling when I was spitting, but even they got into it.
The first poem I did was Prelude to the Poetman, where I critique hip hop. I was not sure if they took too much to my criticisms, There was no reaction in the places I usually get reactions from. I realize in their mind, America is the only place that exists, so if I’m criticizing hip hop, in their mind I’m not critiquing it from the perspective of us in Britain having a unique relationship with hip hop. Instead I’m critiquing their thing. That’s the way I interpreted it anyway.
Earlier that day there was a statistic outside the cinema that said 81% of new aids patience was African American and Hispanic. That stat is amazing, though there is blatantly an unhealthy fascination with Sex that is just festered upon. We see it in their songs, music videos, life style and even poems. I haven’t heard anyone drop erotic poems like African Americans. And today’s main theme was erotic poetry. Yes they could be seriously frustrated, seriously experienced, serious imaginations. But some of the lyrics had my mouth wide open. Things like I want you to sit in my face so that I can smell your funk. And that is a mild line. I realized if people really want to deal with this Aids epidemic, the first thing that needs to be done is to figure out how one can control their sexual appetite, it was obvious there is a direct correlation. Without that, they ain’t got a chance in hell in confronting his problem.
Surprisingly the crowd favourite was definitely Season of Lost Love. They were really impressed with the lyrical content and skill. Especially when I explained my African identity. Soon as I finished a brother in the corner shouted “Over here, I want a CD” I went over to him and, he didn’t even acknowledge my presence. The sister next to him was a sister from Nigeria, named Aya. She loved that African aspects and decided to buy a CD. But she didn’t even have the full ten dollars, so I gave it to her for 7 instead. In fact I knew she’d appreciate the Africa E.P too, so I gave her that too. Bad business sense eh? Hell yeah. In fact another sister told me she was an Ewe, from Togo, she was the waitress and had been in NY for 8 years, doesn’t like it there though. So I gave her The Africa E.P too. Bad business sense again? Most definitely. I just thought it was important that they have it. Sonia was pissed, I was giving away these CD’s I had worked so hard to produce. she was right, I should value them more, and if people really valued the work they would’ve sacrifice to purchase it. So no more freebies.