Running to Find

I’m running away

Don’t try to catch me

I can’t catch myself

I’m already ahead of myself

My feet keep moving

I’m getting farther away

I’m out in the realms of space

Maybe, I’ll find myself one day.

The Wind Will Set You Free

The green reeds quietly sway eastwards as the sun fades, casting its shadow over the simmering horizon.  A large boar gently emerges from the shaded mudded creek, closes its eyes, and lets the gentle breeze harden the mud on its face.   When the boar opens its eyes, the flitter of its eyelid causes the mud to break. The mud falls like bits of sand and gently dances in the air like pollen.  The boar is free.

A black-footed ferret gazes up into the oak tree.  The bark of the tree is cold and wetted with the first year’s snowfall.  No matter how much she tries, she cannot climb.  Her eyes are fixated on a particular branch of the oak tree; on that branch rests a robin nest.  The mother robin is away,  the black-footed ferret is a mother too.  She can hear her kits high pitched whimpers crescendo in the wind.  She cannot leave this tree.  The crescendos heighten, and heighten, and heighten.  The black-footed ferret’s gaze focuses on the rattling branch, and then to swiftly to the robin nest which hangs by a thread.  The nest collapses, the eggs fall on the bedded snow with hardly a crack.  The black-footed ferret is free.

The night sky is clouded; the moon emerges from time to time through the clouds. It emerges long enough for the little girl to count its craters, its crevices, and dark spots before it once again vanishes.  The girl sits on a black swing in a small park that only she knows of.  Her fingers grasp the swing‘s alloy chains, but she lacks the energy to swing. Her eyes are red and watery, her head furrowed, her lips downcast like the moon, and her nose sniffles away.  She lets go of her grasp on the alloy chains, and buries her face into her delicate palms. She’s all alone.  Suddenly, a tender gust engulfs her.  Goosebumps emerge under the thickness of her jacket.  The gust holds her tight. Although the green grass, wooden fences, window panes, and trees too bend, the wind is focused on her. It gently grasps her tightly.  She inhales the friendly gust through her nostrils, and lets it rest in her body. The gust dries her water eyes, and her hair blows without inhibition.  The young girl is free.

The wind blows and blows. Through summer and fall, through winter and spring, through times of plenty and times of famine, through times of joy and times of hardness the wind blows.  In your darkest moments and your deepest triumphs, in your light hardships and soft agonies, in your heavy burdens and joyous burdens, the wind blows.  Just like night turns to day and just like the freshness christens the morning air after a night’s rain, the wind blows.  It blows without volition and causes all things to pass.  So, in the servitude of acrimony, the melancholies of melancholy, the nightmares which exist to eyes wide open unburdened with sleep.  Remember like the mudded boar emerging from the creek. Remember lik the black footed ferret gazing up the oak tree.  Remember like the little girl grasping the swing’s alloy chain on that moon covered night.  Remember, just like them, that the Wind will set  you free.

                                                                                                                                         

Reaching the Highest Height

What pushes you? Is it just gravity, that mystical force which set the universe in place? Maybe its the wind, it blows you to and fro.  Perhaps,  its some other describable external force such as a parent, friend, or rival.  Yet, what about places where these forces cannot reach? Better yet, when you are at a place in life where nothing can hold you down and no one can look down  upon you, then what keeps you motivated to keep striving?

For example, when Einstein made discoveries in quantum physics and photo electric effect what drove him to theorize that it was all relative.  Indeed, Einstein's life would have viewed his life a failure if he could not figure that very conundrum; it drove him.  The beautitudes of Matthew lists attributes of man that are and remain blessings: meekness, merciful,  poor in spirit, those who mourn etc.

The beatitudes never say, "blessed is the man who, even amongst his success, sees unending failure" or "blessed is the man who remains thirsty like a parched beast in the scorching desert even though his life has been more bountiful than the waters of the Niagara."  Truth be told, it is probably a curse; the curse of non-complacency.  The curse that is defined as never ever being happy with any of your accomplishments or, alternatively, immediately setting new goals once an accomplishment has been reached such that you don't have the time to revel in the aforesaid accomplishment.  In other words, the antithesis of satisfaction a life where sad will be your faction unless you keep putting your goals in action.

You may call these individuals gluttons for success.  Individuals who push the boundary. Individuals who have a malfunction because they simply do not "stop."  Stop, you already have your degree.  Stop, you already have a degree upon a degree.  Stop, you already passed your test.  Stop, you already have a job.  Stop, you already have a great job.  We work hard to reach a point of success, so "stop" because you have already reached it.  Please stop, because the roses are in full bloom, and smell so wonderful.

For those cursed with the inability to ever be satisfied, driven to be the best, burning with a zeal to reach an artificial peak of their own creation, these pleads of "stop" fall on deaf ears.  Some may not understand it, but it is what it is.  While some find joy in games, partying, television, or relaxation, others find it in being better than everyone else or, at the very least, being better than they were the day, minute, or even second before.  A never ending process.

A process is defined as a series of actions or steps taken to achieve an end.  I must confess, I am one of those that does not see an end in sight.  Reach a goal, and then reach a higher goal, and before you know it, you'll reach a place that not even you could have dreamed of.

                                                                     

Building Stronger Communities

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. So, let my words be a colorful brushstroke that paints canvasses across a clear calm night.

I can see her gripping her legs tightly as she sways back and forth in the corner.   Her hair violently blows as the wind slowly creeps through the tattered broken windows and envelops her.

All she can do is bob back and forth and back and forth to try to keep her body warm. She’s trying, but failing….She’s all alone in this old wooden home, and just like no one can hear its creaks, its rustles, its shuffles as the old curtains clash against one another, and its drips as water drops from the hole in the ceiling and overflows from the bucket below, no one can hear her sniffles, no one can hear her cries reverberating around the old home, and no one can see that she’s black like you and I. 

The only difference is, like Toni Morrison, she had the bluest of eyes.  Her blue tears flow like a raging tsunami after an earthquake, like an avalanche on steep mountainous cliff, soon she’ll drown and the only thing left of her will be her young fingers extending. Reaching for something it doesn’t know. Reaching for something it isn’t certain of. Reaching for us to set her free.

Cause that poor little girl on the floor by the door, who needed more, was a metaphor.   A metaphor for underfunded school s with bars over their cracked windows reading from history books made before 9-11….but it don’t matter to 911 cause they love crack, life is a like a baseball game, 3 strikes and you’re out,  and more black men are out in prison today than were slaves in 1850.

But, here we are as black lawyers and leaders today.  The cream of the crop, on a mountain top so high that not even Pegasus can reach us.  Sitting above the clouds, we watch the rain as it falls on the potholed streets in Compton, slides down the graffitied walls in Inglewood, and washes away on the Watts blocks.

They say life is like a box of chocolate. Well, I want chocolate to get out of the box.

But we’re in a box somewhere far in the docks bolted with 3 locks under a bunch of rocks; stagnant through all these talks. 

Luckily, I have the key to set us free, we need to build a stronger community.

So, when I hear someone say they’re bored(board) with law, I say they forgot two words: Brown and Education.

When I hear someone says transformative law fails in civil society, I say be uncivil and follow martial (Marshall) law…Thurgood.

Cause there can be good when we put our minds to it, there are 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes in an hour but it does not even take a second to decide to make a change.

And even though this is the Black Law Student Association Solidarity Dinner, change does not have to be black or white, cause the man who wrote “Black or white” also wrote "We are the world, we are the children, we are the ones who make a brighter day, so let's start giving" and we give when we don't bury our talents, but instead use our talents to build a better world.  

So, let’s not go through the motions when we write motions, write motions with emotion, so that our motions can be poetry in motion, with the motion to move this community and this world forward.

Going backwards is a con, the pro is bono. Pro bono work that can change lives of mothers, fathers, children, of all colors and creeds, from calorific California to rocky Colorado, from  cold complex Connecticut to calm coniferous Kentucky, from every star-crossed state capital to every  encapsulated corner of the once 13 colonies now known as the United States of America.

And please, let’s continue to be a source of force, a recourse of resource, in other words, a workhorse, for future lawyers so that 1L, 2L, 3L, and maybe for some of y’all 4L does not have to rhyme or be synonymous at all with hell.

And  lets strive to be positive because even though Newton’s 3^rd law of physic says what goes up must come down, if we don’t get down on ourselves, but instead remain positive individually and collectively, our positivity will  never come down, and we can take our legal profession and legal field to heights that it can only dream of.

We are at the mountain top! And the dream of a preacher still lives on. It’s beautiful dream.  It’s a special dream. It’s an American dream.  It’s a dream that requires all of you and me, to set our people free by please please please building a stronger community.

In Defense of Trayvon Martin’s Killer: The Deadliness of Skittles

The police are and remain more than justified in not arresting the 28 year old man, George Zimmerman, after he shot and killed the 17 year old boy, Trayvon Martin.  In fact, I believe the police should be applauded for their efforts in not arresting a grown man who shot and killed a child with a .44 caliber gun when all the child had on him was some skittles and iced tea.  Now, I know some may think that there is disconnect between someone having skittles, and another person having a gun, but I am here to assure all that it connects perfectly.  A disconnect is only in the mind of fools, and I’m glad there is not a single fool in that Sanford police department. 

First of all, I get angry at people who try to downplay the significance of these skittles. Little David meek and mild vanquished a 20 foot tall behemoth, Goliath, with nothing but a few measly pebbles.  George Zimmerman is not Goliath, therefore it logically falls that skittles are more than a deadly weapon to him.  Have you ever been hit in the head with a skittle? Have you ever tasted that rainbow? I assure you that it is quite deadly.  Zimmerman’s  .44 caliber gun was necessary to thwart the danger of those wretched skittles.  To buttress this point, I’ll give an example of the violent disposition of colorful skittles. If I, unfortunately, was positioned to fight another man to the death, and we were given a list of weapons to choose from such as a rifle, a battle axe,  a bag of skittles, a dagger,  a chainsaw, a sword, a grenade, and a machine gun, then I’m sure both of us, without hesitation, would first reach for those skittles.  In fact, fearing the dangerousness of the aforesaid skittles, I assume that we would probably pre-negotiate that neither of us could use those ferocious skittles in battle. Skittles are manufactured by the Wrigley Jr. Company;  I have already sent numerous letters to the Wrigley Jr. Company  insisting that they put a disclaimer on skittles.  I won’t be satisfied until every pack of skittles has the disclaimer, “Sweet and Lethal.”  Skittles should really be named Deadly Colorful Black Mamba candy, but for now I’ll settle for at least a disclaimer.

Second of all, my anger intensifies when people try to claim that Trayvon was not suspicious.  He was beyond extremely suspicious.  He was walking around wearing a hoodie for Christ’s sake.  In this day and age, where people have motorcycles, cars, and trucks, there is and remains nothing more suspicious than a person who chooses to walk. Think about it, if someone had the option to drive a vehicle, isn’t it suspicious that he would choose to walk instead.  Further, even if they lack the means to drive, there are bikes, scooters, and skate boards available. My heart always skips at least two beats when I see someone walking on the street. Man was simply not meant to walk that is the very reason we have cars in modern day and rode horses in ye olden day.  Further, Trayvon wore a hoodie. Even though it was winter and even though it was after sunset and even though the air was chilly, Trayvon should have known that a hoodie raises ones suspicion, and rightfully so.  So, the follow up question to the fact that a hoodie is suspicious is, “Well, then what should he have worn instead of a hoodie?” The answer to this is quite obvious.  He should have worn no shirt.  Indeed, he should have embraced the frigid sunset air and smiled a warm smile as he welcomed the goose bumps along his thin body.  It is more reasonable to suffer the rancor of hypothermia than to ever be suspicious.  I am seeking a prohibition on all jacket hoodies, I hope that others join my petition to ban hoodies. Hoodies are simply too precarious in making a person look suspicious.  George Zimmerman’s suspicion was justified; other reasonable minds would have behaved similarly.  If I saw a person with a hood on who was engaged in the activity of, god forbid, walking, then I must confess that I would probably have thrown some skittles at him or her.

Third of all, I propose that those who call George Zimmerman a racist be banned from speaking.  I think that it is ludicrous and disturbing the peace that many insipid insidious insects have labeled Zimmerman a racist.  I only call them insects because I don’t know them all by name, and because they truly bug me.  Zimmerman is not a racist. Zimmerman’s father, who of course has no interest in trying to paint his gun toting son in a good light, said that his son had some black friends.  Even though not a single one of these black friends has come to Zimmerman’s defense, I’ll take the obviously unbiased words of Zimmerman’s father over any the silly racist speculation spewed by those slithering insects.  Obviously, if a person has even one friend of the opposite race, then it is impossible for such person to be racist or prejudicial in the slightest.  This is why not one single slave owner in the post civil war South or white supporter of Jim Crow or white supporter of South African apartheid ever had one black friend, or, better yet, a third party who claims that such person had a friend after such person was labeled a racist. Zimmerman wasn’t a racist; he just saw a black person who happened to be acting suspiciously by having the audacity to walk on his feet while contemporaneously wearing a hoodie. Yes, America is a free country, but that doesn’t give a person, even a black person, the right to engage in such unquestionably suspicious behavior.  It isn’t like Florida, or the Southern United States for that matter, has a history of racial injustice.  For example, the 12 year old Floridian black child given life imprisonment without the possibility of parole for killing his cousin while performing wrestling moves on her completely deserved to rot in prison for the rest of his life.  Moreover, the case of Casey Anthony would have come out the same way regardless if Ms. Anthony had been white or, god forbid, black.  Further, the police love black people, black men especially, that is why police officers stop black drivers all the time.  It’s because they love them.  That is why police officers arrest black men at disproportionate rates. It’s because they love them.  That is why black men make up a disproportionate amount of the jail system.  It’s because police love them so much, and desperately want to keep them around.  I, for one, can only hope that a police officer will stop me while I’m driving, claim that my taillight is busted even though it is complexly fine, and then subsequently  ask me if I’m on drugs or if I stole my own car.  Such action shows true love.  Since Zimmerman was the self appointed neighborhood watchman, which is not a cop but in my eyes is close such that I should even respect Zimmerman’s view of what articulable reasonable suspicion means, I think it is safe to assume that he loved black men just as much as police officers do.

Zimmerman truly is an honorable man, and he should be commended instead of abhorred for standing up and trying to protect his neighbors from the deadly skittle carrying nightwalker.  How could you arrest a guy like him? He graduated from college and took a criminal law class. He selflessly appointed himself as the head of the neighborhood watch. He is and remains undoubtedly an upstanding citizen. This is evidenced by his 2005 arrest for suspicion of battery on a law officer. It is also evidenced by complaints made by one resident to the Sanford police about Zimmerman approaching him and even coming to his home. Moreover, it is evidenced by the numerous complaints made by several residents of George Zimmerman and his “tactics” in his neighborhood watch role.  As the story unfolds, it becomes more and more apparent that Zimmerman was not simply a loose cannon.  To the contrary, Trayvon was the loose cannon for, as previously mentioned, wearing a jacket and hoodie while carrying skittles.    Indeed, Trayvon is lucky that Zimmerman did not know he had those skittles “sweet and lethal” on him. 

Although it is clear that Zimmerman was not a racist, seeing a black man with skittles strikes fear even in those with the most unwavering of hearts.  With crips wearing blue, bloods wearing red, black disciples wearing blue, and orange gangs wearing orange, an abundance of clarity arises manifesting that skittles can be nothing less but vitriol filled black gangster candy.  Skittles are so very precarious because, since there are so many colors, one does not know which color to associate to the black insubordinate who dares to eat such candy.  Trayvon must have been in a dangerous gang that associated itself with the colors: green, orange, red, yellow, or purple.  Moreover, since there has been no specification on the kinds of skittles, one cannot even assume that Trayvon was carrying the original skittles, he may have been carrying sour skittles, tropical skittles, or even chocolate mix skittles.  With each different kind of skittles pack that Trayvon may have carried, the color that he and his gang associated as gang bangers grows exponentially.  Trayvon also carried a can of Arizona Iced tea. It is not coincidental that the rapper Ice-T made the song cop killa.  I do not want to speculate as to what activity Trayvon planned to engage himself into that night, but all logical signs point to the fact that he was up to no good: he was walking, he was wearing a hoodie, he was black, he had skittles in his pocket, and he was carrying some “cop killa” ice tea.

Since Trayvon clearly was dangerous, it is unconscionable to think that Zimmerman did anything but engage in self defense.  Trayvon Martin stood 6 foot 3 and weighed a whopping 140 pounds.  To better put it, he stood as tall as rapper Snoop Doggy Dogg but weighed at least 30 pounds less than Snoop Doggy Dogg, and we all know how big and buff Snoop Doggy Dogg is.  Undeniably, the 17 year still-developing-boy Trayvon must have been a pillar of strength and mightiness.  Zimmerman who only happened to be a grown man at 28 and who only happened to outweigh Trayvon by 100 pounds, give or take, could not have possibly outdueled a barely-past-prepubescent Trayvon in a match of fists. Killing Trayvon by shooting him in the chest was the only rational and reasonable thing for Zimmerman to do.  In a battle, one is allowed to fight back with reasonable force.  Obviously, the emaciated punches of the barely post prepubescent 17 year old Trayvon were more than formidable; they were as deadly as his skittles.  Zimmerman, obviously, and I repeat, obviously, had no other option as a 28 year old man, but to shoot 17 year old Trayvon Martin dead.  The only possible way to defend himself was to kill Trayvon Martin.  Luckily, gun laws in Florida are so relaxed that a law abiding citizen like Zimmerman can easily acquire a pistol.  I urge others to acquire pistols as well because if someone punches a person and then may reasonably slap or punch such person again, then the person that has been punched has the right to shoot the puncher in the chest in the name of self defense.  If the person who punches is a black man with skittles and iced tea, then, luckily, I believe under Florida Law that the black man is not even required to throw the first punch before the aforesaid person has a right to shoot that boy dead.

Further, it is clear that Trayvon initiated the whole confrontation.  When Zimmerman called the police to report about Trayvons’s suspicious and, likely, criminal activity, the police told Zimmerman not to follow Trayvon. Indeed, when Zimmerman reported to the police that he as the self-appointed neighborhood watchman was going to accost Trayvon Martin, the 911 dispatcher said, “we don’t need you do that.” Thus, if Zimmerman disobeys direct police orders, and confronts a dangerous 17 year old emaciated 140 pound black kid who has equipped himself with skittles and “cop killa” ice tea, then any subsequent confrontation must be self defense.  Foolish people say that a person should not be able to claim self-defense when such person was the one who initiated the confrontation in which he had to defend himself, and when such person disobeyed direct police orders not to initiate such a confrontation.  I, for one, am very thankful that none of the police officers in that Sanford police department are complete and utter fools.  To the contrary, their wisdom permeates higher than Solomon’s.   This is so transparently a case of self defense that standard procedures like alcohol and drug testing of the shooter did not and does not have to be taken.  The only thing that needs to be taken is triumphant killer’s words, and they are undoubtedly truthful.  So, all the neighbors and other firsthand witnesses speaking against Zimmerman clearly are the ones lying or mistaken.

As Zimmerman said, it was Trayvon who started the fight and it was Zimmerman that was begging for his life.  This makes perfect sense.  Of course that high pitched child like sounding desperate wailing could only come from a 28 year old fully developed grown man who outweighed his  17 year old emaciated attacker by 100 pounds and who reasonably feared for his life even though he carried a .44 caliber gun.  For this reason, the blood curdling screaming stopped as soon as the gun shot fired.  It only makes sense that the person begging for his life also happens to be the one who is carrying the gun just like it only makes sense that the blood-curdlings screams for help would immediately cease after the shot that rang through the treacherous heavens fired.   It only makes sense that the gun toting 28 year old man that disobeyed police orders feared for his life, and not the skinny 17 year old high school boy who was confronted by a stranger as he was walking home from buying candy.  This is so clear, apparent, and undeniable that undoubtedly the Sanford police could not at all arrest George Zimmerman.

I am thankful to live in a nation where a 17 year old skinny black child walking back from the candy store can be shot dead by an assailant who disobeyed direct police orders, and that this assailant can then be given the benefit of the doubt that such actions were in self defense. Trayvon Martin clearly engaged in shady behavior by wearing a hoodie, walking, being black, and carrying lethal skittles and “cop killa” ice tea.  When someone obviously suspicious like Trayvon gets himself killed by engaging in suspicious behavior, I appreciate cops that don’t even arrest lawful assailants like Zimmerman.  Zimmerman clearly was acting in self defense, and the brilliant ingenious cops of Sanford rightfully believed him. There is a silly petition going on to have poor George Zimmerman arrested for killing this deadly-skittle-carrying-skinny- 17- year- old- black-gangsta-bandit.  The petition is irrational and unsound.  Instead, as mentioned earlier, I propose a petition to ban all jacket hoodies.  Please sign my petition so that another poor soul like Zimmerman won’t have to face this horrible ordeal of people at least wanting him to be arrested when he too takes the law in his own hand and decides to confront and kill a black 17 year old child under the guise of self defense.  If this petition is successful, then the next petition will be a ban on walking after sunset.  If that ban is too vague, then it can be changed to a ban of walking while black after sunset.

Sincerely,

Supporter for George Zimmerman

PETITION FOR THE BANNING OF HOODIES:  100,000 Signatures needed!

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Confessions of a Prisoner

I’m so lonely.

My loneliness is lonely

My loneliness left me

It found someone.

Now, not even my loneliness can keep me.

Empty. 

Twas the Night Before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas, and all through the old house.

Not a single creature was stirring, not even a cooking mouse.

Bubbling Eyes closed warmly, not a single lip asleep with frown

Because gay hearts knew jolly ole Saint Nick was coming to town

Little Kwery sat, arms crossed, angry on the hardwood floor

Kwery was seated, legs crossed, firmly blocking the front door

Eyes wide open, he slept for days to be awake on this Christmas eve

An ornamented tree (stood) in the corner, but Kwery still did not believe

                                                                                       

He was far past the terrible two’s, now a bright and bold eight

Now, he was 2 cubed, his horror had been over 4 times as great

He kept a glass of milk to his left, and a plate of cookies to his right

Angry at Santa, but if Santa came, he still deserved at least a bite

Yet, he didn’t believe in that man, that Santa Claus never ever came

Year after year, Kwery’s hopes would rise, but it always ended the same

No chocolate candy in the red stockings, no glistening presents under the tree

No gift cards on the table, Kwery would whimper “Santa doesn’t care about me.”

His friends would play with bicycles, action figures, videogames, cars,

Elmo dolls, footballs, toy guns,  and even space ships equipped with stars

But  Kwery would play with nothing nothing, not a single gift had he received

So he became starkly convinced over the years that he had just been deceived

Santa Clause wasn’t a jolly old man, instead he was an ugly gluttonous fool

A cantankerous old man that refused to live by the timeless golden rule

Treat others how you want to be treated, so for EVERY kid he should be giver

For if Kwery had magical elves and reindeer, then he would ALWAYS deliver!

So, Kwery sat on that wooden floor, and refused for a second to close his eyes

Because his daddy had promised him that that this night Santa would surprise

Kwery’s dad worked as a janitor through college, and he now was an engineer
Kwery remembered his father's promise that “Christmas will be different this year”

Kwery was unsure how his father had anything to do with Santa Clause giving gifts

Or how his dad having a job had anything to do with the years Santa had missed

So Little Kwery sat, arms crossed, indignant for hours waiting for Santa to emerge

And he would brave the whole night, a feat that takes an 8 year old great courage

And when the clock struck 12, and Kwery’s heart began to beat with doubt

He saw a figure with a large beard and red cloth and a red hat slowly come out

The figure didn’t come from the chimney; he didn’t come from the front door,

He didn’t come from the window, Kwery looked to see if he came from the floor.

To Kwery’s best memory and recollection the figure came from the room of his dad

Well, as long as it really was Santa Clause; Kwery guessed that that wasn’t that bad

The man had red clothes like Santa, a beard, gray hair, and he was fat like Santa too

And when he said, “HO HO HO!, ”as he handed  Kwery a gift, Kwery knew it had to be true

A sparkling smile spread wide across Kwery’s face, and he giggled in blissful uninhibited glee

And he merrily placed the gift Santa Clause gave him under the ornamented Christmas tree

Then he gave Santa a hug, the cookies, the milk, and apologized for doubting him at all

But as Santa left, Kwery couldn't help but notice Santa and his dad were equally as tall

They had the same eyes, same skin color, and same walk with how the right foot would lead

And when he hugged him, he noticed they had the same warmth, feel, and umber smell indeed

 Then Kwery no longer felt sad about years of no gifts as he heard bells from his dad’s room jingle

For how could he ever have been jealous of the other children when his own daddy was Khris Kringle.

 MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL & TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!