a little prince in harlem...

I grew up as a little prince in an old-school extended family, with multiple generations under one roof, where I was the only male. My Great-Grandmother, Grandmother, Mom, and two aunts were all my queens in our little tenth-floor, 3 bedroom kingdom in the El Barrio sky. Around 1989, things fell apart. Mom was 25 and decided she wanted to live her youth to the fullest and go clubbing, grandma moved out, titi gave up on men and was always at her girlfriend's place in the Bronx, so it was me and the eldest watching cartoons and novelas in spanish. She went to bed early and sometimes my mom didn't come home at all, although she always kissed me on the forehead before heading out the door. I never did quite understand why I took showers and dressed into pajamas whereas she did the same and put on dresses and heels and went outside. What do people do at night? You can't play basketball. You can barely see things. Adult life seemed so complicated from the perspective of a 9 year old.

Fast forward 18 years:

Grandma is still in Florida; Great-Grandma is 10 years passed; my mom is in North Carolina, still dances but has given up the clubs, one aunt had breast cancer and the other is healthy. Healthy that is until two days ago.

As time passes I am constantly reminded of their mortality as their generation slowly slips away. Am an adult now, and my world has grown far beyond the borders of my childhood. I am an artist and a graduate student. In the past 3 months I have done photo shoots in Paris, had meetings in London, and went out to Munich for Oktoberfest with eight of my closest (girl)friends. But I define home as 5 square blocks in the middle of the island of Manhattan where my family lives scattered throughout El Barrio. Not so much the actual structures of NYC subsidized housing but my family themselves. They are my living, breathing homes. Residences that are never in danger of foreclosure or denying me a hug because I was short on the rent on the first of the month.

So when I landed this Sunday in JFK after another flight out of the country I turned on my phone and was greeted by text messages and voicemails from family. A stroke: sketchy details, conflicting reports as to which hospital in the city, the condition of my aunt. One of my homes was in danger, perhaps the strongest home I have left. See this particular aunt is a warrior, her spine is composed of spear points. She has never put up with any sh*t from her husbands, boyfriends, family, children, or friends. Her will was indomitable but the cemeteries of the world are filled with women (and men) just like this. She will overcome this. Her body will bear the scars of this battle. And who knows, they may be some other malady lurking, undiscovered, that will offer one final coup de grâce.

But seeing her lying there I could see her struggles, the struggle to simply speak coherently, to move one half of her body, however even surrounded by family she was clearly leading the charge in this battle. From all the tears in the room (curiously absent from her own face) you would think the roles were reserved. After my hospital visit I was left with more questions than answers but no matter the outcome of her recent health issue, no matter where I may be in this world, whether in Harlem, NYC or Haarlem, The Netherlands my aunts can be assured that their little prince has never stopped defending the family castle...

She will overcome this. that I can assure her of...

she got that good hair...

In the documentary Good Hair, co-writer/producer Chris Rock has a marvelous timely subject all to himself. The easy jokes we've all heard at comedy clubs about a black woman's hair being untouchable are brushed aside: Rock gets to the matter's center by asking men what it's like not to have the intimacy to touch a lover's hair. The numbers are surprising and overwhelming. African-Americans comprise only 12 percent of the national population, yet they purchase 80 percent of the country's hair care products. Rock likens this passion to an addiction, one he peruses with equal parts humor and seriousness. Although the documentary's presentation is cut from the well-worn Morgan Spurlock cloth, Rock's wit and cunning insight enlivens even the most mundane tableaus, including an over-reliance on talking-head interviews with such celebrities as Nia Long, Maya Angelou, Ice-T, the Rev. Al Sharpton and many others.

While the film's format is familiar, Rock benefits by delving into subject matter foreign to many viewers. Yes, Spike Lee once staged an inspired song-and-dance routine in School Daze, in which rival female African-American groups debated "Good or Bad Hair." But Rock goes much further, visiting beauty salons, barbershops and hair industry conventions to examine the economic and intimacy dilemmas wrought by black women's hair obsession. He spends much time researching the perils of traditional, common hair-straightening treatments and reveals the shocking expense of hair "relaxing" and extensions. He travels to India to track down the source for most African-American hair weaves. He even tosses in a bit of intrigue by following four teams vying to win the annual Bronner Bros. Hair Battle Royale in Atlanta.

In the documentary we are told that "you never touch a black woman's hair, or with women who happily hand over a thousand bucks (or more) for a complicated weave, all because hair is a vital component of how they view and assess themselves". "Our self-esteem is wrapped up in it,'' admits actress Tracie Thoms (who sticks with a natural curly look). "A woman's hair is her glory,'' adds Maya Angelou. And that trick of image and syntax has even working-class women spending a fortune on expensive weaves that can't be touched, fondled or wetted, or have sodium hydroxide rubbed into children's scalps to get them on "the creamy crack" -- relaxers -- pretty much from birth.

Most consumers are misled about the deleterious effects of hair weaves. After extended or prolonged usage of the hair-weave process (six mouths or better) most weave clients will experience a degeneration of their texture. Once the hairline fades or the hair texture thins, the client is more susceptible to continue wearing the weave to hide her imperfections and to maintain an image. Sadly, this is another form of bamboozlement that has plagued the black beauty industry for years. Black women have suffered through some of the worst product launches I’ve seen in the last 25 years. The No-lye and Gel relaxer kits, Rio products, permanent colors and high alkaline shampoos, etc. In some respect, the local beauty supply store has turned into a chemical waste dump.

Hair is a very tangible form of self expression, of how we feel about ourselves, and how we want to be perceived." Sharpton says in the film, we happily “comb our oppression” and spend thousands of dollars on anti-curling agents from hot combs to chemical relaxers—both of which could serve as a weapon if need be. Al Sharpton, who wouldn’t dare trade his own perm for anything or anyone at anytime, regardless of the weight of social acceptance. There is no parallel in human history where a people have been subjected to similar mutilation
of body mind and soul.

In 1933, Harvard trained Ph.D, Carter G. Woodson wrote his classic text, The Miseducation of the Negro in which he offered a critical historical analysis of the effects of a Eurocentric/hegemonic education on the minds of Black students informed both Black and White readers that “the Negro’s mind” had been brought under the control of his oppressor, and that when you control a man’s thinking you do not have to worry about his actions. Dr. Woodson furthermore penned the following statement regarding Black student mis-education, “To handicap a student for life by teaching him that his Black face is a curse and that his struggle to change his condition is hopeless, is the worst kind of lynching. It kills one’s aspirations and dooms him to vagabondage and crime.”

And, after all, in a country with standards so untrustworthy, a country that makes heroes of so many criminal mediocrities, a country unable to face why so many of the non-White are in prison, or on the needle, or standing, futureless, in the streets—it may very well be that both children, and their elders, have concluded that they have nothing whatever to learn from the people of a country that has managed to learn so little. I think history, media, politics, and everytyhing under the sun has influenced black culture and beliefs. Blacks are suffering from some poor self worth, values and beliefs these days. Some of us are doing anything to fit in to make life easier for ourselves, not realizing that if we hold what is true to us, we will prosper and grow.

living to die...

Who is more responsible?

The hand that makes the bomb..
The one that ignites it..
Or the bomb that blasts??

Our anger is a bomb that destroys the peace around us.
Let us try not to be the reason of an argument..
Let us avoid from being the one who ignites a fight..
Lets us not be the victim of the bomb of anger...

Peace is all around us...its not a matter of faith; it's a matter of practice...

No peace comes from shattered pieces.

Suicide terrorism is not a new phenomenon. From the 11th-century Assassins — whose brazen and usually public murders of their rivals invited immediate death to the perpetrators — to Vietcong sympathizers who blew up themselves and U.S. soldiers in Vietnam, many people have proven their willingness to perish while carrying out attacks in pursuit of their political goals. Yet, the “modern” expressions of the suicide terror phenomenon surfaced with the appearance of the first suicide terrorists in Lebanon, more than 20 years ago.

From Lebanon to Israel to Sri Lanka to Kashmir to Chechnya, the sponsors of every campaign have been terrorist groups trying to establish or maintain political self-determination by compelling a democratic power to withdraw from the territories they claim. Even al-Qaeda fits this pattern: although Saudi Arabia is not under American military occupation per se, a principal objective of Osama bin Laden is the expulsion of American troops from the Persian Gulf and the reduction of Washington’s power and influence in the region.

In reality, the probability that terrorists will kill as many Americans as drunk drivers [will] in any given year is tiny. Suicide attackers are usually respected and even revered in their own societies because they are defending those societies against a foreign threat. Simply put, Pape suggests there is no sound reason to believe the pool of potential suicide attackers can be dried up as long as their societies perceive an existential threat to their existence.

Terrorist organizations call upon their members to take part in suicide attacks under different banners and slogans. Sometimes it is done on behalf of God and religion, sometimes on behalf of the “nation,” and many times as an act of revenge or deterrence against a more powerful adversary. Islamic fundamentalist organizations such as Hamas and the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, al Qaeda, and Hezbollah invoke God and interpret the Koran in a way that fits their political and operational needs. By doing so they justify such a battle against the “infidels” in defense of Islam. Most of these groups also use nationalism in their jargon, usually invoking the redemption of a holy land belonging to the larger Muslim nation from the hands of aggressors.

All of the major religions forbid suicide, religiously motivated groups always express the motives of suicide bombers in “altruistic” terms; also, all terror groups, religious or not, wish to project strength. Thus, the personal motives of suicide bombers are often concealed. Research conducted with “failed” suicide bombers throughout the world has shown that such motivations do exist, including personal psychological hardships; despair and uncontrollable eagerness for revenge; and specific goals of personal glory, such as familial honor or even money for the bombers’ families. In one notable example, widely reported in the Israeli press, the first female Hamas suicide bomber — a young mother of two — was allegedly having an extramarital affair; killing herself and several Israelis was said to be the only way she could redeem her name.

Recruitment has almost exclusively involved encouraging an individual to sacrifice for the alleged well-being of the community, and the use of persuasion and manipulation techniques — but not physical coercion. Another alarming aspect of the suicide phenomenon is the utilization of young children as suicide bombers. The participation of boys as young as 10 to 14 in recent suicide campaigns has been mainly overseen by Palestinian terror organizations that wish to take advantage of the boys’ unthreatening appearance. This has generated outcry among the children’s families and many others.

The reputation of suicide terrorism as the ultimate strategic weapon of the poor and the deprived may contribute to its further dispersal around the world in coming years, and more groups and networks may adopt it into their own arsenal. The main threat emanating from this unique modus operandi is a possible combination of lethal tactics such as a mixture of suicide bombing and non-conventional materials. Much like the unprecedented September 11 attacks, an event of this kind could have global implications.

The technique of suicide bombing is an atavistic form of violence. Historically viewed, warfare has technologically advanced through cowardice, and the American fighters are the leading exemplars of this. Fighting at a distance with missiles was beneath the descendants of the armored men-at-arms who had dominated European warmaking since the age of Charlemagne. The suicide bomber overcomes the timorous distancing-of-self in battle by requiring propinquity to the target. In sacrificing one's own life, however, the suicide bomber has surmounted the human nature for self-preservation. But the suicide bomber's actions have greater significance. The suicide bomber, who targets military enemies, can be considered as a courageous fighter, a throwback to warriors of old...

¡gracias a la vida! (tribute to mercedes sosa)...

One of the greats of Latin America pasted away this past week, well it's going on two weeks by now. Haydée Mercedes Sosa was born on July 9, 1935, in San Miguel de Tucuman, Argentina and produced nearly 40 albums during her musical career, performing in venues such as The Sistine Chapel at the Vatican and New York's Carnegie Hall. She also served as a UNICEF goodwill ambassador for Latin America. She was an unrivalled interpreter of works by her compatriot, the Argentinian Atahualpa Yupanqui, and Chile's Violeta Parra, both icons of the region's nueva canción movement towards the end of the 1960s, whose work often spoke of the struggle for human rights and democracy. One of the greats of Argentinian popular music, she was nicknamed "La Negra" because of her jet-black hair, and was one of the leading exponents of the "Nueva Cancion," a musical style that combined ballads with folkloric instruments, with lyrics that often combined romantic themes, social issues, and the plight of the indigenous of Argentina and all of América Latina.

During her long career that saw her produce 40 albums, Sosa collaborated with musicians ranging from Luciano Pavarotti, Sting and Joan Baez to Latin stars such as Shakira, Caetano Veloso and Joan Manuel Serrat. Upon her death, Shakira paid tribute to Sosa, who she has previously worked and performed with, branding her "the voice of her brothers on Earth who lifted up the music of suffering, and of justice". Undoubtedly, she had the greatest voice, and she had a great capacity for understanding suffering.

I first heard of Mercedes Sosa while visiting the studio of my favorite Latin America artist Oswaldo Guayasamín in Quito and seeing one of his many paintings that he painted of the singer during his lifetime. As a figurehead of the Left in her own right, Mercedes Sosa fell foul of the military junta led by Jorge Rafaél Videla that ruled her nation between 1976 and 1983 and conducted the notorious "Dirty War" against its own people. One of the central themes of my artwork has been the disintegration of the social fabric during moments of political, social, and economic turmoil, of which Dictators and their regimes constitute a major component. It was during this time that she had to live in exile, even though, as she once declared: "An artist isn't political in the party political sense – they have a constituency, which is their public – it is the poetry that matters most of all."

But after the military seized power in Argentina in 1976 and installed a murderous dictatorship, Ms. Sosa, who was publicly identified with parties of the left, began having political problems and found many of her songs banned from the radio. Thereafter, Mercedes Sosa became the object of state surveillance and intimidation by the "Triple A" death squad. At a concert in La Plata, Argentia in 1979, she and her entire audience of 200 university students were arrested and detained. Although she was released as a result of international condemnation, the incident forced her into exile, leaving with just "three suitcases and a handbag". She found life in exile tough, living first in Paris and then Madrid, but her music became a rallying point for those back in Argentina who had themselves been silenced.
With the Argentinian junta's power waning however, Mercedes Sosa returned home in 1982 shortly before the debacle of the Falkland's War, giving a triumphant series of concerts at Buenos Aires' Teatro Colón. These were immortalised on the double album Mercedes Sosa en Argentina, which sold particularly well and cemented her status as a legend of the musical genre.

She was able to go back to Argentina in 1982, as the hold of the Armed Forces was weakening. But Ms. Sosa’s musical tastes had broadened during her years in exile, and after her return she became an early advocate of and mother figure for a new generation of singer-songwriters whose roots were more in rock ’n’ roll and international pop than traditional or folk music. She quickly added songs by future stars like Charly García and Fito Páez to her repertory, giving their careers and music both credibility and an important commercial boost. She continued to champion emerging young talent until her death.


Ms. Sosa was married to a musician, Manuel Óscar Matus, for eight years, and later lived with Pocho Mazzitelli, who was also her manager, until his death in 1978. Fabián Matus is her only child. As her international renown expanded, Ms. Sosa seized on opportunities to collaborate with performers outside of Latin America, like Luciano Pavarotti, Sting, Andrea Bocelli, Nana Mouskouri and Joan Baez. After touring with Ms. Sosa in Europe in the late 1980s, Ms. Baez described her as “monumental in stature, a brilliant singer with tremendous charisma who is both a voice and a persona...I have never seen anything like her,” Ms. Baez added. “As far as performers go, she is simply the best.”

As with many of the most precious and memorable things in life, we rarely appreciate them until they are long past. In the same vein, I find myself listening to her songs and albums now and youtubing her concerts and performances. Que pena no haberla disfrutado en vida, ciertamente ahora que la escucho siento que se fue una voz única, cada día van quedando menos artistas con voces que te hagan emocionar.......la industria musical actual ya no nos ofrece joyas como esta. Que descanse en paz...

the dreams of children...

You'll be on your way up!
You'll be seeing great sights!
You'll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights...

~ Dr. Seuss


Carl Jung claimed that the dream symbol of a child is a motif for the forgotten things in our childhood. For example, your dream may be telling you that you've forgotten how to play or should take a more innocent, carefree attitude. A couple of nights ago I dreamt of myself as a little child playing in the living room of my grandmother's house sitting on the floor playing with crayons. A couple of scribbles on the paper and some on the floors. I watched this scene play out in my subconsciousness for what seemed like 15 seconds (but what role do temporal planes have in dreams in any case). The symbol of me as child represented the infinite possibilities of youth. It paves the way for future changes in the personality and the child may represent the part of you that needs reassurance and security.

What are told as children (for the most part although there are definite cultural and gender variations), that we will inherit the Earth and once this time comes we will all become the most wonderful visions of our imaginations. We can be doctors, and leaders, teachers, or astronauts seemingly without limitation or impediment with the right work ethic and channelled determination. But at what point do we start to deter our children from their dreams. At what crossroads of our lives do we go from children with the world in our hands to adults who are incapable of anything, adults who will not amount to anything, adults who are told to give up every occasion they possibly can because in this world their skin color is too shade too dark for dreams so big. But it is bigger than color, or race, gender or socioeconomic status, society generally frowns upon occupations that are unconventional or deemed too lofty for those born without gilded spoons and trust funds. And our parents... our parents merely recount their own failures and superimpose them on our own dreams when they tell us to choose a "safer" occupation.

I am an academic/scholar/and an artist, which means that I am one-part consumer of knowledge and two-parts it's creator. There is a reason that intellectuals like myself are the first to be made to "disappear" in repressive regimes and our voices made to be silent. In everyday life, where dilemmas are sometimes solved by the most surprising new propositions; many artists, philosophers, and even scientists owe some of their best ideas to inspirations . . . from the unconscious. We are the antithesis of the trained indoctrinated soldier adherent to established ideologies, I seek knowledge and inspiration that same way that I child chases butterflies through fields not giving a damn about private property laws. I pledge allegiance to positive energy within the sovereign state of 'My Being'. That's all for now, am off to paint a couple of canvases to the dismay of my parents. Much like the actions of a child.