Killing Citizen Black

by jwright on April 26, 2015 · 0 comments

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April 19th, 2015

Anatomizing a kill

The harrowing, immortalized, vignette of Walter Scott‘s murder, is the latest chronicle of white policemen revoking black men’s lives across the United States. It is as if these officers have supreme rights to remove these men lives from their bodies at will. The way Scott died symbolizes the long journey ahead of Black America towards that Promised Land Dr. Martin Luther King dreamed about.

Walter Scott’s death is most searing in the mind because of the officer’s merciless disregard for his life – a human being. As I watched this dead man clad in a green shirt, dark pants, and jogging shoes, run past a scruffy tree trunk, I could not help reflecting on the fact that the African American male has run fast, over the years, but not far enough from the cruelty of lynching. Whether it be for gazing at white women as it was in the long ago days gone by, or now: driving with busted tail light, this killing has the same signature of lynching.

Yet, the rapid clapping of gunshots had the frantic rhythm of a desperate hunter – alone in a black forest, under attack by citizen black bear, who had wrestled the officer’s taser, and was ready to discharge a gazillion electrons into the white policeman’s body, if he had not used extreme prejudice to cancel the bear’s life.

Obviously that murderous officer behind his badge – emblazoned to serve and protect, would have penned his report to the sound of his desperate untrue voice, bristling with fear over his radio, and the city of Charleston, South Carolina would have thanked him for his “bravery”. The only bravery was Mr. Santana’s recording of the cold murder – of a man running for his life, for the world to witness.

The unlucky Mr. Scott and many others like him, including Eric Garner who was choked on Staten Island in July 2014, found themselves caught up in these sudden whirling terror-vortexes. Inside these frequent racist tornadoes of death, lives are being judged by police officers with preset conclusions that these men are unworthy of breathing the same big-city’s polluted air they do.

There’s a reckless historical folly, rooted in polygenism that people of African descent are not in full equilibrium of those who consider themselves to be of higher human rank. This warped concealed fiber had woven itself into the core social construct around the globe, trapping many on the bottom floor pagoda of human aspiration. And so, this southern hunter’s instinct triggered his hands to raise his pistol, to the equilibrium of his brutal resolve. He took aim, pulled the trigger, eight times, drilling five slugs into the back of citizen black.

Next, the hunter switched his mental state to a dead-cold zone. His cerebrum state untethered from his humanity, to his world of adrenaline gushing logic of evil. His calculated voice commanded the dead citizen black, to put his hands behind his back. An order which the lifeless body could not obey, so the officer cuffed the hands with fear and anxious haste – as if there was a conveyor belt of life inside the dead man’s body,   ready to come forth, one after another. This fear by whites, of the African male, is a belief that he received way more than average from his creator – including  bearish strength. A graphic illustration as to why there was no call for medical attention.

Instead the officer stood large and in charge, in calm conquest like a champion over his game. His callous, calculating mind prompted him to drop his taser beside the dead man, in an attempt to frame him, which he did in the presence of another officer, who observed the spectacle in conspiratorial transparency. An act certifying the pervasiveness and precision of such practice.

Sure there is a higher level of crime in the black population, but the justice department’s report from Ferguson’s County, Missouri exposed a deliberate skewing of the law in order to rout Black Americans into jails. If there was no video and by some miracle Mr. Scott had survived the shooting, he would have been sent to jail. A containment method which explains why half the prison population is made up of African American, representing only about quarter of the three-hundred plus million.

Until this repulsive murder – shooting a running man in his back, newspaper articles and television’s talking heads of the autonomous clan, usually tilt their mantras in favour of the officers, triggering red hot anger that boils over into the streets – burning and demonstrating, until the sparks die down. After which, news conference of measured words would confirm that the officer who had taken the life of another black American male would not be charged. I remember one white lady – a member of the autonomous tribe, in a calm innocent voice questioned why Rodney King was moving around on the ground, during the flurries of kicks and beating by the cops. That was over 20 years ago, but this blatant killing in South Carolina, confirmed not much has changed.

Another glaring factor is that the nation has been at war for too long – in faraway lands, soldiers level their guns and drop bombs. It’s obvious that physical and psychological splinters from its awesome destructive military is burrowing into this great nation’s police forces. Veterans of destruction are becoming policemen – charged to serve and protect. In fact, many of the police force’s culture–vehicles, guns and uniforms, and more…are indistinguishable from those of soldiers fighting enemies on battlefields in faraway places.

The nation’s police force is militarized. Citizen Black – the African American male, as a relevant fabric in his nation’s quilt, is on the verge of extinction, and after years of slogging towards the nation’s creed that all men are created equal – in this time of a black president – which should have been a crowning testament. Instead he is under the gun, as smartphones and body cameras record a testament of black men – birds on wire, exposed on a most treacherous patch in their encounters with law enforcement on their pursuit of happiness.

However, this shooting in particular, must be a new morning; a bugle-sounding wake-up call for the African American male to redouble his effort – marching towards that horizon of Garvey, King and Malcolm.

P-E-A-C-E !

Joggingpen signing off, until next pen-run!

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BRIDGETTE: Blood in the Streets

by jwright on March 8, 2014 · 0 comments

An e-book by: Jeffery Wright

BRIDGETTE: Blood in the Streets

Introduction:

BRIDGETTE: Blood in the Streets is an edgy story about a quiet, middle-aged Canadian man returning from a hunting trip. Denison Grant finds himself caught in the middle of three black youths settling scores—their guns blazing on busy Crossbar St. in East Toronto. Bullets whiz about Denison’s head, punching holes in his Volvo, but he wants nothing to do with the cops. Because of bad blood long ago, he has to decide how to stand up for his city against the murderers.

The stereotype that the people of Toronto’s black community are reluctant to seek police help when bad things happen is about to be tested. Like others at the scene, Denison is fearful of the gun-toting hoodlums and tells the cops he saw nothing, but in truth, he knows where the three criminals hang out. He drives home, pours himself a scotch and gazes into the mirror. What he sees are random flashbacks of his life in Toronto since joining his father from Jamaica at age 12: his values, his first love—Bridgette—the family he has built, the rise in crime. That’s when he realizes that, although he doesn’t trust the police, he loves his city. He makes his decision late that night not to let the criminals get away, and drives into the night, his hunting rifle still in his bullet-riddled Volvo, to do what’s right.

About the Author

Jeffery Wright is a fearless writer with a keen eye. His articles have appeared in newspapers and magazines throughout the Caribbean, United States and Canada, including The Globe and Mail. He has developed and taught creative learning courses to at-risk high school students in Toronto’s East Scarborough priority community of Danzig-Galloway for many years. He studied creative writing at the University of Toronto and Humber School for Writers and lives in Toronto, Ontario.

Please download and enjoy your copy at: http://www.amazon.ca/BRIDGETTE-Blood-Streets-Jeffery-Wright-ebook/dp/B00G7S9RC6

COMING: 2014 my first NOVEL 2014!!

After banging my computer for Nine MONTHS, one YEAR, fifteen DAYS,

three HOURS, and eight MINUTES, a funny and insightful three hundred page book fell into my lap.

A caring editor Nightingale cleaned her up to make me the proud creator of my first NOVEL.

STAY TUNED for her name and when you all can take her home to enjoy!

The JoggingPen

Copyright ©

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The great contradiction

by jwright on March 6, 2014 · 0 comments

By: J. Wright. 

Perhaps it is our loss that empirical thinking was not able to strip away the mystery cloaking religion. Exposing her dis-unity to bare-naked reason. On the other hand; maybe, just maybe, our faith is blend in with that hot, red, liquid, inside our veins, and is immune from attacks by that purposeful and irreverent ruler we called logic.

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MY Tribute To Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela

by jwright on March 6, 2014 · 0 comments

By: Jeffery Wright

Dec. 8th, 2013

Nelson Mandela

News of your death switches my thoughts to how blessed I am to have lived in your time. You were a leader of high principle, because I understand that leading by principle is self-sacrificing. Gandhi was killed before my time; I had to read about him. Next up, Martin Luther King Jr.; he was assassinated on the edge of my time. I was a boy. I had to watch television to learn of him. Then came you, Nelson Mandela – just in time to inspire me, because my thoughts about the world were mine alone to ruminate inside my cerebrum, never to be aired – until your courage gave me freedom to chant with the crowd. Yes sir, I held my custom-made anti-apartheid sign high above my head that Saturday afternoon – winter of 1983, in Toronto, and I marched. My sign reads: “FREEDOM YES, APARTHEID NO.”

“AMANDLA!” Thundered the crowd. Mr. Mandela, my voice was so strong, you probably heard me all the way in South Africa. My footsteps were as crisp as a soldier on parade, up and down the street for two hours. And knowing you were still locked up for so long, Alton – my friend and I, refused coffee breaks. That Monday at school, I felt ten feet tall. I went to the library and read as much as I could about you and your country, to prepare for my next anti-apartied demonstration. Madiba, your ardour and discipline transcended your prison confinement, and stirred me to put one foot in front of the other and shout against injustice.

It wasn’t only your unbending courage during your 27 years behind bars that made you great. It was your actions after watching you on TV: your gangling frame made those triumphant strides from penitentiary to freedom – into a political landmine of a country, fuse lit, ready to explode. But you disarmed that bomb by injecting massive dosages of high-grade principle into South Africa’s low-grade race-based politics, and quelled flaming fears of those who knew only to hang their adversaries.

For nowhere past, a leader who had had so much taken from him, now holding the reign of power, would not have weeded out his foes like grass. But you did not. No sir, you surprised them all, by doing no such thing. You simply rise above the convention way of vanquishing the enemy. And using forgiveness as your core ideal, you sculpted the best out of those who had wronged you and your people.

You simply requested your adversaries, without obligation, to sit and listened to their own retail and wholesale atrocities. In deliberate, cold, monotone voices their tongues regurgitated their own unspeakable violence. Some cried as blood-drenched words oozed from their mouths, to set their tortured conscience free. Others sobbed and used napkins to wipe their eyes, as their violent acts tumbled from their lips – as if trapped evil spirits were escaping, making room for peace to come into them. Others fell on the floor and wept as if being exercised from demons. Some were unrepentant.

And I watched all of this on television and my eyes popped wide and jawbone tightened, fists clenched shouting, “Mr. Mandela, what the hell are you doing? Why are you letting those people get away with so much murders and violence?”

Then I shook my head, staring out the window at myself marching against apartheid and whispered, “Just let them confess and then set them free? Is that all..?”

Well Mr. Mandela, you were right. I was woefully and pathetically wrong. But I have learned sir, because you fired not a single shot at those who had unleashed machine guns and tanks upon your people. Instead you invoked a meek and patented greatness that taught me a tough lesson. Because years after digesting your truth and reconciliation commission, someone wronged me and I said, no problem, I’ll just be like you – forgave him the way you had done so easily. It took me many years to do it. That’s when your omnipotent greatness humbled me: the ease and grace at which you used forgiveness to vanquish those who had done you and your people so much injustice. You are simply my hero.

So, Mr. Mandela, sir. You’ve done your job. You are now free. So fly away, soar like an eagle to liberty dreamed of on cold nights while in your tiny cell on Robben Island. Yes, I missed you already, but your legacy is safe. For another like you will not soon pass this way. Therefore, I am thankful to have lived in this time. In your time. And in time to come, on a quiet afternoon, my grandchildren will ask about you. And by God sir, I will tell them with starry eyes; that I had lived in the days of Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela; a prince of Africa and lion of peace.

May you rest in peace, sir!

Jeff Wright/Dec. 8th, 2013

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Waiting for the Oracle

May 13, 2012

Somewhere between Ocho Rios and Port Antonio… (a creative peace of Jamaica.) By J. Wright on May 5, 2010 The afternoon is perfect. Air is fresh, clouds gone. The calm sea mirrors the blue sky. A narrow cobble stone pathway leads me beneath lush greenery. Birds are singing overhead – a thousand melodies, praising their […]

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