I thought of my grandfathers today. Clyde Grant Elder Sr and Clarence Adkins. I thought of Clyde driving into the University of Cincinnati every day, enjoying his lucrative job as engineer, or not. Then going home and listening to his Train albums and his Latin music. I thought of Clarence walking a good ten miles from his home on Forest Avenue to his new job at General Electric circa 1942. I guess that trek wasn't too crazy. He was a Georgia man afterall and walking miles to the grocer or school was part of his natural understanding of things.

Clarence died when I was nine and Clyde passed away when I was nineteen. I remember them both. One brown, one very light. One a minister and mysteriously wise, the other-secular and charming. Both had beautiful wives and lots of friends and family who simply adored them. I'm not certain what their dreams were like. I don't even remember their favorite foods [although Clyde loved gumbo and seafood of any kind]. I know one died of bone cancer, the other a massive heart attack. Clarence's wife always seemed honored and pleased whenever asked about her husband. Particularly the time they met on a red-clay road in Georgia. Clyde's wife was not so doting during posthumous discussion of her spouse. Although the tale of kissing my grandfather was often highlighted by her disgust with a nosey aunt.

Whatever they dreamed, who they REALLY loved, what they actually thought I'll never know. I do know their worlds must have appeared wide and unlimited. That anything was possible. And I'm sure they never once imagined their grandson living in New York City, taking a moment to remember that without their choices, however triumphant, however daunting, he'd be able to take bigger steps and think wide as the sky.

Until next time,

Keith

So here's the deal: I've been writing this blog for two years. I've explored, experimented, I even broke the shit down occasionally. But last week I got this exciting call from Lynette Clemetson by recommendation of Veronica Chambers and was told The Washington Post and Newsweek Interactive along with Henry Louis Gates was starting a new online magazine, AND they wanted to know if I'd blog for it. A brother most certainly said YES.

So, starting tomorrow, TUESDAY, JANUARY 29 I'll be blogging under the branding ON THE DIG at The Root. It's a new, exciting online mag that focuses on the black experience. But here's the twist: It's going to be smart, provocative and offer tools for genealogy. It may even hurt some folks' feelings.

TheRoot.com

Hit it up and support and just... DO YOU.

Until next time,

Keith

I'm not usually a celebrity-chaser or nor do I care about who's who in the latest Hollywood bullshit circus, but certain celebs I feel a kindred bond. Heath Ledger is one of them. He's up there with my adoration of genuine screen artists like Forest Whitaker, Don Cheadle, Cate Blanchett, Sophie Okonedo and Ryan Gosling.

Heath Ledger impressed me with his visceral and vulnerable performance in Monster's Ball; his brave and singular performance in Brokeback Mountain, and his witty exploration in Cassanova. If Heath Ledger was cast in something I knew I would be treated to what makes filmmaking doubly-great -- committed and courageous actors.

Needless to say, the news of his death was simply sad.

But I am so thankful for his work as an artist and his commitment to exploring his humanness. I hope others continue and/or begin to do the same.

Until next time,

Keith

Most people don't know this about me: I'm the son of UNION workers from the Midwest. My father was a Teamster. My mother and stepfather were in the Bakery, Confectioney, Tobacco Workers Union, and every year or two, their labor contracts would expire, and there would be much fervor in our home about the increase in hourly wages, better healthcare and safer working environments.

Occasionally, they would strike and hit the picket lines, and for a month or less [or more] my parents' faces would grow serious and my stepfather, in particular, an elected union steward, would grow quiet and calculating as he set out to battle the greedy inhumane evil-makers at Keebler Cookies.

But what I remember most was the thrill in my mother's voice [and sometimes exhaustion] from walking the picket line for a cause that had everything to do with how we survived.

Which slides me into this: As a member of the Writer's Guild, I've been picketing here in NYC and I must confess although the solidarity of weekly picketing is good, the midwestern morale I know so well is lacking.

Yesterday, a few fellow strikers decided to do some union chanting [to boost morale, ours in particular], and as we screamed and rhymed, the other 100 or so Strikers looked on with uninterest as if to say, Chanting at a Picket line? How archaic. How passionate and passe.

It's a strange feeling to be among writers, fighting for the security of our financial and creative futures, and feel disconnected. To get a sense that some members of humanity have been so self-engorged with urban know-it-all, that the sound of a union member chanting receives as much enthusiasm as listening to water drip from ten miles away.

I guess I'm disappointed, but certainly not shocked. I'm living in a city where mindless momentum and navigating gentrification has trumped simple human noise.

Here's to reviving the importance of solidarity as a means to express conviction as opposed to simply posing and participating in a gab fest.

Until next time,

Keith

So I wake up this morning and instead of heading straight to email, I decide to take a more useful route and read the New York Times online [i guess its usefulness is all relative]. However, I decide to read and lo and behold there's an article about Wycleaf Jean, 50 Cent, Timberland, and Mary J. Blige being accused of using steroids to maintain their populist popularity. In other words, if they don't look like big black bucks and sturdy wenches white folks -and blacks either- ain't gonna like them [i'm joking of course, but am i?]

Now, I have never been ghettoized in my musical tastes. Meaning I'd seek out Mozez, the Devics, Lizz Wright before I indulge in a Timberland download any day. But I do find these steroid accusations very interesting. I admit I was being a bit cheeky with the big black buck crazy, but I will say this: the idea of these rappers and R&B singers pumping up the muscles to sell music is pretty daunting. Not that I don't understand Black men in this country have been historically dehumanized, targeted for every anti-social, -democratic, criminal goings-on since Plymouth Rock landed on our prostates; and not that it doesn't take a lot of strength to wake up every morning to find the joy of living in a country that is suspect of every move you make, I'm still surprised at the image of a black man, an artist, greasing himself, sort to speak, stepping up onto that auction block [i mean, stage] and selling music.

I'd love to discuss the plantation mentality of the hip-hop music world, but I won't. I'd love to do a survey and ask women [and men] who strokes their libido more - a muscled black or a black man built like a swimmer and who enjoys documentaries that question humanity, but I won't do that either.

However, I will leave myself with this: Drugs have always been quick-fixers. Tylenol, Pepto, crack-cocaine, offering quick relief from undesired pain [albeit emotional or physical]. And I guess steroids function in the same capacity. They're quick-fixing a black rapper's feeling of social inadequacy. Because the bigger the muscles are, the more the world will fall to their feet in awe, the more they'll be loved [and paid].

If the steroid accusations are true, well, that would be sad. 140 years since the Emancipation and black men still feel obligated to grease themselves up, sort to speak, and step up on that stage and sell their goods to the highest and/or horniest bidder.

We still have much work ahead of us.

Until next time,

Keith

Today I simply want to say: Meshell Ndegeocello is a musical genius.

I'm convinced of it and want to share that with the Blogosphere.

So click on the following link and enjoy what I consider genius of the highest degree.

CLICK HERE >>>> MESHELL NDEGEOCELLO

Until next time,

Keith

It's eleven days into the New Year and boy what a joyous ride so far.

The first few days of 2008 was spent in Los Angeles where I ate the most amazing food, dined, wined and danced with some of those most interesting, creative, intelligent friends a brother could ever have in this world [and I am truly grateful and charmed]. It's a rare thing in this world, to walk into a room, to walk into a room after spending years dodging the disdain of Midwestern morals and to see arms stretch open wide, smiles curve on lips and told instantly you're missed. It's a rare thing when you know you have people who love, adore and support you and you, undyingly, feel the same for them.

My first few days in 2008 was spent like that and I'm, again, grateful and charmed and inspired.

Upon my return to NYC, I quickly hit the pavement to picket with my fellow WGA Strikers, rehearsed and had a reading of a play that needs a complete revamping, and discovered a new foodie in midtown. Hell's Kitchen. The grilled salmon, pumpkin bread pudding and glass of Rioja had me and my dinner-mate, Judy Tate, licking lips and calling for our mothers. I also spent a good portion of my birthday with my long-time good friend Rashaad Ernesto Green --aspiring filmmaker and artist extraordinaire. I met Rashaad when he was a fresh-faced senior at Dartmouth and now he's a bearded brother on his way to becoming a movie-making genius.

But one joy I must reveal is this: last night on the A-Train I was sitting down with Rashaad, having an impassioned conversation about the sometimes-juvenile and cut-throat climate of the TV and Film industry and then, out of nowhere, this somewhat older black man, scruffy face, possibly drunk or insane, gets up from his seat, walks mid-way toward me and says, Hey, You! [he was talking to me]. I looked up and he says, Yeh, You. And I notice he was giving me the middle finger. Of course I was surprised. I had NO idea who the man was or WHY he had singled out me to inflict his insanity. He then sat back down and kept repeating, You got a big mouth. Faggot. You got a big mouth.

And of course, the train got quiet and of course everyone was looking at me. I was a bit nervous and certainly embarrassed. Why me? But even more importantly, does this dude have a knife or a gun?

So you want to know about the joy in all of this. Well, a year ago I would have told him to shut up. I would have engaged in some dialogue and questioned his cruelty or asked why is that some black men have issue with other black men sitting on a subway and having an articulate conversation that doesn't involve "bitches, niggas, etc".

I certainly felt attacked. That my corduroy jacket, my hipster shoes, my command of both language and content somehow unnerved this insane man and that it was very important to him to show me how much he abhorred someone like me. That everyone should know that an older, albeit insane, black man can walk up to a younger, articulate, non-traditionally dressed black man and offer the middle finger with the kind of conviction that burned the Witches of Salem.

Wow. How unfortunate. But I kept quiet and avoided any possible "real" danger and I'm proud and joyous for my growth.

What a beginning to a New Year.

Until next time,

Keith

HAPPY 2008!

And may this year bring you continued truth and joy and productivity and EVERYTHING you deserve. WE ALL DESERVE IT!

2007 ended quite in a whirlwind for me. Not only was I picketing the streets of NYC in honor of the WGA Strike, I had dinner with my mother's childhood friend and former neighbor, an artist, who told me my mother was a "bright, very bright" high school student and he was surprised she stayed in Cincinnati and chills ran through my body and reactivated my own personal and professional mission to do all that I want in this world.

Not only was I bed-ridden with a 6-day long flu [which was FEVER crazy], I stopped battling the grey in my goatee, rewrote a play, watched every film in my DVD collection and fell in love with COOLEY HIGH all over again.

Not only did one of my real good friends confess he was going to be a father, I realized there's much more room in my life to be happier and that it's really important to me that I live among a support system who really cares.

Not only did I decide to put myself first in my life, several so-called friends stopped reaching out to me because I stopped putting them first and the miracle is my life is much lighter and the real jewels of my life have emerged and it is grace to truly discover my own power and oh how lovely the day.

Not only does my life continue to ebb and flow and disappoint and surprise, I know it takes every bit of self-worth and ambition and love of my time on this planet to keep plowing and design my future with the divine power I was given at birth.

Until next time,

Keith