"Black people will make you crazy if you let them." he said. It was a solemn moment. There was a noticeable pause in our conversation. I glanced at his thin grey hands as he casually brushed the chalk dust on his lap. Grey strands began to peek their way in the forest of curly black hair atop his head. He was tired but pretended he wasn't, ensuring instead that I laughed at his jokes and was satisfied with his answers to my questions. I walked away in a daze, surprised by his undying positivity and hope even in the face of disappointment. That day, I prayed for patience and understanding.
Just a few weeks ago, I stumbled into an old record shop and bought a few records I wanted for a long time. Trane, the Wailers, Parker, etc. I played them all except one. The other day, I decided to change that. As Small Talk at 125th Street began to spin and crackle under the record player needle, I heard Gil-Scott Heron's voice and a chill came over me. I nodded my head and tapped my feet to the rhythms and recalled the first time I had been exposed to him in high school. He was kind and forceful all in one record. I went on-line to find some more vinyls of his and found out he had just passed.
I can't say I was shocked, but I'm unsure what to call that feeling. Even now, I'm not entirely sure how to feel or how I ought to respond. I simply felt compelled to write about discovering his genius, his honesty, rage and disappointment in my teenage years. Memories began to flood into my mind of when I first started listening to the beat poets and the Black Arts Movement poetry of Baraka, Heron, and the Last Poets. Memories of reading Angelou and Giovanni began to thunderstorm and leave puddles in my brain. They changed me forever.
As much as it shames me to admit this, tears welled up in my eyes, not for Gil or Abdios Nascimento, or the others who have passed on, but for the loneliness I imagine they must have felt at different points in their lives. Lives so committed to enriching the lives of others only to die in relative obscurity (in the case of the US response to Abdios who is from Brazil) or a few miles short of infamy in the case of the drug addicted Gil Scott Heron. I can't tell you how it disturbs me that many of my peers have no idea or even the slightest desire to know what I'm talking about. There are people who use their talents to give to something greater than themselves only to be met with contempt or scorn. That's pretty fucked up. I think there is probably a clever sentence about the relationship between Rick Ross' cocaine laced lyrics and the demise of the legendary, yet addicted Gil Scott Heron. Unfortunately, I don't have the state of mind to write it.
Its hard to see the things people work so hard to build for the greater good, destroyed by the very same people it was intended to serve and save.
Black people will make you crazy if you let them. The Revolution Won't Be Televised. Especially if we're paying attention to something else. Today, just like back then, I prayed for patience and understanding. Through Gil's words, he lives on.
Rest in Power G.S.H. Peace go with you brother.
