Tag Archives: pittsburgh

Let’s Talk About Trayvon Martin Today

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As the title suggests, I want to talk about Trayvon Martin today. I want to talk about his murder. I want to talk about the release of the 911 tapes. I want to talk about how I haven’t mustered the courage(?) to listen to them yet. I want to talk about how I begin to break down whenever I see his picture. I want to talk about the picture attached to this post, and how that baby-faced kid — a baby-faced kid who could have very easily been my little brother, my nephew, my cousin, my neighbor’s kid, my son, or, well, me — had no idea that he was going to be stalked, pursued, assaulted, and murdered before his 18th birthday just because he happened to be black at the wrong place in the wrong time. I want to talk about the fact that his murderer hasn’t been (and may never be) arrested. I want to talk about how, despite the fact that I know hate is wrong, I haven’t been able to think of a word strong enough to convey my hate for George Zimmerman. I want to talk about the effect this murder has had on his family, and how this unbelievably sad story has galvanized the nation.

When we’re done talking about Trayvon Martin, I want to talk about 19-year-old Anthony Scott and 6-year-old Aliyah Shell — the two youngest of the 10 people murdered in Chicago last weekend. Aliyah was killed in a drive-by shooting in broad daylight (3:30pm) as she sat on the porch with her mom. Anthony was called to a vehicle, and shot in the head as he approached it.

I’d also like to talk about 2-year-old Taizon Arin and 11-year-old Donovan McKee, two kids recently murdered by their mother’s boyfriends. Taizon died of blunt force trauma to the head. Donovan was ordered to get the sticks he was beat to death with, forced to clean up the bloody mess he made while his murderer took breaks from beating him to death, and eventually died after being beat over a nine hour span. 

If we have some time, I’d definitely like to say a few words about Kenneth Alford Jr, one of the dozen or so people I’ve personally known who’ve been murdered. It’s been almost six years since he was shot to death, and Kenneth — who was known as “Stubbo” by, well, everyone — was a friend of mine and a basketball rival I’d known since I was maybe 11 or 12.

It’s funny. I was a much better player than him — bigger, stronger, better shooter, better handle, just better — but he always got the better of me when we played against each other. As anyone who’s ever played ball will tell you, some guys just always have your number. Stubbo had mine, and it frustrated the hell out of me.

If he was still around he’d definitely be playing in one of the over-30 YMCA leagues I currently play in. He’s long gone, though — murdered because of mistaken identity — so I’m left to wonder if he’d still have my number.

Actually, I misspoke a couple paragraphs ago. When counting the dozen or so people I’ve known who have been murdered, I didn’t count former students — kids who sat in my classroom when I was an English teacher. If you add them to the list, that “dozen” number doubles.

I feel awful saying this, but I don’t remember each of their names. But, I do remember that I said a prayer for Chandler Thompson, Richiena Porter, Isaiah Talbott, and Stephen Tibbs every night for maybe three years straight.

It’s been a while since I’ve done that though, so maybe we can talk about them for (at least) a couple minutes today, for no other reasons then it’ll make me feel better about neglecting to pray for them and forgetting the names of the rest of their gunned down classmates.

Lastly, while I may be tempted to spark this discussion, we don’t have to talk about my 16-year-old and 19-year-old nieces. They were both shot at a Sweet 16 house party a few months ago, but they were both lucky enough to only suffer non-fatal wounds.

I don’t know where I’m going with any of this. I don’t know why I stopped praying for Chandler, Richiena, Isaiah, and Stephen. I don’t know what to do with all of this emotion, all of this feeling the murder of Trayvon Martin has left me with. I don’t know what do to. I do know, though, that any glance at the “Local News” section of any one of the 100(?) or so major American newspapers will sadly remind us that Trayvon Martin’s murder isn’t the only one we need to talk about today.

 —Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

My Pittsburgh Problem

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From young Wallace’s bewilderment when venturing outside of the city and hearing crickets for the first time to Chris informing Snoop that people from outside of the Baltimore/D.C. area probably wouldn’t be very familiar with go-go music, a constant theme from the HBO series The Wire was how isolated inner city Baltimore’s inhabitants were from the rest of the world. Although — if the atlas application on my phone is correct — they’re neighbors with Towson, Essex, Silver Spring, and others, they might as well have been stuck on the island from Lost, aware of their star-crossed fate but completely unequipped, unable, and ultimately unwilling to change it.

No character embodied this mindset more than Old Face Andre — a mid-level dealer who happened to fall out of favor with the ruthless and reptilian drug kingpin Marlo Stanfield. In a subplot so sad and predictable that it’s actually funny, instead of just packing up and leaving town, Andre thinks that moving from West Baltimore to East Baltimore will save him from Marlo’s wrath.

He was wrong.

I’ve watched the full series (at least) three times. (I watched it “live,” and I’ve also re-watched the entire series with each of my last two girlfriends; at times even delaying sex to continue debates about Bodie Broadus’ motivations and Bill Rawls closet homosexuality.) I also developed an appetite for any and all things The Wire, engulfing and devouring every message board post, interview, article, profile, and conversation I could. At this point, I’d confidently bet a day’s pay that unless David Simon happens to be your cousin, you don’t know anyone who knows more about The Wire than I do.

I always assumed that my infatuation with The Wire was somewhat due to my unique personal background. While the show may have been a bit too real for some who grew up in similar circumstances and too foreign for those who lived galaxies away from that world, I grew up in a gang-infested East Liberty but was shielded from most real adversity by my (married) parents, my private school education, and my basketball. This combination of familiarity and distance allowed me to recognize some of the characters and themes while staying (relatively) emotionally detached from it. I had friends who grew up in households as toxic as the teenage characters on the show, but the fact that none of that stuff went on in my house made it easier for me to adopt a bit of a sober, deconstructionist view when watching and speaking about it.

But, as I’ve come to learn, this was all bullshit. It’s definitely still true that my upbringing protected me from harm and implanted a certain appreciation for many of the themes present in the series, but the connection I had with the show had nothing to do that. It came down to one hard to swallow fact: I am Old Face Andre.

While every single one of my closest childhood friends have left Pittsburgh for “greener” pastures, I’m still here; leaving only for college and returning as soon as my degree and my basketball eligibility had been completed. I wish I could say that I made the decision to come back because I had a plan, a promising job opportunity, or even a girl I was smitten with, but I’d be lying. In reality, I always considered it to be an inevitability; a concretized step on a pre-destined path. I came back because I just couldn’t fathom being anywhere else.

I imagine you think I’m being hyperbolic, that comparing myself to a drug dealer so short-sighted and ignorant that he basically chose certain death over leaving Baltimore is a stretch, and you’re probably be right. With a limited education and an extensive rap sheet, Old Face Andre’s options were limited by a series of decisions — decisions either made by him or completely out of his control. Maybe he wasn’t actually in prison, but he was far from free, and considering his circumstances, moving to East Baltimore may have actually been his most feasible choice.

But while my situation is far from as dire as Andre’s, I can’t help but note the similarities between us. My choice to blog/write/edit full-time gives me real incentive to leave Pittsburgh, as most of the career-making new media opportunities that would best suit the type of work I do are found in New York City and Washington, D.C. Yes, it’s true that I don’t necessarily have to leave the Burgh to build the career I want to build, but staying would be like to deciding to walk to Cincinnati the next time I visit my family there. Sure, it can be done, but driving or flying (or, well, not going to Cincinnati at all) would probably be a better plan.

Mind you, this is no anti-Pittsburgh rant. While the tone of the last couple paragraphs may have implied that I think I’m somehow “better” than the Burgh, this couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, the city is undoubtedly better than me — talented, unpretentious, unflappable, and blessed with understated beauty. If the Burgh was a random babe at The Shadow Lounge or Savoy, she’d be out of my league, and I’d probably have a better chance with one of her less attractive cousins (Cleveland) or her extremely glamorous and extremely self-esteem deficient co-worker (Atlanta).

It’s just that…I don’t know. I don’t know what’s keeping me here. I don’t know why I didn’t even consider staying in Buffalo when done with school. I don’t know why I feel like I need to somehow be validated by Pittsburgh, like being successful somewhere else just wouldn’t matter the same way. I don’t know why this city means so gotdamn much to me, and I don’t even know if I want this feeling to change.

Despite my love for “The Wire,” I’ve always been ambivalent about Old Face Andre’s last appearance on screen. Captured by Marlo’s henchman and destined for certain death, he asks his soon to be murderers not to shoot him in the face so that he can have an open casket funeral. The request itself isn’t what stirs the ambivalence, though, as much as the tone he used when asking. He pleas the same merry familiarity that a person would adopt when asking the kid working the register at Giant Eagle to double bag his groceries. Not only is he completely resigned to his fate, it seems like he’s almost welcoming it; like he knows he doesn’t matter enough to even attempt to fight for his life.

I never quite felt that this particular scene worked as well as the rest of the show. I just couldn’t buy that a man in that situation would still be so casual, so jocular. But, perhaps he was just tired. Tired of living in fear. Tired of being haunted by Baltimore. Tired of the pathos. Tired of the self-imposed shackles. Tired of allowing himself to be manipulated by nostalgia. And perhaps his subconscious recognized that he was just ready for a change; something…anything not Baltimore.

If this is true, I understand.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love Gentrification

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If you were to leave my house, make a right turn, and drive a half mile down Penn Avenue, you’d pass Bakery Square — a 150 million dollar redevelopment project that became open for business a year ago and houses (among other things) a 115,000 square footGoogle office, Anthropologie, the Urban Active Fitness Club I now belong to, the Coffee Tree Roasters where I’m writing this entry, and the nearbyMarriottthat I’m stealing wi-fi from because the Coffee Tree connection gives you a two hour time limit.

If you drove 300 feet further and looked to your right, you’d see a Trader Joe’s and a shop that does repairs for custom bicycles that cost somewhere between “obscene” and “the approximate price of my life.” On the left hand side you’d pass a doomed shopping complex that houses aliquorstore, the nastiest dollar store that’s ever existed, a Weave Mart, and apredictablyhood supermarket my parentsaffectionatelycoined “BeBe’s Giant Eagle.”

Drive another 200 feet and you’ll run right into a spanking new Target. Behind this Target is a mix of $200,000 lofts and Section 8 housing. My barbershop is within a two block radius, as is Rent-N-Roll — a place where you can put 26′s on layaway (No, seriously. If you don’t believe me, go to their website) — Whole Foods, Rainbow, The Kelly-Strayhorn theater, and a homeless shelter/soup kitchen.

Also, if you were to look on a map, the name of this section of Pittsburgh would be “East Liberty.” But, if you happened to look at all of the recent signs and advertisements promoting this area, the name somehow morphs into “Eastside.”

This all makes me a living and breathingsolideron the country’s most important battlefield — a high stakes war where instead of machine guns and Humvees, the enemy is armed with Sperry Top-Siders and $13 cupcakes. Yes, my friends, I’m a first-hand witness to the world’s most retched 14 letter word: Gentrification.

Now, this is where you’re probably expecting me to talk about how jarring is it to see a community I grew up in undergo such change. Included would probably be a passionatetreatise about black people being displaced and black businesses getting priced out. I’d might even quote a passage from “The Bluest Eye” and cite something written bySister T. But, since I’ve obviously taken advantage of the many perks the gentrification has brought with it, you’re probably expecting me to end this piece with a paragraph or two describing my ambivalence towards the entire situation and a bit of genuine reflection about the guilt I feel for not leading the “reverse the redevelopment” movement

This is (partially) true. I am aware that these things are going on, and I am definitely ambivalent. But, I’m actually ambivalent about my complete and utter lack of ambivalence.

Basically, I really don’t give a f*ck about any of the gentrification negatives I’m “supposed” to care about, and I’m (kind of) worried that I’m supposed to.

I know I should care that many people who look like me are being forced out of this community. In fact, I actuallywant to care more. I want to feel like sh*t whenever I choose to get my produce at Whole Foods instead of BeBe’s Giant Eagle. I want to want to protest whenever I leave my barbershop and have to sidestep the pale-thighed joggers hoarding the sidewalk. I want to want to run up and kick the motherf*cker who’s walking his dog at night in a neighborhood where you couldn’t even wear red t-shirts 15 years ago.

I wonder if something’s wrong with me. I’m convinced that I’m supposed to be concerned, that I’m supposed to feel a perpetual uneasiness about the change going on in the “Eastside”; this gotdamn gentrification. Sh*t, I even hoped that writing this would induce at least a little bit of worry.

It hasn’t. I still really don’t give a f*ck, and it’s likely that I won’t find a f*ck to give any time soon.

Actually, you know what? Nevermind that. I’m going to go for a nighttime jog around the neighborhood with my girlfriend in a couple minutes. Afterwards, we’ll probably walk to BRBG and get some adult milkshakes. We might stop at Bakery Square and watch a Jazz show on the way back. There’s a chance we might see some of our friends there, and we’ll probably have a pretty good time.

Anyway, maybe I’ll find a f*ck to give when I make it back home.

The whole “I don’t give a f*ck” premise contains some hyperbole. I do care. I just don’t care nearly as much as I think I’m supposed to.

I’m lying. I don’t do jogging. I will walk briskly, though.

—The Champ

5 Signs That You’re In An Abusive Relationship

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“Black Johnny” — the Vietnam vet who used to sell bun-less hot dogs and green olives at halftime of Connie Hawkins Summer League basketball games — once t0ld me that some people “float to trouble like fried chicken crumbs to seat cushions.” Although I’m still not completely sure what Black Johnny meant — and I’m still not completely sure why we all called this high-yellow n*gga “Black Johnny.” I guess we were all just being really ironic – I can’t think of another person who better personifies this completely ridiculous and completely sensible home-spun saying than Miami Dolphins wide receiver Brandon Marshall.

Marshall, a perennial all-pro and native Pittsburgher (We can definitely breed em. What exactly are we breeding? I have no f*cking clue), has 515 words on his Wiki page devoted to accounts of his various arrests and run-ins with the law, so I wasn’t the least bit surprised when hearing that he had been stabbed in the gut by his wife last weekend.

From CNN

The wife of Miami Dolphins star receiver Brandon Marshall has been charged with stabbing him in the abdomen with a kitchen knife during a domestic violence incident, according to a report from the Broward County, Florida, sheriff’s office.

Michi Nogami-Marshall, 26, was charged Friday evening with aggravated battery with a deadly weapon, which allegedly occurred in their Southwest Ranches, Florida, home, according to the sheriff’s report.

The couple, who have no children, have been married one year and have been involved for 2 1/2 years, the sheriff’s report said.

Brandon Marshall, 27, told police that he “slipped and fell onto a broken glass vase,” the report said.

“However, the area of where the vase was broken indicated no blood within the immediate area to substantiate his claim,” the report said.

His wife then told police that she stabbed her husband “out of self-defense,” the report said.

“Both the victim and the defendant provided scant information regarding the incident itself,” the sheriff’s report said.

Now, I could be wrong, but after a quick scan of this article and Marshall’s Wiki page, my gut is telling me that Marshall and Nogami-Marshall are in a mutually abusive relationship.

Why definitely? Well, the numerous domestic disputes are a big giveaway. What really gets me, though, is the fact that she stabbed this n*gga in the stomach with a kitchen knife! You know where else they stab people in the stomach with non-lethal weapons? Prison. Basically, he got prison-shanked in his own house by his own wife.

But, not all abusive relationships give this type of conspicuous proof,and here’s 5 somewhat subtle signs that you just might be in one.

1. No one ever invites you anywhere as a couple

While the whole Rihanna/Chris Brown thing might be a regular and even mundane occurrence for you and your beau, no one wants to be the couple sitting in the same Cheesecake Factory booth of the couple who’s throwing ice cubes, pinky rings, and two-sided brushes at each other.

2. You’re not having sex

Look, I understand that couples occasionally go through droughts. I also understand that some of these droughts may be health related. But, if you’re two healthy people with a normal sexual appetite, a prolonged drought usually means one of two things:

A) Someone did some foul-ass sh*t, and the other is justifiably pissed

B) Someone did something that wasn’t really all that bad at all, and the other is an emotional terrorist withholding the coital ransom

Ok, forget about whether that “coital ransom” analogy made any sense (it didn’t). The main point is that whenever sex is intentionally withheld for a long period of time, it’s usually accompanied either by some type of mental, emotional, or physical abuse or someone found out that someone’s a Laker fan.

3. Your last relationship was abusive

For whatever reason, it seems like people who just got out of seriously abusive relationships need to be in relationships that are progressively less abusive, but still abusive, before they’re ready to be in one completely devoid of it. It’s almost as if they’re going from crack (Ike Turner) to methadone (Jim Brown) to cigarettes (Nas) to cupcakes (Peter the Apostle).

4. You’re always on eggshells

I’ve been here before, where I spent so much time living on “Wait, is the mention of this perfectly normal sexual act going to make her cry again?” and “If this Kool-Aid is too sweet, will she burn another one of my sneakers at dawn?” eggshells that I might as well changed my name to Salmonella. Don’t fret for me, though. Served me right for dating that damn Delta.

5. You find yourself being preemptively abusive

Truly abusive relationships sometimes end up morphing into a version of Stockholm Syndrome, where instead of turning into a martyr, you adapt to the conditions created by your emotional terrorist and you even start becoming exactly like them. You manipulate before you have the opportunity to be manipulated, kick before you have the chance to get kicked, disrespect in the sack before you have the chance to be disrespected.

Before you know it, you’ve become the Steven Seagal to their “lead smirking henchman in black,” and your entire life is one big clusterf*ck circle jerk of broken limbs, bed dred, police reports, and cold semen in your eye.

Anyway, people of VSB.com, did I forget anything? Can you think of any more signs that a person might be in an abusive relationship? Also, although men get the bulk of the abuser blame, do you think there’s any truth to the idea that women are frequently just as (if not more) abusive?

The carpet is yours.

—The Champ

If you havent purchased the paperback or the $9.99 Kindle version of Your Degrees Wont Keep You Warm at Night: The Very Smart Brothas Guide to Dating, Mating, and Fighting Crime yet, what the hell is stopping you? (No, seriously. Tell us and we’ll send Liz to fix it)

Three Possible Reasons Why Online Datings Just Not That Into Black People

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While a tad disappointing, I cant say that I was surprised after reading Love Isn’t Color-Blind: White Online Daters Spurn Blacks — the Time Magazine piece showing that African-Americans are the redheaded stepchildren of online dating. Based on a study from researchers at The University of California (Berkeley), this article merely reiterated what numerous sources — OKCupids How Race Affects The Messages You Get for example — have already stated: it just seems like online datings just not that into black people.

But, while this phenomenon has inundated us with Who and What (and a latent sense of black people just arent as attractive as others-ness), Im more curious about the Why, and I thought of three possible reasons.

1. Black people are just not that into online dating, either

Although the aughts brought with them a beginning to the end of the black communitys ongoing (and silly) tabooization of many dating practices (ie: white male/black female romantic couplings), the stigma attached to online dating remains intact.

Despite our increasingly lascivious love affair with Facebook and Twitter — and the time we waste, er, spend cultivating that romance a black person publicly admitting they actually sought out and met a potential romantic partner on the internet is akin to, well, a black person publicly admitting they actually sought out and met a potential romantic partner on the internet. While its generally considered to be cool if you happened to meet and date someone you happened to first meet online, nothings analogous to the level of simultaneous condescension and wheredeydothatat-ness admitting you joined a dating site usually receives.

I experienced this first hand a couple weeks ago while talking to Ms. Solomon of The Dating Truth and a few other single sistas at an open mic event. They were musing about the myriad dating difficulties present for black women in Pittsburgh, and when I suggested that online dating might be a reasonable and practical option, they each looked at me as if I suggested they start dating vegan midget pedophiles.

Quoting Ms. Solomon

“You’re not going to find hot guys on dating sites. Why? Cause hot guys are out living life, not sitting at some screen and hoping that some woman is going to think it’s cute that his profile says he likes dogs and Italian food.”

I realize this is anecdotal evidence, and I also realize other races/cultures may hold similar stigmas, but within our community, the mindset exhibited by Ms. Soloman tends to be the rule, not the exception.

Our general reluctance to embrace this part of 21st century life surely affects our success rate when we finally do, a fact leading to

2. Its not about online dating just not being that into black people much as its online dating just not being that into the type of black person whod make this decision

Both the OKCupid and the UC Berkley studies cited data showing that blacks were much more interested in meeting others than vice versa.

From the Berkley study:

Those who said they were indifferent to the race of a partner were most likely to be young, male and black, said Gerald Mendelsohn, a UC Berkeley psychologist, professor of graduate studies and lead author of the study, which will soon be submitted for publication.

Overall, he said, Whites more than blacks, women more than men and old more than young participants stated a preference for a partner of the same race,

The reluctance of whites to contact blacks was true even for those who claimed they were indifferent to race. More than 80 percent of the whites contacted whites and fewer than 5 percent of them contacted blacks, a disparity that held for young as well as for older participants.

OKCupid even showed that were less interested in meeting each other than we are with meeting others:

Men dont write black women back. Or rather, they write them back far less often than they should. Black women reply the most, yet get by far the fewest replies. Essentially every raceincluding other blackssingles them out for the cold shoulder.

While this can (and has) been interpreted as proof of a general lack of physical/sexual attraction for black people (and black women in particular), I dont share that self-defeatist opinion.

Instead Id argue that — because of our previously cited reluctance to de-stigmatize online dating — the black people who do embrace online dating are probably more likely to embrace it out of desperation, a last option, a final I need to find someone by any means necessary!!! salvo. While exceptions definitely exist, people at the end of their dating ropes usually tend to be (thinking of the least offensive way to say this possible) less desirable than those who arent, and its no surprise that they would encounter some of the same difficulties online theyd usually face while dating traditionally.

Basically, just like pretty girl problems…only the exact opposite.

3. The type of people (black and other) interested in virtual dating and in actually meeting black people might not be found on the sites cited by these studies

Five days from now, approximately 250 to 400 very smart people will descend on Washington D.C. to attend VSB Lounge, Episode 1: Three Deez — an event created, sponsored, promoted, and organized by a website that each of these 250 to 400 very smart people frequent. Books will be signed, Patron shots will be passed, and babies will be conceived in parking lots and bathroom stalls.

And, while the majority of the people planning to attend are probably just hoping to have a good time, the singles in attendance — many of whom would scoff at the idea of joining a dating site — probably wouldn’t mind if they happened to meet a potential mate while there.

My point?

Well, between VSB, high traffic message boards like Okayplayer.com, and even smaller blogs and Facebook groups, there are myriad venues available for black people interested in meeting potential romantic partners; venues that usually dont require fees and also provide a sense of community, making the virtual approach less stressful and unnerving. These people don’t usually frequent these sites just to troll for mates, but the commonalities present in the community makes them more likely to entertain the possibility of finding a partner.

Also, since OKCupid pulled from their own data and only major dating sites were cited by the Cal Berkeley study, both ignore the thousands of black people belonging to sites such as Black Singles and Black People Meet.

Lastly, while the OKCupid study did show that black women were less likely to get contacted than any other race, Id argue that the type of black person (man or woman) whos already lukewarm about intra-racial dating is probably more likely to join a site like OkCupid. Its not that black males who date virtually arent into black women, its that the black men who are interested in sistas can probably be found somewhere else. I’d imagine that if you asked black men in Irish pubs in Boston and black men in Baltimore IHOPs to share their thoughts about black women, the results might be a little different.

When you add these factors together, you can make the case that its not so much the concept of online datings usually just not that into black people but predominately white dating websites usually just arent that into black people still not surprising, but much less disappointing and pessimistic.

Anyway, people of VSB.com, I’m curious: How do you feel about online dating? Would you consider joining a dating site or physically meeting a person you grew fond of on a site like VSB?

Also, can you think of any other reasons why this taboo exists?

The carpet is yours.

—The Champ