Facebook Watches Us: Trump's War on Wokeness Comes Home

I don't know how they did it but Meta has piped into my crib. You see, my building is secure with cameras throughout. I found a comfort in this initially but my feelings lately have changed. I feel surveilled.

I think that the good people at Meta have taped into our video server and seek amusement by just watching us. I have been made aware that the whites enjoy watching us in our most private moments. Zuck. you hired some real sick fucks.

They have tapped into our feed no doubt for DOGE and the Trump administration in search of the Woke. Trump has declared a war on the so-called Woke. This is how they plan to annihilate us, playing with our lives to the point of attempting to drive us to the point of madness. Blackmail, too. Putting an eviction on our credit which would lead to permanent homelessness. 

They are engaging in psychological and spiritual warfare with the tenants of my building. Their plan was sophmoric. I figured it out within weeks. The plan was to make me feel like my personal issues were somehow very public. To weaken my confidence by making me feel that I "stink."

Dumb, poor, white trash. Absolute basura, that crawled out here from the Midwest trying to take a piece of prime affordable housing. What they fail to realize is that this is Huey's town. It is the only Chocolate City on the West Coast and due to our history, will ALWAYS be a Chocolate City. 

I insist that Oakland Police Department and Menlo Park Police Department launch an investigation into Meta abusing it's immense power in the Bay Area to try to evict Black tenants to swap in white ones. Some white people are so stupid. How on earth they have all that they have is beyond me. 

On second thought, I know how-- from theft, rape, murder and racketeering. Trump said he wanted war. Like Pac said, I got myself together and I'm preparing for war. I'm indigenous mixed with Negro. This is my country by at least 15 generations. Let's fight. Im a heavy weight. Like Muhammad Ali, I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Viva la peuple!

What Whitney's Death Means To Me

Whitney Houston's death shocked the globe. Houston's songs were a fixture for three decades. If you lived through the '80s and/or '90s chances are Houston's voice had graced your ear in some memorable way. Since her passing she has been honored from Detroit to Dubai. 

She was to pop music what Billie Holiday had been to jazz. She left this life the most awarded singer of all time. We hear little of this Guinness Book of Records fact in the media these days. Her greatest accomplishments have been usurped by her greatest fail, orchestrating her very own death with drug and alcohol abuse at the age of 48. How will she be remembered?

Whitney Houston was my generation's answer to Diana Ross. She was statuesque and glamorous with a voice of pure soul. We presumed she had a certain class about her in the early years and readily put her on a pedestal reserved for virgin princesses. I suppose it was a lot of pressure being R&B royalty at 22 and in the mid-80s. Cocaine was ubiquitous in Hollywood and omnipresent back home in Newark, NJ. Add the pressure of living in the public eye and the excess of a music business celebrity lifestyle and Houston's eventual drugs addiction can read as probable.

By 1992 Houston had married Bobby Brown and rumors of their drug use circulated through the Black community. Some said Bobby got her hooked on coke. Some said don't believe the hype and contended that Bobby was simply on marijuana before Whitney introduced HIM to coke. Still, some couldn't truly admit that Whitney was an addict until watching her and Bobby's reality show, "Being Bobby Brown" where their strange behavior could only be explained as that of folks hiding something. When that tabloid shot surfaced of Whitney's vanity sink covered in what was suppose to be her vice trash-- cigarette boxes, a beer can, some crack rocks on a plate-- her public image noose-dived. She spent the years since on the fringes.

Bill O' Reily proclaimed on his show that Whitney wanted to kill herself. Some folks were in an uproar over his statement. Albeit he was curlish with his words, I think he made an interesting point. According to Sigmund Freud,  all self-destructive behavior can be explained by a death drive, a  death wish, we have as humans in this society to kill the pain of living.

If one subscribes to Freudian theory, the compulsive, repetitive behavior of abusing drugs and alcohol was Whitney's way of living out her death wish. No one would imagine on a conscious level Houston wanted to leave her prized daughter Bobbi Christina. However, she knew the dangers of her lifestyle but continued on a destructive path as her demons took over. Houston clearly lived in a world of pain and pressure as even she knew her voice was no longer The Voice. Under normal circumstances it's difficult for a singer to maintain the voice of her youth into the golden years. However, with abuse to the cords and body a singer cannot often maintain her optimum sound.

Yet she did what all great talents do, she mounted a comeback.

Many great women in the music industry have fallen victim to drug abuse and premature death while navigating the scene. Phenomenal singers from Billie Holiday to Janis Joplin to Amy Winehouse suffered from infamous addictions before untimely deaths. Fast and loose living is not a recipe for longevity.

If only she would leave Bobby they said. She finally left Bobby. Still, her drug addiction ensued. Ray J, her sometime companion, claimed he had no knowledge of her cocaine use. Either the man is an idiot or he's lying. Neither of these possibilites bodes well for his character in my opinion.

Houston's life will serve as one of the great cautionary tales of fame, love and drugs. While watching her tell her story to Oprah in 2009, I was struck by what a survivor she was. A real tough broad. May she alwaysbe rememberedas TheVoice. She certainly will be to me.

To Catch A Snake

To Catch A Snake

When I was 3 years old I was playing alone on our balcony when I saw a jump rope miraculously turn into a green snake and slither across the cemented ground. That's when I knew that I could see and sense things that others could not. 

I had the gift of discernment. Fast forward to 2025. According to Chinese astrology, we are living in The Year of The Snake and I have been bitten, I suspect, by a good friend. 

I met her nearly 20 years ago on a junior college campus where I took a Statistics course. One day after class I was walking to my candy apple red Mitsubishi Eclipse when I heard a voice addressing me from behind. The voice flagged me down with a bevy of, ”Girl, girl, girl.”

I turned around to discover a woman who was as wide as she was tall. She had dyed blonde hair and gang tattoos all over the parts of her body that I could see. I stopped to talk to her. She asked me my age. I told her. I must have been about 32. She said she was looking for a girlfriend for her son, who had to have been 6 years my junior. I let her know that I was in a relationship but that I was flattered. 

The following week our instructor put us in a group together with several other students. We gravitated to each other and would hang out outside of class and group meetings. 

The first thing I noticed about Linda was her loud mouth. She always had to be heard and have the last word. What I've learned in life is that the loudest person in the room is the weakest, most insecure person in the room. Let's say she was very insecure. Anyway, I passed the class but she didn't. Nonetheless, we would stay in touch. 

Our friendship quickly turned rocky. We had a love/hate dynamic that I found troubling. We would go months without talking. I couldn't stand how competitive she was with me. She had been a teenage drop-out/runaway at 13 turned into a teen mom at 14. She liked to wear a facade of toughness and for the most part I would let her. I really didn't care either way.

We did the on again, off again thing some friends do as if they were lovers. I really grew to trust her because she groomed me to look at her as though she was my consigliere. You know how you get a vibe off someone that they are not cool people to be around? I catch vibes all the time as an empath. So, let me tell you how shook I was to find out that my good friend was not really a friend to me. 

 

I suspected there was something odd about our bond when she got 2 cars just like I had– a Mitsubishi Eclipse and a Ford Focus. Wouldn't that throw up a red flag to you? On some Single Black Female shit, am I right?

I'm a Taurus and she's a Gemini. It's said that we can find harmony in our friendship but I'd have to say Katie provoked the majority of our quarrels. She would turn on me like a vicious, junkyard dog. Truth be told, she was just a mean girl.

During our last hiatus Katie (name changed for privacy) got a body by Stanford Medicine. She dropped 125 pounds and got all the surgeries to remove her flabby skin. She also had her gang tattoos removed. I was happy for her. 

I, on the other hand, had picked up 25 pounds since we'd last spoken. I'd gained the weight while caring for my mother in her last days. She was very dejected to hear about my mother's passing. However, as soon as she could she had to point out the irony of her losing weight and me gaining weight. I was like, “whatever.” 

I made the choice not to fall into the trap she tried to set up for me. I'm too mature to be jealous of the next female. What I felt was that I was dealing with someone with the emotional intelligence of a goldfish. In The Year of The Snake I found one that I called a friend. I began to hold her at arm's length. This is something I had to do with the contrarian. The thing is that I loved her but I love myself too much to deal with someone I can't trust. Toxicity is not my get down.

I have a gift for picking up vibrations. Katie gave up good vibes until she turns into a transformer. Then hold your hats, folks. In the last couple of years I've been single. Not much to write home about. While we were on good terms, Katie would always probe me for information about my dates. I look at it as a little invasive but I didn't see the harm of sharing these things with someone I considered to be a good friend.

One thing I noticed about Katie that I never liked is the amount of gossiping she engaged in. I should have known that she was spilling my tea as much as she spilled everyone else's.

Her treachery was confirmed to me last week when we fell out for good. It started with a simple text I sent her on what I thought was the day after her latest surgery. I basically texted her, “Tag bitch, you're it!” I didn't think much of it. We curse all the time. Well, she decided she'd get all bent out of shape. She reached deep into her gutter world to accuse me of “opening my legs” to 7 men. I was flabbergasted. First off, I'm grown. I don't report to her. Second, that's a straight lie. And third, we can't all let cobwebs form over our stuff.

I will not use this opportunity to bash her because I was raised to have more class than that. I'll just say she's in no position to judge me. None at all.

So, I find that I must ghost a good friend because she's a snake. I know with certainty that she spread my supposed business in the streets. The best parts of her will be missed. But that Alpha female energy won't be missed.

If there's one thing I learned from Coppola's Godfather saga I would say it would be to keep your friends close but your enemies even closer. I'm still trying to figure out which end of the spectrum Katie is on. Who really sent her my way. Time will tell.

My Memories of Philo: How Kevin Weston Lives On

Until I got the call from an old colleague that another one of my former colleagues from my Pacific News Service days was diagnosed with an extremely rare form of leukemia and that he was in fact weeks away from dying, I didn't realize just how much I loved Kevin Weston. 

He wasn't just a friend, sometimes a rival, he was my brother. He meant so much to so many and my gut burned while my heart bled to think he wouldn't just be around the Bay, pen and paper in hand, speaking truth to power as our key mentor and boss Sandy Close, Executive Director of PNS, had always encouraged us to do. What the fuck now? He passed a little over a decade ago and he has been memorialized all over the Bay. It's time I tell folks the Kevin I knew.

I recall the first time I saw Kevin. He was lounging on a cyan blue loveseat fitted next to Malcolm Marshall, son to Mr. Joe Marshall who had a long running show on KMEL radio, what at the time was the Bay Area’s premiere Hip Hop station called Street Soldiers that encouraged wayward youth of all persuasions to do better.

Kevin sat there, round eyed, hair long yet crowning his hair in waves that defied gravity in its majesty. The thing I remember most were what I'd learned would be his trademark headphones that he wore like a W.A.S.P. wears her favorite pearls everyday. He was a cool cucumber from the get. 

It was a Monday which was the day we held our editorial meetings. I was curious what this cat had to say.

We circled the motley seating and got down to business with an assortment of 20 or so writers and editors. We discussed the hottest topics of the day. What I was left with about Kevin, Philo to his friends, was that he was a quiet genius. He could tie events together that would appear incongruent to most.

In no time Kevin was a regular around the office in the Transbay Plaza across the street from the Transbay Terminal in San Francisco's Financial District. Boy, those were the days.

Picture it. It was the mid-nineties. All these foreigners weren't hear yet. The Bay was not besieged by mid western Hoosiers. Local talent actually had a shot at landing good jobs. I went from being a founding member of the youth paper I named YO! Youth Outlet to become Senior Editor of our monthly rag in a matter of 2 years. 

We were bumping shoulders with movers and shakers, from Maya Angelou, to Toni Morrison, Gloria Steinem, Pam Grier, Eric Benét, Robin Williams to the darn so-called inventor of the internet, Al Gore himself. 

Let's not discuss all the great places we could have lunch. Being in power positions during our lunch hours we sometimes run a couple hours long. We got to write these meal breaks off as brainstorming sessions. We'd hit up Pepito's just below our office that made the best burritos ever. 

I had phenomenal mentors like our Editor Nell Bernstein, Joan Walsh, Lisa Margonelli, Hugh Pearson and photographer Rick Racamora. Our most famous colleague Richard Rodriguez got famous for writing about bilingual education, ESL, Hunger of Memory, but he was never interested in assisting Black youth. 

Kevin and I had a special bond. We made the cover of the most popular paper in the world, USA Today, together. The topic was OJ Simon and we set the media and nation ablaze. 

Kevin actually got a chance to go on Rolanda, which was a popular talk show that rivaled Geraldo and Sally Jessica Rapheal. I was down south at a family reunion and wasn't answering calls which was just as well. I don't much like public speaking. 

Eventually, Kevin even made the New York Times. These gained him much respect from the young men in the office, particularly Russell Morse who hung around him like a puppy dog.

One memory sticks in my mind. I was all of 21, living in the Polk in my own studio. My rent was $525, I kid you not. I waited for the new Junior Mafia project with Biggie Smalls as I wrote a lot of Arts & Entertainment pieces. I copped one of the first copies of it from the Tower Records on Van Ness.

I called Philo on my landline and told him he had to come through and hear it. So, he slid by and I played the slaps. The stand out was Get Money. We loved it. It represented a change in zeitgeist from earning a living to just getting it by any means necessary. If you weren't born yet, you really missed out.

We smoked some bomb and climbed the fire escape to reach the roof. The view was gorgeous. We were feeling a little naughty so we looked in a few of my neighbors’ windows and laughed at the naked ones and lost it when we caught one jerking his chicken. 

The last time I saw Philo was at PNS reunion around 2010. He embraced me and pinched my cheeks. His soon to be wife Lateefah Simon who I interviewed for Ms. Magazine (She won a 6-figure prize being honored with a Mac Arthur Genius Award). 

It was great seeing the whole gang. I corresponded with him on messenger to let him know that I was praying for him and his family. Shortly before he passed away I posted a picture, chest out, chin up, hair long, arms akimbo. Kevin left a one word comment, DIVA. I was touched. I even shed a tear.

I couldn't make his services. Some homegoings are like that. I didn't want to break down in public withoutsomeonedesignatedtocomfortme. Kevin meant so much to those he crossed paths with. He was a leader. He made white boys like Russell Morse feel cool. It seemed like everyone wanted to claim a piece of Kevin. I preferred to step back and give the floor to Lateefah and their sweet baby girl. 

The Diva in Flatland Diva is all Kevin “Philo” Weston. It's my homage to him as Flatland is a moniker I acquired from Huey P. Newton's first paper that Sandy Close edited, The Flatlands.

Can you see how I'm a little miffed that Google and Yahoo are trying to erase me by removing my blog from its search engine yet every hate group under the sun gets love from Silicon Valley? I’m indigenous. You are all invaders to me.

Rest easy, Philo. In Jesus's name I pray, Amen.

Photo by Unknown 

Photo by Rick Rocamora

Photo by nephew to which Philo named me DIVA. Thanks for everything Kevin. Even the last meal of Chicken Masala we ate around the corner from the office when I was so manic you had to talk sense into me between bites of chicken and rice. Lol. Miss you. 

Let It Go: Afghanistan Must Stand On It’s Own

By Andrea N. Jones

Im an old tyme Black American who is beginning to feel a certain way about immigrants and foreigners. Like, maybe they’re just using us. Many Afghans have been upset about our withdrawal from their country. We only spent 2 TRILLION DOLLARS+ taking care of them the past 20 YEARS. Yet, they are so DEPENDENT that they have the nerve to guilt us for leaving all over the AIRWAVES. 

I say “Oh well, I show hate it.” Afghans are very basic being they come from a land of dirt rocks and opium poppies. They believe the calendar year to be 1391. The way they treat women is worse than a dog fares there. They’re ass backwards in thinking to the point that a Taliban could arise with such crushing force to democracy there. I know how democracy is also fragile here, which  has been apparent with the rise of Donald J. Trump.

However, the irony is that they and other foreigners can give TWO FUCKS about Americans. In fact, they look to take ADVANTAGE OF US at every turn. If Afghanistan descends into hell, Afghans have NO ONE to blame but themselves. 

Expect The Taliban to be a threatening fixture against the U.S. government for the next 100 years. They here, as it were..

Do you know what AMERICANS could have done with that money? Do you know what Black folk could have done with 2 TRILLION DOLLARS+???? Come on now. However, the United States government would rather give $2 trillion+ to Afghans than they would to niggas. 

RACISM IS REAL. BLACKS ARE ALONE. ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery) stand alone.

In high school, my closest friend was Afghan. I’ll call her F.N. I met her the first day of freshman year at James Logan High in Union City, California. She literally came up to me while our school I.D.’s were being made and said to me this, “Hello, my name is F. I heard your stepfather is an alcoholic. My father is also an alcoholic. Let’s talk.” From that point onto junior year, we were nearly INSEPARABLE. 

I very quickly discovered that F. loved all things BLACK. She devoured books on The Harlem Renaissance, watched Spike Lee movies with me and listened to my music from artists like Minnie Riperton and Stevie Wonder. All this CULTURE she received directly from me. I felt like a DOPE PUSHER because of the way she always needed more. Anyway, with years and distance, we grew apart.

Fast forward 20 years. We’re both journalist. However, this bitch beat me to a publishing house and released a book entitled Opium Nation, a memoir. Within it, she mentioned me NOT ONE time. Instead, she created a fictitious composite and made the girl AFGHAN. FAKE BITCH. 

In fact, at the book signing I attended of F.N., her twitchy-eyed sister couldn’t WAIT to run up on me talking about, “How does it feel that your BEST FRIEND published a book?” I just stared at the hoe. Wtf! Bitch, yo hoe ass sister is NOT MY BEST FRIEND. She’s a liar, cheater (constantly cheated in her A.P. classes), shoplifter and likes sucking white dick. How can a sheisty OPPORTUNIST be my best friend?

I spoke to F. recently, at which time the hoe told me, “Nicci, no one owes you ANYTHING.” Lol. I thought to myself “Okay, Fucktard. I don’t owe you shit either.” So, in kind, America owes Afghanistan nothing. 

Afghans owe themselves the ability to think on their own feet; to stand on their own. Self-determination is everything when it comes to organizing a civilization. If one can’t get with the Age of Aquarius we’re currently influenced by, according to the ancients, when man has gone from needing a middleman to think to man being able to think for himself, there’s little I can do to help them.

I distinctly remember an occasion that has always stuck with me. Fariba came to visit me at my home in San Francisco’s Polk District. She went to great lengths to let me know that she was “white.” I couldn’t believe this shit. 

The only reason the government considered Afghans white in wide ranging comfortable was in order to boost white folks' census bureau numbers. Whites are very desperate to appear as a majority body politic.

I hear Iranians (Persians) are also on the fast track to being white in America. Foreigners come here and surpass blacks not because they work much harder but, in my opinion, because of their proximity to all mighty whiteness.

I’m airing Fariba Nawa out because I have decided that I owe this hoe nothing as she is a BACKSTABBER. So, I thought it was only RIGHT I return the favor. I REFUSE to carry the water of people who mistreat me any longer. 

People say don’t poke a panther and they’re right. 👀👀

Chris Rock, Call Me: Why I Need To Date A Baller

Last night I dreamt I was dating Chris Rock and it was nothing short of magical. I woke up to the revelation that for the most part I've spent 25 years dating the wrong kind of brothers. Not only have these black men been spiritually broke but they've all been financially strapped, making under 100K a year while living beyond their means.

Being both a writer and uberly politically conscious has not made making money my strong suit. I've been considered "financially immature" and have even been asked to disclose my credit score on a first date by a man who presented himself as well-to-do for being an entrepreneur who inherited a million dollar home in San Francisco. Most writers struggle and for those of us with a sociopolitically conscious it's even harder to make ends met. However, I make due with what I earn. 

To top it off I've spent the last 16 months caregiving for my mother who is terminally ill with cancer. So, needless to say, I've been deemed not fit for the dating pool as there is no romance without finance. In today's economy a sister is expected to earn if she's ever expected to be considered marriage material for most brothers.

Your average black man (perhaps due to his inferior earning power compared to white men and even sisters) seems to believe that if a woman is not financially secure enough to take care of his wants she's not worth dating, forget about marrying. A part of me gets it. If they're out there grinding harder than a monkey pumping at an accordion on a fool's shoulder, they expect you to do the same. Hell, I'm the woman (new mommy), I'm suppose to pump even harder than them as they are well aware of all the sisters out there making it happen. Thus, I'm viewed as being a burden and easily replaceable.

I've spent many a day as of late feeling completely inadequate. I've shed many tears of loneliness and sadness. I'm slowly losing my mother because "Killer Kaiser," her HMO, neglected to diagnose her cancer at an early stage even though she practically lived their with appointments. 

She's all I've got as my father wants nothing to do with me most of the time because of my views. My stepfather has been a rock to me which has been a blessing. However, let's face it-- this is a cold world without a loving mother of your own in it. 

All these years she's been here for me, almost providing a bridge of love and care I would have loved to have gotten in a good long term relationship but never found. What now? What do I do now??

I've just been lost.

And then I have this dream. It's turned everything I've been feeling about my situation on it's head. Instead of waking up more drained than I was the prior night, I felt rejuvenated.

Now, I ain't saying I'm a gold digga. But I've definitely been messing with the wrong negus. 

I've been dating men who buy into the notion that the system is somehow right. That a college degree equals excellence. That it's cool for people to discriminate based on earnings and credit scores.

Sadly, most people are conditioned to think this way because it's been force fed to them by the dominant ruling class from birth. Even Suze Orman can see through the game. That it's rigged against the majority of people, particularly so against so called minorities.

A truly woke person wouldn't expect the person they're in a relationship with to sell out in order to love. But capitalism edicts this. As the black thinker/lecturer/author Shahrazad Ali states, there are plenty of financially successful black women out there but it doesn't inform whether or not they can make a good wife and a happy home.

Enter Chris Rock. He's a white hot talent who is solidly in the black financially. A black man like him, a shot caller, isn't looking for a woman to match him dollar for dollar because like Jamie Foxx says, he's got his own.

My dream revealed to me what I knew all along-- capitalism is for shit. Which is to say our economy is no good for the artist who doesn't burn a searing hot brand to their flesh as was done to mark our ancestors in chattel slavery. 

After all, a good conscious daughter helped turn this black man...

into this black man...

doing amazing things for the black community. And she isn't a millionaire. Kaep is still a baller even though so called owners don't want to touch his fire now that he has refused to pledge allegiance to the flag or whatever. What Colin Kaepernick knows is that mo' money isn't everything. He's discovered that all love, such as that All-American love, isn't good love. But black love shared within the community is everything. For some of us it's all that matters. 

So, I'll keep hope alive that a true baller, shot caller, will cross my path to make a beautiful life with me and not my pocketbook.

The Miseducation of Latinos: The Myth of Black Brown Unity

I moved into my new crib earlier this month. I was immediately met with anti-black racism. Workers called out “nigger” to me as I was minding my own business when I heard these waves of disrespect. I confronted 3 Latino workers in my hallway. I said, “Excuse me? That's not something nice people say.” They wore their cowardice on their sleeves and walked away as one actually had the very nerve to tell me to, “go away.”

I've grown up around Latinos (Mexicans in particular) so, I know when I am actually liked and when I'm being placated. The level of disrespect I've experienced since Trump has been back in power by Latinos has been nothing short of group think.

They hate us for our freedom. We have a sense of self-autonomy that Latinos are just now beginning to achieve in pockets. They want to be black– why not? We do as we please. They, on the other hand, have to follow the rules, per their parents and the pope. They have the suck-ass jobs now. They worship a lesser god, Lucifer, truth be told. Their god is no match for mine, the great I Am. The Almighty God. 

I have been harassed and insulted one too many times by coconuts. I eat coconuts. I don't make friends with them.. The time to close ranks is now. 

I agree with the President and MAGA on this topic. They have gotten besides themselves. It's time they go home. They don't want the American Dream, they want the whole nine. The whole kit and caboodle, all for themselves, La Raza, and they haven't even build it. Like MAGA, they wish to turn the fabric of America to one that disenfranchises the rights of Black people. 

It's not going down. I'm not as straight edge as Trump but I think the ones that stay should be those who know how to cooperate. Those aggressive types with the Aztec pride haircuts and bigger attitudes need to go. They don't want to share and I don't trust that they'll care about Black America. They want to vomit their Catholic machismo over us all. That's a pass for me, Dawg.

Trump has long accused Latin men of being rapist. This is not the truth. They are sexually repressed because of the religion. Their women think sex is only for making babies. So, they seek outside pussy. The Vatican controls the culture and as such keeps it in the Dark Ages.

We saw this with the way Latinos voted this past election cycle. The men's machismo kept them from supporting the candidate that had their best interest at heart. That coupled with voter suppression led to Trump's 2nd term. 

Some believed they could make the best of a Trump administration. If you can't beat them, join them, many began to believe. The idea of America becoming a Christian country doesn't sound half bad. However, this is dangerous. A theocracy in this country would lead to a new era of Witch Hunts. Millions could die, burned at the stake, tried by fire. 

As a flag-loving American, I fear a future where America becomes a theocracy. It would mean that no other religion would be tolerated. Thus, all practicing other religions would be considered a enemies of the state. This could be punishable by death. 

One Latino politician out of Texas called his constituency “simple people.” Many were outraged by this but I understood what he was getting at. They would not understand the nuance and would blindly support theocracy. This must not happen.

This must be curtailed if we are to remain a secular nation. Let's see if they've learned anything this coming election cycle.

I can't forget to mention that Latinos were fire bombing black families’ home in L.A. just recently.To further illustrate how brown people are not to be trusted since they rode our coattails to benefit from the Civil Rights Movement, 

I've had strange activity on my cell since I've moved into my new crib. I'm talking emails missing, slow phone charging and hearing audible commentary in the background on my end. Turns out a group of Mexicans have had access to my phone's screen, my Google and Yahoo accounts. 

I believe they targeted me because im unapologetically Black, can afford to live alone (not living on top of others) they're jelly that I'm an attractive, independent woman that doesn't need a man to validate me. I'm a real grown up. They, on the other hand, have to live by family rules, bless their hearts. They can't imagine a woman being self-possessedl. So they decided to violate my rights as we live in lawless times. 

Simply put, I don't trust Latinos. I'm about my people even though I had a half Mexican grandparent. That makes no difference to folks that are seeking dominion over Black people– to skip the line to get a piece of the devil’s pie. 

Latina treat me the worse. Funny thing is I happened to view dating profiles recently of women looking for men and about 80 percent of the Latinas put their race as white. I was blown away. Not to be trusted. Backstabbers. And like Forest Gump says, that's all I have to say about that. 

Why Tupac Claimed Oakland

They say I talk a lot of shit. They say I deserve the mollywhoops I get. I say, no, I’m just really from The Town– Oakland, California. It’s an Oakland thing and you might not understand. I'll explain. Oakland is Home of The Mack, Home of The Player, Home of The Game. Watch Goldie in “The Mack” if you’re truly so young or too clueless to get it (no offense).

Black people have had to make lemonade for 500+ years since coming in contact with European colonizers. When the strongest among us are knocked down 9 times, we get up 10. Tupac would prove to be one of the strongest among us. He was raised in Baltimore, Maryland and later moved to Marin City, California with his sister and mother, Afeni Shakur, at 13. Still, he bypassed San Francisco, The City across the bay, to claim Oakland. It wasn't long before Tupac hooked up with Sock G (Mr. Humpty Dance) and Digital Underground on the Oakland-Berkeley border. There's good reason for this and it's rooted in Oakland history.

Today, Blacks are gaslit when we discuss our plight in a country we built, in a world we have been great stewards of for a couple million years before other races existed. Gatekeepers limit our educational and career choices. We are treated like basura (trash) half the time by anyone and everyone (sometimes even our own).

Here in Oakland, the Black community takes pride in being, as we say, “off the plantation.” We believe our black bodies are our own. By and large, we don’t look for trouble but when it comes we are not afraid of a fight. We'll give you the business in a minute. The revolution is in our words.

Back in the 1940’s and 1950’s, Oakland was a hub of urban activity and entertainment. We had a vibrant street culture that grew out of segregation. We became known as the home of pimping from the great amount of sex trafficking taking place here as it was the end of the line for the Transcontinental Railway from the east coast and, you know, white boys get horny.

The railways employed Black men to cater to the needs of its passengers as Pullman Porters. Many of the passengers were white businessmen. Along the way, Porters would ear-hustle information that they would share amongst each other and people in the Black community here at large. We were more sophisticated and progressive than other Black communities throughout the country which is why the Black Panther Party thrived here.

It's the knowledge that was freely shared that had awakened a young Huey P. Newton, a transplant from Alabama who founded the juggernaut Black Panther Party and later would radicalize and season Tupac Shakur, the son of the influential and powerful Black Panther member Afeni Shakur. 

I’ve run into numerous women in the streets of Oakland who have sang the praises of Afeni and her care for them at the time of the struggle times of the 1960's and 70's, from the Panthers’ founding to its dissolution around the height of the crack epidemic. They credit Afeni with keeping them focused on liberation and not getting caught up with older male members whose natural desire was to gravitate towards available sex from the younger female members. 

One member named Cynthia told me that Afeni, frankly, kept everyone “in line.” She also provided safe shelter to younger female members who may have runaway from home to join the movement. 

In the 90's I attended a symposium held for Afeni Shakur. I was juiced to talk to her afterward as this was about 2 years after her son Tupac's death. Just as i was about to approach her the whote girl I brought along had an absolute meltdown. Me, honestly, trying to be a good girlfriend left before ever getting to speak to her. I can only blame myself for being so foolish. That girl and I don't even speak anymore. I had so many questions and although I didn't plan to take up too much of her time. It was an act of sabotage although I didn't realize that at the time. 

Tupac was a rap god of women, weed and weather like no other. He mixed together sex appeal for the ladies, strength for the men and anti-oppression for the whole community. I believe he claimed Oakland because brothers in The Townv are different. They are on a 24/7 hustle to get to the bag. There is money to be made in the bay. This is still Gold Countr. 

A key tenet of The Pimp Game in The Town is "pimps up, hoes down." Tupac made hoes of his enemies, eviserating them in 16-bars. He was quite curlish. "That's why I fucked yo' bitch, you fat motherfucker" he rhymes in Hit 'Em Up. Ouch!

Tupac was a Black man who wore the weight of our community on his shoulders when most Black celebrities are paid very well to turn a blind eye to the plight of our people. Oakland is a Chocolate City where Blacks take pride in our joy and beauty. 

Many subscribe to conspiracy theories that the government was truly behind Tupac's murder and not the two suspects that were at one time under investigation. This is due to the fact that he was viewed as a threat to the American society's systematic racism towards Blacks since the colonists made oppression the status quo.

However, with Oakland being the home of modern, high-tech surveillance with programs like COINTELPRO a counterintelligence program that's purpose was to use the resources of the FBI to prevent the rise of a so-called Black Messiah. 

Then they flooded the community with drugs, guns and gangster rap. Tupac committed what Black Panther Chairman Dr Huey P. Newton called Revolutionary Suicide by bucking racism to be the voice of Foundational Black Americans (FBA). Unapologetically, at that. 

Millions around the world were shook when the 25 year old was murdered by an assassin who escaped justice for nearly 30 years now. Even though things often change, since Tupac's death, The Bay Area has never been the same. 

Tupac was hot-headed but he didn't deserve to die. Sadly, Black lives don't matter to colonizers and they never will. White supremacy like the Charlie Kirks and Nick Fuenteses don't believe in empathy or compassion and believe we should normalize suffering. How can you follow Christ and believe in its core tenets.

 They're running an old con game they inherited from their ancestors. They are Romans masquerading as Christians. Don't believe their hype. The white man is the biggest liar of all time. Just look at your president. Need I say more?

This is why we must stand firm on protecting our hard-fought for Civil Rights that every other subgroup has benefitted from more than us. Tupac embodied the bold spirit of Oakland's Black community. Even though we are not hegemonous we have united in the past and we must continue to do it. 

These white Christian Nationalist are busy. We need to match their energy. Malcolm X said that America was unique in that here we had the opportunity to have a bloodless revolution Ibelieve Tupac would agree.. Tupac is heavy in my playlist as a reminder that I'm a powerful being, grown, an individual and proud of my lineage. 

Stay vigilant and safe. Theocrats are determined to usher in The End of Days because much to their shearing they up and realized that they are outnumbered by POC (whites comprise only 7 percent of the population so they'd rather take everyone out with them in a  Reverend Jim Jones move). Don't drink the Kool-Aid. Tupac wouldn't. 

Your Mental Health Care Provider May Be A Racist And Other Startling Facts

By Andrea N. Jones

"Just as no one can be forced into belief, so no one can be forced into unbelief."  -Sigmund Freud 

I stood in my driveway, hands high above my head. At least 4 officers (none black) proceeded to raise their gun directly toward me. My heart skipped a beat. Words came to my mind like they always had in times of crisis. I thought, " Oh, shit," trembling, "they're here to kill me."

With 4 guns pointed in my direction, I was sure I'd be killed if I moved an inch. I couldn't breathe.

I went catonic while exclaiming, "If you shoot me, I will become the second most famous resident in Hayward because Oscar Grant (a young black man who had been murdered on the Fruitvale BART station's platform six years prior on New Year's Day) will always be the first!!!" These words may have saved my life because as soon as they were spoken the officers/overseers/crackers lowered their weapons. However, I was not totally off the hook. 

The officers/overseers/crackers tossed  me to the ground, handcuffed me and tried to toss me in the back of a police car. I was not having it. I did not trust these officers/overseer/crackers at all. I did not trust him with my black body. Perhaps if my body were white, even Asian, I may have thought differently. 

But due to the fact that I had experienced extreme racism from the Hayward Police Department before, I was fearful and had to act. I proceeded to go limp as I'd  seen the civil rights activists doing countless film footage. Once my ambulance had arrived only then could I breathe. 

Thing is, every time I tell that story I could tell some folks hardly believe me. Why would the cops do such a thing you might ask. Because they're dicks. Dicks to the mentally ill. Frightening fragile. This is what I'm used to and it has been my life and my experience.

I was 5150'd and driven by blaring siren to John P. George Pavilion, the notorious local county mental hospital, for evaluation and treatment.

At the age of 22, I was diagnosed with an invisible illness that would shape the rest of my life. That illness was Bipolar Disorder. I wailed like a baby for weeks on end when I found this out because, not only did I instinctively know the diagnoses was true,  I knew my life would never be the same. In fact, my worst fears have been realized. 

At 40, I can sit back and actually see all that I have lost-- friends, so-called family, jobs, possessions, love and status.

At my height, I hobnobbed with international players and at my lowest, I sat in county clinics full of drunkards and addicts just to get my meds. The disorder is quite common among writers. I feel that what most people don't know won't hurt them, so this part of my life I share with very few people. It's just not everyone's business, you know?

I've been taking my meds for months as prescribed by my outpatient doctor, however, I have recently experienced a symptoms' flare up that needed to be managed. I was hesitant to go to the local psych facility. Like the county clink, Santa Rita, once they get you, they have you and there's just no telling when you get to leave that hell behind.

My best option was a nearby mental hospital, John George Pavillion, where the staff knows me very well. Or, so they think. I've been coming here for more than 15 years. Getting 5150'd is not the business.  It's been a 15 year history of terror for me and it goes much like this:

1) Family member calls the cops on me to get me 5150'd (placed under custody for a 72-hour psychological hold) with a simple "white lie," like, "she's threatening to kill me!" The Hayward Police Overseers/Officers/Crackers are quick to declare my rights modified on the spot.

2) I am swiftly 5150'd and taken by ambulance to the county psych ward at John George Pavillion for evaluation. I am always admitted.
3) I always get in trouble with the staff for being willful.
4)I am warehoused and given activities to perform to justify the staffs' paychecks.
5) I go to court with an advocate or public defender who sits on his ass while the prosecution defames me as a violent, psychopathic, maniacal drug addict (because I carry a medical marijuana card).

6) Eventually, I am released for good behavior and I am forced to go about the business of rebuilding my life, from what may be scratch, yet again.

It's become clear to me that my latest in-patient doctor is absolutely colorstruck. If you're light-skinned and act like white is right, y'all may as well be related because you are for sure getting out of this piece in a minute. If you're black and radical like me, you are treated like nothing less than an enemy of the state. Europeans have performed great studies on racism and health care disparities among their populations. 

Studies in England and Wales suggest that a great disparity does in fact exist between the ethnicities: 

The first census report published in 2005 showed that the black patient experience was in stark contrast to their white counterparts, with detention rates under the Mental Health Act 44% higher among this group. Once in the system, the data also showed that black patients were more likely to be admitted to intensive care and secure services, and be given higher doses of antipsychotic medication. They were also 29% more likely to be forcibly restrained and 49% more likely to be placed in seclusion.
Rather than seeing an improvement in this area, the figures show that the number of black patients formally detained under the Mental Health Act shot up from 2,700 to 4,600 in the four years to 2009-10 – a rise of nearly 70%.

I tried to rationalize with my doctor. I lost my job for not reporting while I was hopped up on heavy psychotropics in the hospital. He told me I would have lost my job anyway. I'm sure the stank face I gave him was the most sincere one he received all day. 

My boss and I were hella cool. He didn't know what he was talking about--  typical white male, afraid of the impending black planet seeks to destroy my black family and love relationship by separating me from the ones I love and love me back.

Meanwhile, I've seen many white, brown and Asian patients regain their freedom as I sit here waiting for mine. Some of these patients have been violent, aggressive and exhibit more pressured speech than I do, but they are not warehoused. Their lives are valid to Thomicini, while mine is not.

I've come to see myself as a political prison here on my 22nd day in John George Pavilion. I fear no man as man can only take my life while God, He can take my soul. I let my stance on my involuntary hospitalization be known. Before I was kidnapped by night-riding, overseers/officers in the middle of the night, I was very active on various media sites doing my part to serve and make a difference. Since I've been institutionalized, I think of Angela Davis (and all political prisoners) daily. What a strong sistah! 

I  write about nothing if not inequality in the heart of the S.F.-Oakland Bay Area, yet here I am, a victim of the beast's system and racist/white supremacist paradigm.  So, I do my time knowing how much harder sistahs like Ms. Davis had it paving the way more than 60 years ago.

My doctor, a Dr. Asseipe, is nothing short of a basic Reaganite. He sports the Colonel Sanders white hair and beard and is partial to sweater vests. He warehouses me here with no plan. I wonder if he plays god with me or mere devil because he has given me nothing resembling a release date. All I am told is that I am still "not well" yet. Shiiiiit. 

If well means I am no longer irreverent and I stop speaking truth to power, he might as well curl up and die today. Because the day I loose my spark and spunk will be my last living day as well.

Simply put, I could never be white enough to please Dr. Assmuncher, and frankly put, I love my black and wish to be no other.

So, I must wait four more days to hear the judge's verdict which will seal the fate of my upcoming fall season. I'm a Jones. A double Jones (on both sides)! I am not easily impressed by doctors. I really haven't the time to sweat an asshole, would you?  

"As a black woman, my politics and political affiliation are bound up with and flow from participation in my people's struggle for liberation, and with the fight of oppressed people all over the world against American imperialism." -Angela Davis 

Driving On Fire

Momma's Firebird 

by Andrea N. Jones 

Picture it– the year was 1976, the same year as the great Bicentennial. 

I was a toddler and my mother had just divorced my father. She ended up buying a sweet, brand new, silver Pontiac Firebird with red vinyl interior. She, my older sister Rhonda and I would be mobbin' around the streets of Oakland, day and night. I never minded that it was a two-door and I had to crawl my way to my back buckle seat. What I did mind was getting in on hot summer days because the interior would feel hotter than the sun and my little brown legs would sweat then stick to my seat. 

It was always so cool when my mom would pick Rhonda and me up from the roller rink or the movies at the Eastmont Mall. Our friends loved packing in, we didn't grow up on car seats and seat belts, you dig? 

My mom worked hard 5 days a week at Southern Pacific, starting out as a Switchboard Operator and moving up to Accounts. We were living for the weekend. Mom would bump The Commodores, Earth, Wind & Fire, Teddy Pendergrass, Rick James or Parliament as we'd make our way up to the Oakland Hills to an affluent community up Skyline Drive, past the Oakland Zoo (Knowland Zoo then) and visit her brother, my Uncle Jimmy, his wife Aunt Connie and my cousins James Jr., Darryl, Tommy and Roxanne. We would PAAARTA! 

Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Connie were our black Ozzie & Harriet. They were wholesome but not stuck up. We'd be met at the door with some light barking by their German Shepard Keno as if he were the court announcer. People still smoked indoors back then and us kids didn't do all that fake coughing and carrying on these brats do today. No, no, no. Liquor and beer flowed but no one there ever struck me as being drunk. To this day, I've never tasted cleaner, fresher comfort food in all my life than that prepared by my Aunt Connie's hands. I swear she sprinkled magic over her dishes.

The whole gang would be there, even my dad and his new wife, what seemed like every weekend. Uncle Chester, my grandmother's ginger-headed brother was always there with a sweet smelling cigar between his lips and a toothy smile. He was a prominent dry cleaner and a past Ebony Magazine Who's Who who's Operatic and Barbershop Quartet baritone voice could make a grown man cry. His son Ricky would be in tow, my quietest cousin, a good boy who was all eyes and dark, shaggy hair. The Raiders game would be on. Those were the Madden years and we were kicking ass! At night we'd watch that dirty, old Englishman Benny Hill until I fell asleep and woke up in my bed down the hill at my mom's home on 75th & Mac Arthur to a brand new day.

Those were the days. That Firebird wasn't just a car, it was a statement. It was my mom telling the world that she, Linda Jones, was free, fly af and was not afraid to flaunt her and her girls around in sporty style. Now with 45 years passed all of our relatives that made The Town warm and cozy have since passed or moved away. I thank GOD for all the rich memories I have of them and the endearing love of family that lives in my mind through memory. Without those layers of easy living and peaceful joy, I would not be the strong, irreverent black woman I am today. Thank you! #vroomvroom #flatlanddiva #califia

Broken American Royalty: How The Black Builders of America are Being Supplanted

American Royalty: How The Builders of America are Being Supplanted 

By Andrea N. Jones 

​You gotta be like a Jones. Pretty and useful. There was a time, not too long ago, when Joneses were the envy of all family names and bloodlines. The surname means “Favored by Jehovah.”

Joneses have always been the toast of the town or village, as it were. The name Jones is synonymous with the words “cool,” “stylish,” “envied,” “admired” and “swagger.” The Jones name dates as far back as 921 in merry old England and Scotland. Today it remains the most popular last name in Wales.

However, it was only a matter of time before the culture vultures would try to steal The Jones Glow. Kids don’t know anything today about the old-school American saying “Keeping up with the Joneses.” The only thing they know about is how to keep up with a band of literal gypsies straight outta a cave in the Caucus Mountains. 

These women, I use the term “women” loosely, are nothing more than troglodytes who have slithered all the way to Hollywood. Their cut up faces are more recognizable than Michelle Obama’s around the world. 

Michelle Obama isn't merely a former first lady, she's a Queen. In fact, it is no exaggeration that black people decend from a rich, vibrant land that allowed for a standard of living that Europeans could never image. 

I've done the research and, yes, compared to the peasants of Europe who were living with and making lovers of their livestock, black people were kings and queens. 

Black scholars and academics refer to Ancient Egypt as the founders did, Kemet, which means “Land of Black Faces.” Need I say more? 

Kemet is the name the ancient people of the desert kingdom used for their kingdom and thus, out of respect for them, it is the name scholars and academics use to refer to the greatest and most mysterious kingdom in all of all human history.

My bloodline goes back to the land of Kemet. My ancestors held primordial secrets that reveal an origin of man that would shock most people. After no longer being able to stop thousands of years of invasions and other attempted invasions, by neighbors to the east, my ancestors fled from their Nile Valley homeland, migrating through the Sahara Desert into Sudan, Nigeria, Ghana, Gao, Guinea, Benin and Mali. They were the forbearers of the great nations of West Africa.

Many would like to believe that there is absolutely no connection between the civilizations of east Africa, and those of West Africa, however, there could be nothing further from the truth. These places were linked by ancient trading ties. The roads that lead to Lagos are as old as time itself. My progenitors, my progenerous whispers me as I slumber. They breathe life into memories.

We, the original people, truth be told, are the only real humans on the planet. We are no less than 5 million years old. Our connection to earth dwarfs all other races by an astronomical amount. We have been the greatest stewards the world has ever seen. 

Our essence has always been here. We are the great and ominous We. The Earth Goddess Nefertiti, The Mother God Isis and the world’s oldest mermaid entity Mami Wata live in me. And in you, too. Breathe, listen and be still, O, Mighty Black Queen, your truth has been hidden but it has now been revealed.

I’ll give you a basic example that illustrates how much contempt the foreign-controlled Bay Area has for its native people. Folks who pay taxes and that’s everybody, Honey. Particularly, those of us who are black. How in the hell do we not have free energy in Silicon Valley? These billionaires refuse to provide basic access to electrical outlets for people who may need to revive a dead smartphone. Smartphones are the only life line many have.

The Bay Area’s failure to provide sufficient support to its black population is nothing short of acute neglect. Urban planners call this type of marginalization “Urban Triage.” Urban Triage is when city leaders pick and choose the people in the community they want to bestow goodwill on. 9 times out of 10, it won’t be black citizens benefiting en masse. However, 9 times out of 10 it will be people who are foreign born. It is social engineering of the worst kind. The kind meant to kill.

Does it make any kind of sense to anyone that black people who have been fundamental to the state of California’s prosperity and global popularity are being thrown into the streets like last week’s garbage because social engineers think it’s perfectly acceptable for blacks to be without food, clothing, heat, comfort and shelter if they’re FICO Scores are below 750? Raise your hand if this makes any kind of sense.

I recently visited Memphis, a major city in West Tennessee, where I have discovered an embarrassment of free access to electrical power. Blacks in The Bay are getting ass raped and not even black leadership there cares. 

They hate us but we’re told to love without boundarie like they're our brothers and sisters. Let me tell you something, Honey. I’ve been there and done that. I’ve had Asian friends from every corner of that weird and desolate haunted place. From New Delhi to Mumbai to Pakistan to Afghanistan to Vietnam to the Philippines. None of them give a fuck about us. 

They’re here to get whatever is not nailed down. Most people around the world laugh at Americans and have a inflated ethnocentric view worldview. They cannot identify with the American Dream like the people who actually built this country and we’re simultaneously locked out of it. They do not understand the significance of the civil rights movement not to mention the black liberation movement and pay no homage to our struggle, and the fact that we built this entire civilization. 

In fact, truth be told, we continue to build this country up and run it while white folks get the promotion and take the credit. Not to mention the whole kit and caboodle. Our very wealth. We are black gold. We were from the get period— from Jamestown to Funkytown to Oaktown, you dig? 

Foreigners look at blacks as easy meal tickets, coming  for our neighborhoods, then our wealth and then our culture. Lastly, they want to take our lives. No lie. 

They want to supplant us. They are The Watchers. They watch us for cues on how to be human. Their bloodlines are heavily mixed with Neanderthal just like all the other races on the planet. 

They are humanoid not human. No credible biologist or anthropologist can call these people crawling all around the globe human. Black people are the only humans on the planet. 

Africans never mixed with Neanderthal. Caucasians mixed with them for an estimated 20 to 30,000 years. Believe me, Honey, many of them are more Neanderthal than human. Look it up. 

You can always tell who is a full-on Cro Magnum Man by their non verbal communication and behavior. Shifty eyes. Pathological lies so big about their ancestry you could drive a Mac truck through them. Passive aggressive actions meant to burn. 

I don’t even bother to be friends with most of them anymore. I have better things to do and better people to do those things with. I eat coconuts, bananas and vanilla, Honey. I don’t hang out with them. 🥥🥥🍌🍌🧁🧁

Black Americans have to come to terms with the fact that all skin folk ain't kin folk. African, Latin American and Caribbean blacks want our spot, too. As much as I respect Marcus Garvey, Pan-Africanism is a joke. Blacks were never meant to be free. Gatekeepers make damn sure we remain an underclass by denying job, housing and adequate health care. 

Once the $900 trillion generational wealth transfer currently taking place is complete blacks will be assed out. Get a plan because it's truly black versus everybody else now in America.