Book Review: My Name Is Curtis Snow And I’m A G

Urban slang changes from state to state, even city to city.  But from the park to the penitentiary in any city you can name within the 50 states, the letter “G” stands for gangster.  And that’s what Curtis Snow (that’s right, that’s the name on his birth certificate) claims to be.  If you get three pages into this collection of his inner most thoughts, you’ll most likely agree.  

Curtis Snow first landed in the national consciousness as the central figure in the 2011 documentary, “Snow On The Bluff.”  It begins with Mr. Snow robbing some unsuspecting college students who have drifted into his neighborhood in search of drugs.  (See www.snowonthebluff.com) 

Snow was born into the game.  He was raised in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in America, an Atlanta hood called, the “Bluff.”  As a child, his mother took him to the trap house on late night runs from drugs.  His father sired 11 children by several different women.  There was violence in his household.  He recalls, “The first time I slapped a b----, ‘I was like did I get that from Daddy?”  The book is chocked full of section headings like, “I Use To Serve Dope To My Own Mama” and “I Taught All Three Of My Brothers About The Streets.”  

Where rappers might flex and brag about their invincibility and street cred, Curtis Snow keeps it real.  He speaks about the danger that might attract itself to your innocent, nonaffiliated family members if you do in the streets.  He speaks frankly about the very real possibility of incarceration for people who sell drugs.  What he offers is an unvarnished look into inner city America in the post-industrial 21st century.  This book should be required reading for preachers and anyone else seeking to create relevant ministry in the troubles times in which we live.  

The book has no narrator.  It’s as though some unseen person threw Curtis Snow a notebook full of questions and then just let him talk.  Reading the book feels as though he’s sitting across the coffee table from you.  

Snow says, “Once family turn they back on you, it’s gotta be somebody that accepts you.  That’s where that gang s--- comes in at.  They prey on that weakness and that fear...The streets gon’ tell you to do something wrong.  The streets ain’t got s--- to tell you that’s gon’ make your life better.  But it’s a whole generation of n----s listening to the street before they own mama.”  

My Name Is Curtis Snow And I’m A G; it’s not pretty but its real.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DnW7d2sYnvM

A Peace Warrior Rises In The Mean Streets

On New Year’s Day, 2011, a vigil was held in front of Ms. Brenda Grisham’s house to commemorate the passing of her son, young Christopher LaVell Jones.  Ms. Grisham recalls, “I wanted to speak to all of the seniors and the teachers.  I decided to go to Christopher's school along with my daughter that next Monday. That day at Christopher’s high school, many young people expressed how they felt about Christopher.  One young lady was going to flunk in her Art class because couldn’t draw.  Christopher took her assignment home.  The next day he told her to open her desk.  The completed picture was inside.  Christopher was an an excellent artist.  He did the assignment for her.   

"Another young lady came to school without the uniform shirt one day.  Christopher took the shirt off of his back, handed it to her and then went to the office to get a loaner shirt.  The stories came one after another; kids who had borrowed lunch money from Christopher or received encouraging words in a time of crisis all spoke up.  I was handed a four-inch thick binder filled with letters of condolence and remembrance from kids who had not even been in his class.   

“After Christopher’s passing, people just started asking me to come and speak to difference audiences.  One person asked me to come and speak and it went from there.  They wanted to meet with me.  They wanted me to speak about the plight of families who have lost loved ones due to gun violence.”

In August of this year, the idea was raised to confront Oakland city officials about the huge number of unsolved murders.  Ms. Grisham recalls, “I said I’m not coming by myself.  I wanted to bring 15 representatives of families who had experienced the unsolved murder of a loved one.  My phone kept ringing.  I got 15 people.  Together, we went over what would happen when we got to City Hall.  We were calling for a unified relationship between Mayor Quan and the Chief of Police.  We wanted public policy established that would eradicate the trafficking of guns in Oakland.  Thirdly, we wanted them to publish a grid that would display the most dangerous neighborhoods in Oakland, complete with the AC Transit bus routes that run through them.

“I broke the group into three separate subgroups.” she said.  These groups formed to tackle other demands like a call for a monthly town hall meeting with Oakland City officials and  Oakland murder victim family members, as well as a public posting of the criteria that law enforcement uses to decide whether or not they are going to prosecute a murder case."

There was also a call for the District Attorney’s office to stop plea bargaining murder charges.  Brenda Grisham remarks: “The victims didn’t get a chance to plea bargain!  One young lady was cunning enough to set up a young man that I knew up to be killed.  She’s just out of her teens.  When she gets out of prison, she’ll still be a young woman, while his life is gone forever.”  

She said: “Many of the families of murder victims have been treated with disrespect by the police.  We are expecting the police to be more cooperative with the families of murder victims.  Sometimes, they have been downright rude.  A detective told one lady in our group, “We don’t have to tell you anything.  You’re only the grandmother!”  A mother left with four sons told me that her husband was murdered in their family automobile.  The car was impounded as evidence.  When the investigation was finished, she was told that she would have to pay $800.00 in storage fees to get her car back.  There was no waiver.  She lost the car. 

"We are asking for the authorities of to create an oversight board for the families of murder victims so that they can receive accurate and up to date information.  I spoke to one mother whose son was killed in 2003.  She hasn’t heard from anybody about the progress of her child’s murder investigation.  And she’s not alone."

Brenda Grisham and the family members of victims are at the forefront of a movement.  They are untitled as of yet but a name has been suggested--”There Lives Matter.”  Mayor Jean Quan, District Attorney Nancy O’Malley, Chief of Police, Sean Whent, Ms. Reygan Harmon, Senior Policy Advisor for Public Safety and a host of other elected officials were present to hear their pleas for justice, fairness and accountability on August 27th, 2013.  

This is only the beginning.  

(Next:  The Conclusion -- Brenda Grisham Speaks About Stopping The Bloodshed)

Community activist and mother of fallen son, Christopher LaVell Jones, Brenda Grisham addresses a street rally in East Oakland.

A Child Falls In A Hail Of Bullets

Many years ago, jazz singer Billie Holiday sang a controversial song about lynching called, “Strange Fruit.”  The song began, “Southern trees bear a strange fruit/Blood on the leaves and blood at the root/Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze/Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.”  Southern lynching is now largely a thing of the past.  Now its the streets of America’s inner cities which are speckled with blood.  

So many people die from gunshots in cities like Detroit, Chicago, St. Louis and Oakland that they often become anonymous--just black letters on a news page.  Residents have become numb and (dare I say) complacent to the non-stop carnage and loss of black life.  And yet, each homicide victim is somebody’s nephew; somebody’s grandchild and in this case...somebody’s son.  Christopher LaVell Jones was Brenda Grisham’s son.

On the evening of December 31st, 2010, 17-year old Christopher asked his mother to drive him to Burger King.  His mom obliged.  Family members piled into her car.  Christopher hopped in the back next to his young niece’s car seat.  

And then Brenda Grisham saw the ominous sight.  There were three young men standing behind a car.  They had automatic weapons.  Ms. Grisham’s only thought was to get her family to safety.  She ordered her daughter and son to run for the house.  Bullets started exploding all around them.  Christopher’s sister was the first one to be shot.  Christopher turned around to see if his mother and his baby niece were safe.  He suddenly fell face first.  Brenda Grisham also dove forward landing on Christopher’s back in an effort to shield her son from the bullets that the assault rifles were spitting.  Ms. Grisham’s daughter looked back and said, “Oh, my God!  One of you were shot!”  It was Christopher.  He had been shot in the head.  Bullets had penetrated his face and jaw.  His mother credits him for saving her life.  She says, “If he hadn’t stopped, I wouldn’t be here.”  

As it turned out, the gang members were targeting another youth in the neighborhood.  Ms. Grisham says, “They didn’t see Christopher that night.  They were just shooting.  They thought the target was in our house and they were shooting away at the house.”  Half of all people who get shot in Oakland are innocent.  They have nothing at all to do with what is going on in the streets.”  

(Next: A Peace Warrior Rises In The Mean Streets)

A Murder Victim’s Mom Speaks Up

I step down gingerly on the front porch.  You see, this is where her only son, 17-year old Christopher LaVell Jones fell down in a hail of bullets.   That was on December 31st, 2010.  It is now 2013.  Brenda Grisham, her daughters and grandchildren and have made no attempt to flee the scene of the bloody tragedy.   The family still live in the small wood frame house tucked on a cul-de-sac in the cold heart of East Oakland. 

It’s summer time.  It’s sunny at noon time today.  The huge jumper on the front yard is filled with neighborhood kids.  Old school soul music sets the atmosphere.  A family friend turns hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill.  Community members slam down dominoes.  Brenda Grisham hosts these events periodically to promote the idea of peace in a neighborhood that can at times resemble the Fallujah at the height of the Iraq war.  

She opens the door for me and points to a fluffy couch in the middle of the living room.  “Have a seat.  Let make sure everything is straight outside and then I’ll be back.” 

My eyes drift around the living room.  They come to a screeching halt at the montage of newspaper clippings above the fireplace mantle.  One headline reads “Teen Slain, Sister Hurt In Oakland Shooting.”  Next to it is the 2010 Oakland Homicide victim photo collection.  It’s a grisly piece of journalism that immortalizes the deceased and marks them in the order that they murdered.  (Community residents often forego referring to their lost loved ones by name.  When speaking of the lost, they quote the year and the person’s number on the list.)  Next to the clippings is the picture of brown skinned young man with dreadlocks.  Adjacent to his high school diploma is a teddy bear with a note:  “R.I.P. Chris Jones.”

By all accounts Christopher Lavell Jones was a good kid.  He was born deaf.  But even without hearing the toddler was drawn to music.  He would feel the tops of musical instruments for the vibrations.  Through the gift of modern science, he was given the ability to hear as a toddler.  He took to the drums.  He developed a love for Gospel music and would use his gifts to accompany the church choir.  One day, the church keyboardist didn’t show up for a recital.  Christopher told his mother that he was able to take on the chore.  She had never heard him play the piano before.  At the end of that event, the church keyboardist was out of a job.  Christopher was given the opportunity on full time basis.  

On December 31st, Christopher LaVell Jones had been tapped to spend New Year’s Eve playing music at a local church.  He would never make it there.  Events would take place that fateful night that would snatch away his young life and change this family’s destiny forever.  

(Next:  A Child Falls In A Hail Of Bullets)

Tune In To Hood Movement Central

I remember the first time that I ever saw a dead body in the streets.  It was on a warm night in Harlem, New York many years ago.  A young man was walking down the sidewalk when it was said that he hadn't cleared the sidewalk fast enough.  Some young guns laid him down for nothing.  They probably didn't even know his name.

I wonder in the nearly 30 years that have followed, whether those young men (now middle-aged men) have ever given thought to what they did that night.  I wonder if they have ever stopped to consider the life they extinguished; the destiny that they stamped out like an old cigarette.  Watching the aftermath of their handiwork, I realized that night that black life has been the only thing in the hood untouched by inflation.  In fact, its cheaper than ever.

When Trayvon Martin was murdered, churches and civic organizations established "Hoodie Sunday" in protest.  However, when black men and women are mowed down in hoods all over America each week like blades of grass, there is usually no large public outcry.  And yet, there are men and women who are waging the war for peace in America's hoods.  I've met many of those.  Over the next few months, you too will meet them through this blog.

Welcome to Hood Movement Central.

The Godfather Of Hip Hop Needs Your Help

I was born in Brooklyn and returned there when I was 20 years old in 1981.  Hip hop was a vibrant, thriving music form at that time.  If you really wanted to hear the music, you had to go out to the parks and recreation centers where it was being created.  Club Negril, a Manhattan reggae club changed all of that.  They sponsored a once a week hip hop night.  Club Negril was the greatest hip hop spot in New York at the time  It might have fit 150 comfortably.  I met DJ Kool Herc at Club Negril.  I'd be surprised if he remembered me, I was one of a million people who has had a brief conversation with him over a life time.

The two things that I remember about him were A.) his great humility, rare in hip hop.  B.) He was afforded massive respect from a very tough crowd.  The people from the streets respected him.  They even called him, the "godfather of hip hop."  Unfortunately, the rest of the world hasn't shown him that kind of love.  The headlines tell us that Herc is very, very sick and also financial incapacitated.

Isn't it amazing that someone could create a multi-billion dollar industry and yet never profit from it financially?  I can't even imagine how heart breaking that must be for Kool Herc and other artists who created the blueprint.

Say a prayer for DJ Herc.  And if you can, send a check.  Go to Davy D's website or
www.allhiphop.com.  They'll tell you how.