KharyTurner

They rose like ashes. Celebrations. Questions. Analyses.

I spent my Sunday reacquainting myself with the ghosts of self-awareness and intelligence. And by day’s end it felt as if, for a moment, raw emotion’s mouth was shut while grown folks and beautiful children had conversation.

Two events took place this past Sunday. They were not connected, but they both struck nerves. The first, an early afternoon launch of “The Pretty Brown Girl Movement,” was huge. The second, a late afternoon “Book Talk” on Surrendered: The Rise, Fall & Revelation of Kwame Kilpatrick, which I co-authored with the former Detroit mayor, was intimate. I’d like to tell you about them, and what my critical takeaways were from each.

Critical Imagery

Two dear friends, Sheri and Corey Crawley, inspired by their daughters Laila and Aliya, six and five years old respectively, organized it. The event, held at the Charles H. Wright Museum of African-American History in Detroit, was put on to remind young girls and women of color of how beautiful they are. Despite negative images perpetuated in the media, on reality and scripted television, and in film, black and brown women are gorgeous. I know this, I’ve got one at home. They’re the only women in the world fine enough to move entire industries to create dumb mimics like collagen injections and booty implants, things that women of color rock naturally. No disrespect to other women but, as my sister jessica Care moore says, black women rock! Sheri is one of many who saw the need for little black and brown girls to have said beauty reinforced from the cradle, and decided to articulate a movement.

More than 350 people turned out for the Pretty Brown Girl launch, which was organized in less than a month. Mothers, fathers, daughters, and a few sons, filled the room. They came in every hue the diaspora has to offer. They honored incredible talents like Amaya Alexander, the young student whose mother turned a bus into a dance studio that grabbed the nation’s attention. Good Morning America was among the several national news outlets to recognize her as what Crawley coined a Pretty Brown Girl. Crawley also announced a “princess party” to be thrown for Saniya (last name omitted at the family’s request), the young girl who had to suffer the indignity of a recent racial incident in Livonia Michigan. All of these people felt the need to embrace the most beautiful aspects of African America, so much so that the Museum’s Multi-purpose room reached the fire marshall’s seating limit. Little girls enjoyed face-painting, photographs, complimentary ice cream, cupcakes and cake-pops. And they collectively recited a Pretty Brown Girl Pledge, a captivating declaration of self-worth, beauty and ability.

It was a moment we needed. It reminded us of who we are, and whose we are. Blackness felt cool again.

Critical Convo

I left the event a little early to head to the African World Festival, where the “Book Talk” was scheduled to take place. Shout out to Njia Kai and the AWF team for reaching out and organizing the session at the last minute, and for finding a comfortable space to squeeze us into an already-full schedule. All things considered, I was humbled that people responded. They filled seats and sat on the floor of the Hart Plaza Gallery to ask questions about the book. As the featured speaker positioned to answer the inquiries, I admit to feeling a little uneasy at the start. Kwame Kilpatrick’s story still evokes emotion and, though I hoped for an intelligent and honest discussion, I expected the unexpected.

What I got, thought, were some of the most intelligent questions asked to-date about Kilpatrick’s saga.

Quick caveat: I try not to steer or direct people’s emotions or reactions when discussing Kwame Kilpatrick. Every Detroiter and Metro Detroiter has a right to their individual perspective, but critical usually tempers any outrageous sentiment. So I usually ask during my talks that people simply engage the process of discussion, not enrage it. The Kilpatrick story is an historic case study that can trigger conversation about Detroit’s evolution, concepts of Groupthink, bias and ethics in journalism, and capitalism. I’ve long felt that, if people can discuss their Kilpatrick-isms in those contexts, they’ll benefit more. It’s when we devolve into emotional discussions that we dumb ourselves down.

The group in the Gallery wanted a real talk, and their discussion topics impressed me: the psychological impact of imprisonment, the tone and intent of media scrutiny; growth and maturity in the aftermath of public humiliation, the responsibility to make amends to a constituency; metro Detroit’s history of racism and regionalism; even my responsibility as a writer, though married to a member of the Kilpatrick family. All points were fair game. Ayanna Ferguson, Kwame’s sister, was also present.

I’ll count it growth if similar discussions take place moving forward. It’s time to move from the emotion, and into the sociology of the Kilpatrick era. Intelligent discussion is crucial to helping people get back to taking healthy approaches to divisive topics. I have faith that people can do it.

One Sunday. I witnessed a celebration of a people’s outer beauty, followed by a community’s smart take on an American epic. On Monday, I woke up feeling smarter. I then looked at my wife, and kissed my Pretty Brown Girl. Now that was a weekend.

Think. Create. Compel.

The book is out…at last.

To those who purchased “Surrendered: The Rise, Fall & Revelation of Kwame Kilpatrick,” and have read, or are reading it, thank you. I consider the project to be critical to metro Detroiters’ FULL understanding of Detroit history and politics, and I’m humbled by the good, bad and ugly responses that I’ve heard.

I want to explain, in response to many who have asked, why I co-authored “Surrendered.” The initial response is simple: there was a missing side to one of the most critical political sagas in Detroit’s history. The people deserve to hear it, for many reasons.

People are hurt, depressed, angry and embarrassed in the wake of the Kilpatrick years. One website declared the scandal one of the 50 most scandalous political episodes in American history. Kilpatrick, at one stretch, was Googled more than Britney Spears and the late Pope John Paul. The world took notice of what was happening in Detroit, and no one wanted that kind of attention in the D.

But I never felt that the story being told was balanced. No disrespect to the local, but they didn’t have a good relationship with the Kilpatrick administration. As his co-author, I learned early that he didn’t trust anyone to tell his side of his saga as he saw and felt it. And a saga of this magnitude must have balancing accounts on the record; otherwise, the people won’t be properly positioned to make intelligent assessments.

One of the first lessons of journalism is that one side of a story, told publicly, is propaganda. Two sides make a debate. And three sides lead to public intelligence. Readers, listeners and observers must be positioned to analyze, and poke holes in theories. You, sir and madam, become side C. You say the world is flat, or you say the world is round. But you’re aware that two arguments exist.

Forgive my public radio-esque sensibilities, but I try to avoid emotion in times of scandal. Emotional arguments – Thug! Criminal! Liar! – turn whole communities into intellectual dwarfs. But I do get it. If I hadn’t been close to Mr. Kilpatrick these past three years, I’d tune into televised newscasts, talk radio’s talking heads, news radio and newspapers, and I’d come to the conclusion, based on what I hear, that the man is a pariah. And I’d do it all having never heard the argument about a round world.

So, for reading, I thank you. I thank the news reporter who held up the book and said, whether you love or hate Kilpatrick, the book is a good read. To those who used adjectives like “riveting” and “revealing” in describing the read, you have my gratitude. I don’t care about swaying your opinion. At the end of the day, I just want to see more people do my three favorite things.

Think. Create. Compel.

I broke my fast at Day 4, and I’ll tell you why.

I awakened, looked at my wife, and said, “Good morning, Baby. How’d y’all sleep?”

Soon as I realized I was seeing double, I knew something wasn’t right. Standing to my feet, my knees wobbled, and I swooned. A Master Cleanse is supposed to make me stronger, not woozy. I went through my morning routine, headed to work, and monitored myself. Nothing changed by 10 a.m., and that’s when I knew I’d done something wrong. Going through this thing without coaching now felt silly, so I reached for an emergency stash and grabbed a plum. My head settled about 30 minutes later, and I made the decision to alter my plan, call this round off until I return from a much-needed vacation next week, and then try it again with mentoring.

My thanks to those of you who rooted for me. Hopefully, you understand that I have absolutely no shame in my decision.

In football, it’s called an audible when a quarterback reads a defense at the line of scrimmage, sees that said defense has figured out the offensive scheme, and immediately changes the play seconds before shouting “Hike!” Usually, it results in forward movement. Similarly, my four days resulted in progress. Of thought. Of focus. Of body. Losing a quick 10 pounds didn’t hurt, and altering my palate a little was cool.

Those aren’t the big shifts, though. Consecration of the spirit usually forces a shedding of the world around you, a reconnection to what’s important. That’s what happened to me. And just days after I broke fast, an earth-shattering occurrence put it all in perspective.

Blair

America’s urban poetry and folk community lost a giant over this past weekend. It happened without warning, but David Blair’s body was found in a Detroit hotel room. No foul play is suspected, and coroners suspected some form of heat stroke to be the cause. Nonetheless, it was an ‘audible’ of the most painful kind.

Blair is simply one of the most profound writers and artists I’ve ever known. By virtue of his spirit, he easily became a de facto ambassador in Detroit, and in communities around the country. He helped many people work through, and out of, varied levels of homophobia, just by being his friendly, encouraging self. Though I hadn’t seen him for some time, given my own hectic goings on, I still consider him one of the most human beings I know.

Stung and jolted, those of us who consider ourselves friends quickly huddled at the home of two of Blair’s closest comrades as soon as we heard the news. We grieved, consoled one another, comforted each other. At some point, an hour into the gathering, I looked around and realized that I’d reconnected (there’s that word) to some of the people who mean the most to me artistically. Members of my family of poets, artists and songwriters were in one place, for the first time in years (for me, at least). I found that comforting. We’d all grown. Some had married. Others had simply aged. Some had built careers. A lot of maturity sat in the space we occupied, an emergence of sorts from these lean economic years. I was there to see them, and Blair brought us together.

I believe the purpose of life is to give it away. Wealth and material is good, and I like a lot of it, but it tarnishes when hoarded. Blair gave life consistently. His words inspired us. His music had purpose. He was sage in his movements. My belief system prevents me from declaring that he is gone too soon. He left us at an appointed time, regardless of the manner and, since I have no jurisdiction over divine order, I accept it. I also thank him for his final act as an artistic ambassador. He called the audible, and we all moved forward.

Rest in peace, my brother.

Think. Create. Compel.

Whatizup,

A few friends’ advice helped me. I knew what to expect.

The first three days of the Master Cleanse are the roughest. And they’re right. I’m on Day 3, recapping Day 2, and my stomach rumbles at the memory. Yeah, the gut’s mad at me right now, but I can already see (and feel) some benefit.

I miss food, don’t get me wrong. And if I have anything with cayenne pepper in it ten years after this, it’ll be too soon. But I also get that a lot of the desire to eat is in my head. My mind is wired to tell my body when to eat. Even though I’m getting essential nutrients, my stomach is falling for the message. So when I think I should be eating, my stomach growls. When I consciously say I don’t need it, the growling stops.

My greatest lesson on Day 3, then, is simple: I control this.

I’m tripping on how much of my socialization centers around eating. Last night, I had to find ways to occupy myself, because I somehow registered the absence of food as congruous with the absence of conversation. And the family had greens! Collards! With turkey drumsticks! I went downstairs, sipped my little elixir, and thought to myself, “Dog, is it that deep? Forty years, and you can’t go a few days?”

I sprayed the room with some Punk-B-Gone and decided to tough it out. And just like that, the stomach settled, the wife came in, I cracked a joke and things went back to normal.

I need to remember that tomorrow. On Day 4, I’m supposed to conduct a news interview about the Kilpatrick memoir. I have a hard time trusting the news, especially when I become news, and I told the reporter that. Locally, it’d be nice to see more news that actually promotes Detroit. More life, less death. Good slogan. People see us as a murderous town partly because we keep talking about it. If we spent more time talking about things like Cerveny Middle School’s NASA project a few years back, our perspective, and then our conversation about the city, would change.

I don’t want to contribute to negativity in any way. Unfortunately, anyone mentioned in the same sentence as my co-author seems to get their life turned upside down wtih scrutiny. But if this cleanse is teaching me anything, it’s that faith and focus can empower me to influence everything around me.

Gonna get my own mind right first, though.

Talk to you after Day 4.

Think. Create. Compel.

Whatizup,

I’m launching this blog while entering a new phase of life. After multi-tasking for years, doubling between writing and performing, and working a full-time gig, I’m carving a new niche and focusing a tad bit more on writing. Consequently, my first book, a co-authoring of former Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick’s memoir, is being released on August 1 of this year. That’s a little less than two weeks from now. I don’t know what kind of attention or opportunity the release will bring, but I’ve been focused on getting (and staying) ready to receive it all. By the way, the name of the book is Surrendered: The Rise, Fall and Revelation of Kwame Kilpatrick (Creative).

That said, this blog is about much more than one book. I’m passionate about arts and culture, my people’s well-being and responsibility to the world, and healthy relationships. I’m a political liberal, a social conservative, and a God-fearing freak. It’s taken years to get all that junk under control, and I’m just glad my wife has let me keep the job long enough to figure it all. That said, I believe people have the right to live their lives as they choose, but that we are responsible for considering the impact on the communities in which we live. My thoughts generally break down this way:

I believe that black people remain, to this day, marginalized. I also believe that too many of us have adopted victims’ mentalities and dropped the ball on our responsibility to the planet. We need balance in the hood. There’s a discussion to be had there.

I believe artists should rap, sing, paint and write what’s on their hearts, but their responsibility is to consider their power to influence the people who pay attention, and govern themselves accordingly. There’s a discussion to be had here, as well.

I believe any two people in a relationship, particularly spouses, can and should write their own rules, especially as it concerns money and sex. But there’s decency in freakdom. And there’s definitely a discussion to be had there.

There it is: life, liberty and the pursuit of a good groove.

To set the blog off right, I’m dealing with me first by embarking on a cleanse of sorts. A Master Cleanse. You may have heard of it: the 10-day diet that consists of a lemon juice/maple syrup/cayenne pepper mix. It’s a quasi-fast designed to help my body purge itself of all the processed garbage I eat, and then reconnect with its natural ability to maintain its own constitution. I’m in the second day as I write this entry, with eight more to go. I’m hoping that disclosure here helps to keep me accountable, ’cause it’s not easy. Shout out to some of the ladies I work with for inspiring me to do it.

I look forward to renewed energy and focus, to whatever awakening Spirit has for me. I’ll keep you posted daily. After that, this blog will post less frequently (frequency to be determined, stay tuned).

Think. Create. Compel.

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