alidawriter

DON’T TAKE ME ALIVE 1972 Bank Job Five minutes after my eyes opened, I made a phone call to my partner and sighed in relief to discover that our heist was still on for this morning. I inwardly applauded our plan to get some paper and I crossed my fingers, hoping that the bank would be loaded with cash because at nineteen, I was sick and tired of being broke. I had grown weary of praying to God to let a sack of cash fall off the back of a Wells Fargo truck so I had resolved to end my career as a broke nigga and today was the first day for the rest of my life. And as my own financial strategist, all roads led to the North Carolina National Bank. Having made the decision to get paid in full, I dissolved any opposing interests such as getting busted. Shit wasn’t happening and I pitied the fool who tried, by whatever means, to prevent me from cleaning that bank out. The police didn’t mean shit too me. The way I saw it, today would be a good day for the entire force to call in sick because there wasn’t a damn thing more dangerous to the police than a nigga who didn’t believe shit stank. And I was the poster-child for that sentiment. Rolling over in bed and eyeing the clock, I saw that it was still early, only a little after seven. Hell, the NCNB didn’t open until nine so that gave me some time to work the jitters out of my stomach. As a rookie bank robber, I had to deal with all the unknown X-factors—actual or imagined—that could get a nigga busted, the main one being to stay inside the bank too damn long. You had to get in and to get the hell out which meant, more than anything else, you had to know how to deal with greed because the tendency to get greedy was the worst mistake any crook could or would make in his career. Thinking that over, I suddenly realized that I was already behind the proverbial eight-ball because how in the hell could a broke nigga not be greedy! That was just as impossible as expecting a starving motherfucka not to be hungry. Anyway, I decided the best thing to do would be to deal with that shit when I crossed that bridge. Meanwhile, I had to get up. My Moms was always the first one up in the crib and this morning was no exception. She was downstairs cooking breakfast. My baby sister and grandmother were still asleep. I made my way to the bathroom after hollering downstairs to my mother to let her know that I was alive and kicking. She greeted me warmly and invited me down for breakfast, but my stomach was in no shape for food. I still had a few butterflies. Only thing was that they didn’t feel like butterflies. Felt more like elephants. Taking comfort in the fact that everyone upstairs was still asleep, I crept into my mother’s bedroom and borrowed one of her wigs. The choice was not easy and I then realized why it took women so long to get ready for a date. Hair was serious business. After taking more time than I should have, I chose a jet black wig with bangs that fell down to my shoulders like a cascade of silk. Then I borrowed a pair of my sister’s oversized sunglasses. Going back to the bathroom with my borrowed female products, I gave myself a sneak preview of what I would look like for the cameras inside the bank. I was impressed. To add to the mystique, I donned a white baseball cap. I was good to go. At the breakfast table, I employed every tactic I could think of to get out of the meal, but my Moms insisted that I break bread with the family since this was the one time we were always available to eat at the same time. Even though I played with my food, pushing the grits and eggs around on the plate like they were silly putty, my nervousness was pretty much ignored. Following the meal, I almost scoffed at the idea of having to wash dishes that morning, but it was indeed my time to perform the task. I laughed. Here I was only an hour and a half away from my first bank robbery and I’m doing dishes. Wasn’t that some bullshit? Anyway, I made it a point to remind myself that this would be the last time I stuck my hands in some soapy water to clean some bowls and plates. I was leaving home today. I was either going to jail, hell, or a luxury apartment. I didn’t give it much thought because when you got right down to it, the choice wasn’t mine. It was the police’s, so I just prayed the motherfuckas stayed out of my way. When my partner called, I was ready to move out but for a brief second I didn’t know what to do. In all actuality, this could be the last time I saw my family so it did cross my mind to give everyone a big hug and a kiss, but decided not to. That could jinx me. What I needed was a positive attitude, so I left the crib without saying shit and stepped out into the early morning sunshine like I owned the motherfucking world. Strolling through Piedmont Courts, I made it to my partner’s girlfriend’s house in record time and was glad to see that the rest of the crew was assembled. Secretly, I studied each man’s face, searching for any signs of fear. I saw none. These niggas were amped. And so was I. Like a group of businessmen at a board meeting, we discussed, dissected, and studied our plans to see if there would be a need to make any last minute adjustments. There were none. After all, what could be any simpler than charging into a bank with guns drawn and taking all the money. As far as planning went, it didn’t get any more elementary than that. At around 8:30, Boo, the pretty boy of the crew, excused himself and returned about five minutes later with the stolen car we would use in the heist. The motherfucka looked fast. And then a strange notion hit me right out of the blue. Could Boo drive fast? Sure, it was one thing for a nigga to cruise through the projects in a raggedy-assed Cadillac, but could the nigga elude the police in a high-speed chase? Too late for that shit now. I tossed the idea out of my head and put on my gloves and jumped into the backseat of the ride. Driving to the bank, the car was filled with aimless chatter. However about two blocks from our destination, Boo cut the radio off and everyone got silent as each of us, in his own unique way, went into the zone, that mysterious space where “I-don’t-give-a-fuck” meets up with “Nigga-this-is it!” “FREEZE!” We rushed inside the bank so quickly that the bank employees looked like it was the end of the world as they knew it. We had caught them with their underwear down! They were bullshitting, laughing and talking and we never gave them time to regain their composure. I vaulted over the counter like an Olympic high hurdler and when I came down on the other side, I swept the teller out of my way as if she were a five foot five Barbie Doll. “This ain’t your money, bitch, so don’t get yourself fucked up. Just lay your ass on the floor and let me go on about my motherfucking biz’ness.” I snatched open the teller drawer and for a brief moment in time thought I was in the Federal Reserve. Money was stacked up like that. Shit, with all that damn paper, nigga just might destabilize the local economy. I wasted no time in going to work as I yanked open the red plastic shoe bag and started stuffing the money in like I thought it was going to evaporate. I, quite possibly, broke a world bank-robbing record for the fastest time in emptying a teller drawer, but you damn better believe that my partner was equally as swift because out of the corner of my eye, I could witness him at work. We met at the center of the long counter after vacuum-cleaning two drawers each. We both smiled, figuring that we were working our way up the millionaire list. “Let’s go!” Lowe hollered, indicating that we had just about worn our welcome out as far as time was concerned, so with a pained expression on my happy face, I dismissed the notion of grabbing the long trays of coins under the counter. Plus, the serious expression on Lowe’s face was suggestive enough. It was time to roll out. Given the fact that the heist was practically over and so far all had gone according to plan, I could live with the fact that everything from the moment we had charged into the bank had seemed to be in slow motion, but the trek back out of the joint seemed to take forever. It was as if some invisible architect, probably on the government’s payroll, had magically re-constructed the entire front lobby, extending the length of the bank by about thirty or forty feet. The black and white tile floor appeared to have hemorrhaged so that in some spots, it felt as slippery as an oil slick while in other places felt like a nigga was running in sand. I knew it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but getting to that goddamn door was an epic struggle. When I got close enough to the door to be thankful, Lowe held up his hand like it was a stop sign. I was getting ready to curse the nigga out when he stuck his head out of the front door to make sure the coast was clear. Personally, I didn’t give a fuck if it did become public knowledge about the crime I had just committed since I was dead-set against letting a motherfucka stop me from spending this paper now that it was in my possession. We made a mad dash to the getaway ride. “We did it! We did it!” Butch shouted. “We did it!” “We ain’t did shit,” Lowe cracked, “until our ass safe back in Piedmont Courts.” I didn’t want to add my two cents in and burst Butch’s bubble, but I wasn’t about to start counting my chickens until I was back at my Mama’s house. Yet, I did sense that we had won, that we were on the verge of victory although a lot could go wrong in seven minutes which was about the time it would take us to reach 10th Street and Seigle Avenue, our safety zone. Driving through uptown, I flinched as Boo steered the car onto Davidson Street. “Nigga,” I yelled, “this ain’t the way we s’posed to go.” “I’m taking a shortcut. Now, chill out and let me drive. Y’all niggas done done y’all job, so let me do mine.” I was about to get mad when I suddenly recognized the genius of the nigga’s unexpected and unexplained departure from the script. He was taking us through Earle Village, the project just above the projects where we lived. By driving through Earle Village, we were practically invisible to all outside traffic and the police wouldn’t be in the projects at this time of morning because niggas didn’t start selling heroin on Seventh Street, down by Paso’s, until noon. At the bottom of McDowell Street where Earle Village ended and Piedmont Courts began, I was ready to celebrate because I had just put my days as a broke nigga behind me. Piedmont Courts had never looked any sweeter to me. Bitch sparkled like The Vatican. Parking the stolen car at the top of the projects, we all jumped out, except Boo whose next job was to dump the car in North Charlotte and let them niggas over there take the heat. “Take the ride up on Belmont Avenue and leave it,” I ordered. “I’ll make sure your cut is straight.” From out of nowhere, three nappy-headed hood rats popped up as we departed the ride. They saw us running away from the white Ford, but had no idea why. And it wasn’t none of their business. Or at least that’s what I believed at the time. Bitches knew how it worked in the hood---don’t nobody see shit! Crossing over the big street in the middle of the projects, I involuntarily grew happier than a motherfucka. Butch, Boo and Lowe felt it as well. Sometimes a nigga wins. When we crashed into the back door of my Mom’s crib, the celebration was on even before we made it upstairs to my bedroom. The feeling was indescribable, surreal, and when we dumped the money on the bed, the illusion was amplified a thousand times. It was as though money was all the proof a nigga needed to feel like he was worthy of being alive. Already, I could hear the police helicopter, Snoopy, flying close by, and a cold chill ran up my spine. “Close the door,” I barked as if the police in the helicopter could see through the walls of the crib and that the door would be the only thing that could spare us. “Don’t nobody look out the window. Snoopy just flying in motherfucking circles.” I tried to sound cheerful, but Snoopy had spooked me out so much that I ignored my own decree and peeled back the curtain to peek out the window. I almost pissed on myself. To the immediate right of the crib, Snoopy zoomed into view, looming over the projects like a menacing attack bird. When Lowe asked if I saw the helicopter, I nodded without speaking, but just as quickly as Snoopy had appeared, it vanished. For a minute, I thought the police were closing in, but I didn’t say it aloud. Instead, we divided the money up and we each went our separate ways. What none of us knew was that we had just made history, but it was the kind of history that can rob a nigga of a future. It was almost half past the hour when FBI agents Jack Kennedy and Martin Cain dashed into their supervisor’s office. They halted just inside the doorway when they saw the strange look on Ron Banks’ ashen face. He leaned forward, inviting the two agents to have a seat. Both men hustled to take a chair on either side of the desk. Banks stared at the two veteran agents as if seeing them for the first time, but after a moment or two of grappling with his emotions, he quietly made an assessment. “Jungle Bunnies!” he groaned. “What?!” Jack Kennedy asked excitedly after making the proper calculations and reaching what he knew was the right conclusion. “You don’t mean---?” Kennedy abruptly grew silent, knowing that at the ass-end of his question was something new and different that could become an exclamation point covered in blood. Martin Cain, a short Jewish agent with graying hair, shrugged in resignation. “Guess it had to happen sooner or later.” “Yeah, I imagine you’re right,” Kennedy agreed, “but it could be a long, hot summer if we get black gangsters swarming the city’s banks like they were corner grocery stores.” “Not only that,” Banks wisely pointed out, “but blacks have a tendency to bring violence to any crimes they commit. That’s not racist, that’s just the way it is. White gangsters use finesse. Black gangsters employ violence.” “So, what now?” Banks glared at Special Agent Kennedy. “What now?!” he shrieked. “What now is that I want their black asses caught and in jail. I’m assigning you two to this case. As you know, you’re in virgin territory so you will be forced to draw up a new set of parameters to work with because the old model for white bank robbers just got dumped into the shit can.” Walking over to a huge map on the far wall, Banks studied the mock-up. “The robbery took place here.” He touched his finger to a brightly-colored pin embedded into the spot that indicated one of the numerous banks in Charlotte. “It’s my guess that this particular bank was chosen because it is the one closest to the inner city. Within a few miles radius from the bank, we got Earle Village, Piedmont Courts, and North Charlotte, all black neighborhoods. I think your initial search should start there.” Banks turned to face the pair of agents. “I want this to end quickly because if it drags on, then what this city will have on its hands and what you will have on your conscience is a swiftly deteriorating situation. Know why? If these guys, the first black bank robbers in the city, get away then other black, copycat bank robbers are going to join in.” Banks sighed wearily. “Then, what we will have is a damn free-for-all bank robbery spree, the likes of which the city of Charlotte has never seen before.”

The 13th Amendment was said to have freed black folk. There were 3 elements to the the 13th Amendment. 1) Emancipation. 2) Naturalization. 3) Compensation. After we were freed, we were supposed to have been naturalized which would have made us actual citizens. Then we were to be compensated, hence the much ballyhooed 40 acres and a mule. In order to become real citizens we were to have been naturalized just like you see it on television when immigrants are naturalized and made citizens. Why was this important.? Because it would have been a crime to have imposed citizenship upon us.This would have been as big a violation as it was to impose slavery upon us. Citizenship is a right that has to be chosen--not imposed! What was supposed to have happened is that a great registration was to have taken place where blacks would have been asked to choose their nationality. As an individual, he could have just as easily chosen to become a citizen of Libya or Ghana or the US. By no means could this right be imposed. But the registration never happened. In the passage from my book below, you will find out why. Even though the book is written as a fiction, the info is accurate. Take a guess as to who it was that was chosen to head up the Great Registration. Guess. Everyone knows him. You can also read about what happened to our compensation below. *** The following morning when East walked into Court wearing the same clothes as the day before, Stubbs jumped out of his chair and raced to the Judge’s bench, demanding a side-bar conference. “Your Honor”, Stubbs whispered, “this act of Mr. East is utterly ridiculous, an apparent ploy to elicit sympathy from the jury. You do know what he’s attempting here, don’t you?”. “No”, the Judge rasped, “please enlighten me”. “He’s advertising this woe-be-gone aura. He wants the jury to believe that you somehow double-crossed him by making him stay in jail overnight instead of letting him out at seven”. “He’s insane, Your Honor”, East remarked lightly. “I just decided to do something different this morning”. “And you couldn’t come up with anything better than wearing a rumpled suit and foregoing a shave?”. “Tough trials reduce your creative juices, Your Honor. What can I say?”. “I say, if you don’t mind, Judge Roman, that we take a delay and send Mr. East home so he can regroup”. “To your places, gentlemen”. Judge Roman smirked. “Don’t push your luck today, East”. Without delay, East walked to the jury box. “Have you ever eaten any dog food?”. Both Stubbs and Judge Roman froze, wondering just how far East was willing to push it this morning, but neither knew what to expect. They waited. “Where was I exactly before I had to take my little vacation yesterday?”. “The 13th Amendment”. “This is not your mother’s nursery rhyme”, East contended sadly, “and in case it gets a little ugly, I have some Kleenex in my briefcase.” “Move on, counselor”. “Once upon a time in 1779, perpetual slavery began legally and unfortunately for black folks it went on and on . . . . . .and on until the 13th Amendment, but a funny thing happened to the paper it was written on. Some racist bastard—”. Stubbs yelled an objection regarding the usage of profanity which was sustained. Judge Roman waved his gavel at East menacingly, but East seemed too far out on a limb to care. “If I let you speak”, he inquired of the witness, “do you promise not to lie?”. “Your Honor”, Stubbs rasped in genuine exasperation. “Counsel has no authority to extract a promise. The witness has already been sworn in” East appeared hurt. “B-but that was between him and the Court. This is between me and him”. “It doesn’t work like that, counsel, and you know it”, Stubbs scoffed “You don’t have that right”. East faced Judge Roman. “Your Honor”, he blurted, “you mean that even though this witness is under my control, I don’t have the right—”. “That’s right, East”, Stubbs interjected brusquely. East rubbed his chin. “Isn’t that sorta like the federal government trying to exercise a right over a State citizen”. He grinned broadly. “I see that control does not confer any rights, right guys?”. Stubbs slumped back into his chair. He knew when he’d been had. Bastard, he mumbled under his breath. Knowing that to gloat would do nothing to further his designs, East turned less combative. “Tell us about the three elements of the 13th Amendment. What were they?”. “Emancipation. Nationalization. Compensation”. “Very good. Everyone knows about the emancipation part so tell us, if you would, about the compensation compensation element, which, by the way, was one of the concealed sections”. The witness sighed. “The amount of money was not to exceed $100 and the land to be allotted was known as the 36’ 30”. East shook his fist at the witness. “Great goodness, man. Who understands that bull . . . . . .er, junk. In regular people talk, you mean the Great Interior region which was largely unsettled and unexplored, don’t you?”. “Yes, that is correct”. “But it never happened. Why?”. The witness looked at Stubbs for help, but the black lawyer threw up his hands in despair. “What, is counselor Stubbs holding your cue cards or something?”. “No”. “Then, I say, start talking. What’s up?”. “There were opponents—-”. “Opponents?!”.East arched his eyebrows. “Do tell”. “They wanted the compensation package deleted, but when it was presented, it passed the House and the Senate”. “Was it ratified? When?”. “1865. November 18th”. “Any more drama or did the opponents let it go?”. “Not hardly. Since they were unable to defeat the compensation package, they argued that Lincoln had not signed the resolution which would have made it invalid, but an investigation proved that Lincoln had signed off on the bill on the first of February, two and a half months before he was assassinated”. “So it was valid?”. “Yes”. “But why didn’t the land get distributed?”. “As you mentioned, this was one of the sections of the 13th Amendment . . . . . .that was concealed”. “I’m genuinely distraught, but this is business so we have no time for tears. Let’s talk about the Nationalization element”. East addressed the jury. “Talk about sad”. He turned back to the witness. “Speak!”, he commanded in a gruff-voice. “Objection!. He’s badgering the witness”. “Overruled”. “The Nationalization element”, the witness whispered in a tone of defeat, “called for a general registration of the former slaves so they could proclaim a nationality”. “And this was designed so that the blacks wouldn’t have to have citizenship imposed on them. They could have just as easily chosen to become nationals of Ghana, Morocco, or any other African nation, correct?”. “Yes”. “What happened with the Registration?”. “It never happened”, the witness snorted. “The opponents bribed the black man authorized to conduct the General Registration”. “Bribed? I find that hard to believe. As a black man, he had to know how vital this registration was. Let me ask you something. This black man, was he deaf, dumb, . . . . blind?”. “No”, the witness sighed. “He was quite literate. He was also very prominent and well-known”. “But suspectible to a bribe?”. “Evidently”. “My God, man”, East uttered in mock horror, “just what was it that the opponents used to bribe a man who had to know just how vital his mission was. For the record, what did they give him. All the gold the earth contains?”. “No”. “Diamonds?”. “No”. “Silver, then?”. “No”. “All the tea in China, perhaps?”. “Again, no”. “Then, what, dammit?”, East blurted. “A white woman and some money”. The Court erupted with a huge gasp and a loud murmur. “I’ll be damned”, East shrieked. Judge Roman banged his gavel loudly. “Order! Order in the Court!”. Once calm was restored, East stood alone in the well of the Courtroom as if he was wondering what had happened. He paused longer then necessary, pretending he needed the extra time to recover. “So what you’re telling this Court is that the Great Registration never started?”. “Exactly”. “Do you know what that tells me?”. East grabbed his head like his brain was bleeding. “The Negro never claimed a nationality, The 13th Amendment never naturalized him, and the 14th Amendment broke the law by forcing national citizenship upon him”. He shook his head. “I know I may go back to jail for saying this, but wasn’t that a bitch!”. The Court exploded in a noisy uproar. ************************************************************* Read The Root Of All Evil. This may just be the most important book of the decade. Everything you need to know---but don't! http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007DBVVM0

1933. What do you know about the year 1933. Well, that was a pivotal year in the history of this country. 1933 was the year that this country declared bankruptcy, meaning that it had no money by which to satisfy the debt of foreign, international bankers who had invested heavily in this country. The gold and silver were already gone, so the President closed all the banks. After all what good were the banks when there was no gold or silver to put up as collateral for the debt? That same year, 1933, all the governors held a secret meeting to come up with some sort of collateral that would appease the international bankers. What did they come up with? They put up all the people of their respective states as collateral to satisfy the debt. But there was one small problem with this remedy. The governors needed a link that would bind the people to the contract they had in mind. The problem was solved with the invention of the birth certificate which was nothing more than a “warehouse receipt”. That is why you have to pay taxes. The taxes on your wages and property all goes towards the satisfying of this debt which has not to this day been paid in full. Prior to 1933, all birth were recorded in a Bible. Now they were registered with the Department of Commerce. The birth certificates are amassed in bulk, each one worth a million dollars, up from the $600,000 back in 1933! These birth certificates are then signed by no less than 17 foreign investors. What they own is your energy to produce and their power is strengthened by all the licenses we need to conduct business in this country. How did the federal government get into debt? One of the major reasons was this. In return for permission to cede a portion of Maryland and Virginia to establish Washington DC as the national headquarters of the United States, the federal government agreed to absorb all the debts of the respective states. It escalated from there. Structure of the Birth Certificate Did the State Pledge Your Body to a Bank? By: David Deschesne Advanced Civics Research Library : Some birth and marriage certificates are now "warehouse receipts," printed on banknote paper, which may mark you and yours as 'chattel' property of the banks that our government borrows from every day. A certificate is a "paper establishing an ownership claim." - Barron's Dictionary of Banking Terms. Registration of births began in 1915, by the Bureau of Census, with all states adopting the practice by 1933. Birth and marriage certificates are a form of securities called "warehouse receipts." The items included on a warehouse receipt, as descried at §7-202 of the Uniform Commercial Code, the law which governs commercial paper and transactions, which parallel a birth or marriage certificate are: -the -location of the warehouse where the goods are stored...(residence) -the date of issue of the receipt.....("Date issued") -the consecutive number of the receipt...(found on back or front of the certificate, usually in red numbers) -a description of the goods or of the packages containing them...(name, sex, date of birth, etc.) -the signature of the warehouseman, which may be made by his authorized agent...(municipal clerk or state registrar's signature) Birth/marriage certificates now appear to at least qualify as "warehouse receipts" under the Uniform Commercial Code. Black's Law Dictionary, 7th ed. defines: warehouse receipt. "...A warehouse receipt, which is considered a document of title, may be a negotiable instrument and is often used for financing with inventory as security." Since the U.S. went bankrupt in 1933, all new money has to be borrowed into existence. All states started issuing serial-numbered, certificated "warehouse receipts" for births and marriages in order to pledge us as collateral against those loans and municipal bonds taken out with the Federal Reserve's banks. The "Full faith and Credit" of the American people is said to be that which back the nation's debt. That simply means the American people's ability to labor and pay back that debt. In order to catalog its laborers, the government needed an efficient, methodical system of tracking its property to that end. Humans today are looked upon merely as resources - "human resources," that is. Governmental assignment of a dollar value to the heads of citizens began on July 14, 1862 when President Lincoln offered 6 percent interest bearing-bonds to states who freed their slaves on a "per head" basis. This practice of valuating humans (cattle?) continues today with our current system ofdebt-based currency reliant upon a steady stream of fresh new chattels to back it. http://www.ecclesia....vant/bcertP.pdf In conclusion, I will add this. Black people are not truly citizens of the US. We are merely citizens of the federal government. Why do you think they have to keep renewing the Voting Rights Act for us every so often. They never do this for whites, the real citizens of the US. You can find out why in my book, “The Root Of All Evil” which also lays bare the issue of the birth certificate, the Straw-Man (ever heard of that). The book was written as a novel to make the info more easily to understand and to digest. Five years of research went into the writing of this fascinating book. It can be found on Amazon.com for 99 cents. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007DBVVM0

5.0 out of 5 stars A Thrill Ride, By The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers (RAWSISTAZ.com and BlackBookReviews.net) - See all my reviews This review is from: The Root of All Evil (Paperback) Jamal Morris' family had been blessed to receive a large sum of money from Paul "Maddog" Madsen, an unscrupulous and ruthless, yet financial savvy white man. He was a member of an elite group of bankers that not only left America bankrupt, but also forced the country to put up an unthinkable commodity as collateral. Along with Madsen's wealth, the Morris family inherited a great mystery and responsibility. Jamal soon learns that the riches his family have enjoyed carries a heavy price, one that could very well cost them their lives and change the world as we know it. THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL is truly a page-turner from beginning to end. Filled with mystery, action, and adventure it is a thrilling ride that left me wanting more. Intelligently written, the novel leaves the reader with several unique scenarios to ponder. I highly recommend this novel to any one who is looking for an exciting and different legal thriller with many twist, turns, and action. Newcomers Gregory Stantin Jones and Gibran Tariq have truly outdone themselves with this novel. I eagerly anticipate works from these authors. Reviewed by Latoya Carter-Qawiyy of The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers Jamal Morris had been born into the richest black family in the country, but little did he know that damning evidence would ultimately link his family’s wealth to the Illuminati, a secret organization of European bankers out to control the world.Suddenly Jamal’s world is turned upside down as the myth surrounding his family wealth is finally exposed. All his life, he had been told that a mysterious, white man had left his wealth to them, but what he wasn’t told was that the man was Paul “Mad-dog” Madsen, the devious English banker who had brilliantly master-minded the collapse of the American government in 1933 forcing it to declare bankruptcy, allowing him to make off with all the country’s gold. But that’s just the beginning of Jamal’s problem. Unknown to him is the fact that the little, tiny jewelry box that Madsen bequeathed to his family contained secret documents that international bankers as well as the President of the United States are willing to kill for. And they’re only a few of the people out to get him! * * * Perhaps Jamal had tried to carry too much at one time, but when the clothing slipped from out of his arms, the jewelry box crashed to the floor and cracked open. He gasped and immediately dropped to his knees to inspect the damage. “Mama!”, Eric yelled. “Come here!”. Bernice Morris, a strikingly elegant, black woman in her mid-forties hurried over to see what the commotion was about. “What in the world is going on?”. Eric, the younger son looked accusingly at his older brother. “Jamal just broke the jewelry box. See”. “It fell”, Jamal apologized. “I didn’t even know it was in the closet”. He eyed Eric suspiciously. “How did it get there, anyway?”. “Don’t look at me. I—-”. “Hush, you two”, Bernice scolded. “I put it there”. Both Jamal and Eric were surprised. They both knew about the jewelry box and when they were young had been told the box was magic and that they should never touch it. They never had. The jewelry box had always sat on their mother’s dresser and was never moved. Bernice looked lovingly at her sons. “I hid it there when I had my room painted because I felt it would be safe there”. She sighed. “I decided to leave it there”. “Why?”Jamal asked. “Granddaddy gave it too you”. Bernice sighed again. “But not to keep. Is it damaged badly? Give it here and let me see”. Running her finger along the crack in the box, she could see that the break was not that severe, but her fear was. She dared not to tamper with the box in any way. She was too afraid that it was Pandora’s box and remembered how stern her father had been when he had sworn her to secrecy and warned her not to say a mumbling word about the box to anyone. Ever. All she was supposed to do was to safeguard it and then to pass it on. If she failed, she had been told, the whole family would die brutally. Bernice had never been any more frightened in her life. “There is something both of you need to know”, she informed her sons. “Let’s talk”. It was naturally difficult for the brothers to believe what they were hearing and to a considerable extent it all sounded like a scene from an urban fairytale. What else in real life could follow such a bizarre pattern? No fantasy could have taken shape like this. A white Englishman, dying of tuberculosis, stumbles into a greasy spoon diner and out of remorse for slavery, enpowers the first black man he encounters with untold of wealth in the form of stocks and bonds. It just didn’t figure. “It just so happens that Grandpa Bernie was in the right place at the right time”, Bernice offered, “and because of that, we have everything that we have. Your great-grandfather was the richest black man in the country and our wealth started with that white stranger”. “But what does the jewelry box have to do with this?”. “All I know—”, Bernice began slowly, “all I know is that the white man, Mr. Madsen, gave granddaddy the box”. She paused. “You still haven’t answered the question, Moms”, Jamal contended. “What about the box? Granddaddy had to tell you”. Bernice glanced at her sons. “He told my daddy the same thing I’m going to tell you. Don’t let anyone outside of this house know anything about this box”. “We already know that. We just want to know what’s in it”,Jamal prodded. “Yeah, Moms, why can’t we open it and see since its already busted?”. Bernice snatched the box off the coffee table. “No!”. She raced from the room, clutching the jewelry box to her bosom. “No!”, she shrieked. Without speaking, the brothers hurried behind their mother, following her into the bedroom. “What’s wrong?”, Jamal quizzed. “What is it about that jewelry box?”. “I just wish to God that I—-”. “Tell us, Moms”, Eric interrupted, “what is going on? What are you afraid of?”. Bernice pivoted, closed the bedroom door, and then for a second stood paralyzed with anxiety. It was evident she was afraid. “For a lot of reasons”, she began, “I do not want to share with you our family burden, but I have no choice”. She touched her finger to the box. “Just like my father and his father before him, I don’t know what is in this box, but I’ll tell you just like they were told and like I was told”. She began to weep softly. “If either of you try to find out what is inside the box, it will get all of us killed”. “Wh-who told you that?”, Jamal stuttered. “That’s what Mr. Madsen told my grandfather and he was emphatic about it. Grand-daddy was told to enjoy the wealth, but to keep the box a secret and for the longest time no one has known”. “And the white man—?”. “No. He never said what was in the box. He just told your great-grand-daddy that men, the president included, would one day want this info and wouldn’t hesitate to kill to get it”. “Oh my God”, Eric groaned in panic. Jamal glared at him shamefully. “Be cool, man. We haven’t got anything to worry about if this stays quiet”. He hugged his mother, kissing her cheek. “It’s alright. The secret is safe. What did you say the white man’s name was?”. “Paul Madsen. He was from England”. “This is not some kind of family prank you’re playing on me because I’m going away to college, is it?”. “No, Jamal, it isn’t”, Bernice confessed. “We owe every dime we have to Mr. Madsen. Life before he came along was not so pretty”. “Regardless, though”, Eric conceded, “why didn’t he just destroy the box. Anyway, look at it. What could be that important, that small”. “Documents”, the mother admitted, “and that is all you need to know”. She gathered them close too her. “Now, you have got to promise me that you’ll never say a word to anyone. Promise me”, she demanded. Eric spoke first. “I promise”. Bernice and Eric stared at Jamal. “Why can’t we just drop the box in the river and get rid of it, once and for all?”, Jamal inquired seriously. “No”, Bernice said sternly. “The box is never to leave this family. Now, promise me, Jamal”. Jamal sighed. “I promise”. “Starting now, I’m entrusting the box to you boys. Eric, while Jamal is in college, you keep it”. She thrust the cracked box into her younger son’s hands. “Remember”, she whispered, “our lives are in your care”. Eric fearfully studied the jewelry box, staring numbly at the ugly gash that now covered its front. Suddenly, the small box seemed to weigh a ton in his hands, so as a precaution he gripped it tighter, but inwardly he reeled at the responsibility. He was trained in living the good life, money being a backup for any difficulties he might encounter, but this. Fear triggered his desire to continue his life without having anything to do with this. He stretched out his arm, extending the box to Jamal. “Here, take it with you”. “You listen to me!”, Bernice exclaimed harshly, her voice urgent and demanding. “You’ll keep the box as I told you and that’s the end of the conversation. Now, finish helping your brother to pack”. **** Purchase The RooT Of All Evil for 99 cents: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007DBVVM0

My theory is this. White perceive us as a threat to the welfare of this nation: however they react more to the fear of this threat than the actual threat itself and it is this fear of a threat that has caused them to target us. In history, there has always been "the revenge factor" where oppressed people have over a course of time came back to fight against their oppressors. Look at the civil war a decade or so ago between the hutus and tutsis of South Africa. One group oppressed the other and just as soon as the oppressed group grew strong enough to take revenge they did, even if it was a hundred years later. This is the historical stereotype white America fear, what Malcolm called "chickens coming home to roost" Some may even call it karma, but white people know that one day they must face what they have done to black people. History never forgets. White people don't destroy black business in order to keep us from being competitive. They destroy black businesses so that we would possess the financial resources to make us a viable political force. Being broke also assures that we can't buy "the armaments of war" to fight with. Being broke also assure a kind of dependency. One of the aims of COINTELPRO (Counter Intelligence Program of the 60s) was to destroy black businesses and as a result white shopping mall came into existence. They felt that lower prices and better goods would lure black shoppers away from black-owned businesses and into he mall where the money was kept in white hands. White America view Asians and Arabs as rivals. They perceive us a threat which is much worse. Even during the height of the Cold War, the fear of internal discord was greater. Most great nations have been torn down from within. Even more, with the so-called threat of Islam, what is most feared are home-grown terrorists. During the 60s, all the other countries, Russian, Cuba, Libya etc. all viewed us a type of Moses. Why? Because no one knows a master better than his slave. In the same way that Moses was reared up in the household of Pharoah, the black man has been raised up in the household of America and could possibly do more harm to this country than any outside force, provided we were politically united and economically strong.Even during the Vietnam war, the Vietnamese repeatedly told black soldiers that they had no beef with them, that they should so home and fight the real enemy-the white man. Russia and Cuba offered to arm us if we would wage a revolution. Even Libya, not so long ago, hooked up with the El-Rukn in Chicago, funding them. Whether we are a threat or not, America sees us as such. That why, Duke University and other schools were given money to fund programs to find "the aggressive gene" in blacks and then search for a way to make it recessive, all so that we would be less of a threat. Is the fear justified? It is true that we inherit our hatreds from those before us. Have you ever disliked someone because your Mother, sister or best friend disliked that person? Look at the Hatfields and the McCoys.Hannibal took up the fight against Rome after his father Hasdrubal had been killed. After the austerity programs enacted against Germany after WWI, the German people never forgot this defeat and when Hitler came along talking "get-back"....it was on. Even on a street level, when you do something to a person, you are constantly looking over your shoulder. Why? Because it is human nature to want to get back at anyone who has done you wrong. This fear of a black backlash against slavery was the reason why many whites wanted to start the re-colonization movement back to Africa. That was a failure, but it was noted that this county would one day pay a dear price for not exporting us back to Africa.

Cynique: I never mentioned that the middle class was strong. They weren't in particular. And when I said they were independent meant they acted independently of the aims of their controllers. The premise was for the middle class to become in fact, a replica of their white counterparts, and many did. But they were those who cared about blacks less fortunate and assisted them. Building up a strong black economy was never a part of the overall scheme, but in a lot of places, you had thriving businesses. You even had what was termed "Black Wall Streets" in a lot of different cities. Those in control needed the black middle class to help get a lot of programs off the ground. For instance, The Small Business Administration. The Jews would use the blacks to secure the funds and then use the money to further their own business interests. But some blacks refused to be a flunky and started legit businesses that kept the money within the black community which was a no-no. In my hometown, there was a thriving middle-class, but the neighborhood was razed to the ground and we have never recovered. That was the scenario all across America in the guise of urban renewal which again was a thinly-veiled attempt to thwart black economic progress. I guess you will find this hilarious, but I was a communist! No, not the "pinko" type you made reference to, but yes, as a member of the revolutionary struggle, I was what was called an avowed communist as was Angela Davis and most of the others in the Black Panther Party and elsewhere in the movement. Spent countless hours studying dialectical materialism or whatever it was called. Had the chance to meet some real "pinko" communists and some were just as bad as a redneck.

Last night as I watched the movie about Thurgood Marshall, I wanted to share a lil' something about one of his greatest feats which was Brown, but do you know what really went down? Well, here's the real deal. Can you say conspiracy! The conspiracy began with Felix Frankfurter, a Supreme Court Justice, who had been a director of the NAACP for 18 years. First off, Frankfurter should not have been allowed to hear the case brought on by the NAACP due to a conflict of interest. Additionally, Frankfurter was in direct contact with Thurgood Marshall even though such contact was illegal. Despite this, the preliminary vote in the case was 6-3 against Brown. With so much at stake, murder was not out of the question. And just what was at stake? The future of race relations in America whch was a big prize for those on both sides of the issue. When the Supreme Court shut down its 1952-53 session with no ruling on Brown, the 6-3 vote against Brown remained the anticipated outcome because everyone knew that Chief Justice Vinson was committed to issuing an opinion against Brown and the NAACP. This announcement had alredy been established by an internal Supreme Court memorandum. What happened next is this. On October 12th, 1953, Vinson would convene a short hearing to rule against Brown, but on September 8th, Vinson died suddenly of a heart attack! At 63, Vinson was in excellent health and had no known medical problems. Most insiders were not surprised at his death. Seven months later, President Eisenhower appointed Earl Warren as the new Supreme Court Justice, and seven months later, with no prior notice, Warren issued an unamimous ruling for the NAACP instead of the anticipated 6-3 ruling against Brown! Nothing was made of the accusation that Vinson had been removed because he stood in the way of a favorable ruling for the NAACP. However, Vinson's son also met with a sudden death when he tried to uncover info on his father's sudden demise. Supreme Court Justice Frankfurter was never reprimanded for his unethical behavior and though Capitol Hill concluded that Vinson had indeed been murdered, there was no investigation. Why was Brown so important? Frankfurter was identified as the top dog of a powerful communist cell in DC. and it was this communist element, along with the Jews, who were the primary people that controlled the black middle class. Brown was important because the Jews and the communists wanted to destroy the black middle class they had created since the black middle class had become too independent. Therefore the plan was to destroy the current black middle class and then usher in a new black middle class who would stick to the script. In the meantime, they would place the rest of the black population under the absolute control of the government. To do this, the Jews and the communists knew that in order to destroy the black middle class, they would have to invent a thing called "integration" and with Brown, which swept away the "separate but equal" doctrine, the door was wide open to eliminate viable black businesses that catered exclusively to blacks. Blacks saw Brown as important due to the emphasis on educational equality. Frankfurter and the crew saw it as important because it paved the way for the destruction of black America. As it has been said, "integration integrated the black man out of everything he owned and into hell on earth." But there was more. Of course, it was MONEY! A few years later, Frankfurter masterminded the decision in Shelley vs Kraemer which ultimately made DC a chocolate city. With this ruling, real estate developers began the practice of "block-busting" where one black family, mostly from North Carolina, was moved on every block in DC. Without delay, white folk sold their homes at rock-bottom prices and fled to Virginia and Maryland. Fortunes were made and overnight DC went from being lily-white to becoming all-black. Guess what happened then. Mo' money, Mo' money, Mo' money! As whites fled to the suburbs of Virginia and Maryland, their fear of the black man led to billions of dollars in the sales of locks, alarm systems----and guns. So you see, Brown was one of the biggest money-making ventures in the history of the country at the time as huge profits were made in the wake of the decision. Breaking with their white backers was viewed as a radical act, and the black middle class of the 50s was punished for it, but it was the integration that followed the Brown decision and the culture it spawned that doomed the rest of us. Stay tuned for more on the destruction of Black America as I will carry you through the 60s. In the meantime, read "When I Say Jump" about other legal trickery used on black folks.Find the book on Amazon.com.http://bit.ly/whenisayjump

Right On!

February 25th Loneliness is love with its hat on backwards -ali- Think about this. Even though love is a form of self-defense against loneliness, you can never ultimately conclude that there is either a social or historical reason to believe that loneliness will not sometimes win through. The most troubling thing about loneliness is that it is so patient, so controlled. It rarely ever escalates into an open foe on its own, and hardly will it ever knowingly engage in overt activities to justify its presence. All it does is wait. You never have to search for loneliness, but you are burdened with the task of keeping it away. No matter who you are or where you are, abuse love and loneliness is there. And it will not go away on its own. Remember this: While love may up and leave, loneliness never will! The moral of this Snapshot is: You must either learn how to make love stay or how to make loneliness go. SNAPSHOTS by GIbran Tariq. To purchase or to peek inside, click on the below link http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0076RB6S0

Congratulations to all the winners and the finalists in the NAACP Image Awards for outstanding literature. I know how much work goes into crafting a work that you hope will be appreciated by the public. This award validates your efforts and it gives us, the reading public, a platform on which to base our hopes that great works will continue to be produced.

Writergirl: There is a way to undo your straw man. it is called Redemption and it is where you redeem your sovereignty and reclaim your rights as ruler over yourself and all your assets. There is a paper you can file for this purpose. It is a UCC-1 filing. Google up the UCC and you will get a look at what is really going on. The rabbit hole does go deep

Cynique: Strange things were happening in those years. The foreign bankers that owned the debt was not the Illuminati as people refer to them today, but a group of international bankers, just the same. I know you are familiar with the Rothschilds who were a part of the cabal. Another question that arises from this mess is the question of our citizenship. Are blacks true citizens? That is what The Moors from The Moorish Science Temple always talk about. The 14th Amendment was powerless to confer citizenship upon us. We were supposed to have been allowed to choose our citizenship just like incoming immigrants do who choose to become Americans,. We were never permitted this choice. In essence, it was just as illegal to impose citizenship upon a people as it was illegal to impose slavery upon a people. The law at the time of our emancipation declared that only residents of a state could be legal citizens. We were never residents of any state. We were property! Therefore without the residency requirement, we were made citizens of the federal government. All citizens have the right to vote, yet for us, they have to renew the Voting Rights Acts every few years or so. That never happens for whites. In any event, take care. Oh yes, there is also the issue of the "Straw Man" which needs to be talked about. It was as much a part of 1933 as anything else. Your straw man is your name in all CAPS, capital letter, which is very different to the powers that be than your name written or signed otherwise.

I think I had better chill for a minute with my posts but wanted to get this parting shot in. The Root of All Evil is about a fact that many are already aware of. It deals with what happened in 1933 in this country. That was the year America went bankrupt. They owed money to the Illuminati and other international bankers. The country had no gold or silver left so when the international bankers wanted their money and there was none, America had to cough up some collateral. The President declared a national emergency and a meeting was held for all the governors from all the states. They had to come up with a plan to save the country. They had to pay back their foreign investors But what would they use for collateral? America was bankrupt and the bankruptcy was declared in 1933, the same year the issuing of birth certificates became mandatory. Know why? Because the governors of all the states at that meeting put the people of their respective states up as a pledge! There was a major problem with this because the governors, the state governments could only act in behalf of their own residents in their public capacity which meant, technically, that they lacked the vested authority to pledge individuals. However to satisfy the constitutional mandate that no person could be held in bondage, it became necessary to forge a binding link between the human property and the creditors. What came about then is the ingenious invention of the birth certificate which was the instrument used to hold the people in pledge for a debt so the country could get out of bankruptcy. To make a long story short, at birth your birth certificate is registered with The Department of Commerce and used as security against the debt that has not yet been repaid to this day. That is the reason why we pay taxes. The taxes on your home, your property, your wages all go towards the debt of this country. Sounds like a joke, doesn't it? . The birth certificates are packaged in mass bulks and today a single birth certificate is endorsed for one million dollars, that’s up from about $600,000.00 back in ‘33. When a birth certificate is registered with The Department of Commerce, it is endorsed by no less than 17 foreign nations. Sounds fantastic, I know, but it’s true. Do some research and see for yourselves or read my book The Root Of All Evil" http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007DBVVM0

One NOVEMBER 1942 It was one thing to be cold, but quite another to be freezing. Not long ago, Paul Madsen, had been warm and safe. At home. Now he was in New York where his mind raced to find a way to rouse up some inner warmth. With nearly everything else having failed, he imagined himself back at home in England and for a while the charade worked. He forgot about how cold and miserable he actually felt, but within a few seconds a harsh wind soured him on the game he was playing. Yet the blistering cold was not the only difficulty Madsen faced. He was dying, literally falling apart internally at what one doctor had said was an unimaginably quick pace and as recently as two weeks ago, another doctor had whispered that what he was, in essence, was a dead man breathing. So maybe the cold, bitter air was a bargain, Madsen thought. To feel it meant he was still alive, but the all-consuming question was: how much longer? Paul Madsen tucked his emaciated neck down deeper into the collar of his expensive overcoat, snuggling the downy shawl tighter around his throat. He pushed on. He had seen how nimble death could be so he fought the wind seeking to expand his lead on the Grim Reaper. He had to exploit the promise of the one good deed he hoped would grab God’s attention and cinch for him a sumptuous grant of divine mercy. He walked even faster. With so many different directions to go in, Madsen lost his focus momentarily and when the howling North wind warned him that temperatures could fall even more dangerously low, he found this idea quite unattractive. He gazed at the sky. There was even less beauty in the appeal of the darkness of approaching night. Desperation clutched at all his inner resources and since there was practically nothing left of his weakened lungs, when the souped-up cough surged up from out of the depths of his bowels,he instinctively sensed that the end was near. At its peak, the wracking cough would normally only paralyze him until his strength matured enough to stabilize him, but this time he was crippled internally and knocked to his knees. Unquenchable, liquidified, green snot dripped from his dilated nostrils at high speeds while the phlegm that stagnated in his tightly constricted chest exploded into his throat becoming vomit so translucent it sprayed from his gagging mouth like polluted water. Regaining his feet, Madsen rocked to and fro in his exquisitely hand-crafted shoes, sure that death was muscling in on his turf. Standing in the grim blackness that the night had conjured up, he steered his wobbly legs across a flat street that rolled down a steep hill next to a diner. “Hey, man”, Madsen shouted at a passer-by, “please sir, tell me, where do the niggers live?”. When Madsen burst into another spasm of godawful coughing, the man frowned in disgust and quickly walked away. He wanted to have nothing to do with anyone that wretchedly ill, especially at a time when no one had money for medicine. Pulling himself together, Madsen managed to achieve a modicum of respectability and flung himself into the welcoming warmth of the cavernous restaurant, but he was immediately fraught with the panic that the hacking cough would seize him and that the patrons sensing he had tuberculosis would unhestitantly pitch him out into the snow to die. He couldn’t risk that, couldn’t imperil the mission that had brought him so far from home. What real value was there, he scolded himself, in dying incomplete? He would do what he had come to do and driven by this euphoria, aggressively strolled across to the counter at a robust clip. By the time he reached the counter, Madsen had collected a big piece of inner resolve that seemed insatiable and though he realized his request would raise eyebrows, it wasn’t that outrageous. “Excuse me, kind sir”, Madsen said warmly, “but I can’t seem to find any niggers and I’m in dire need of one. Could you tell me where they live”? The diner’s owner remained surprisingly calm. “Are you pulling my leg?”. “I daresay not, my good man. The request is quite legitimate. I desire a nigger”. “Ah”, the owner nodded knowingly. “I see”. Reading the man’s thoughts, Madsen quickly blurted. “Oh no. Not for that”. He blushed. “I’m sorry if I misled you. I’m not a pervert. It’s just that—-”. “It’s none of my business”, the owner snapped gruffly, “but just the same we don’t cater to them ‘round here”. “Still, you must—”. The owner stared coldly at Madsen. “I don’t know where you’re from, but in this country we’re not obsessed with those people. You a foreign correspondent of some sort?”. Madsen shook his head. The incessant demand to cough was tumbling round and about in his lungs and he predicted that it wouldn’t be long before he was swallowed up in an avalanche of fitful retching. His bowels were already starting to swell with noxious gases. “Please”, he begged. His skepticism heated by Madsen’s pleading, the owner spoke cheaply. “If you’re not a fag or a commie news reporter, just what would you do in coon-town?”. “Knock on any door . . . .” Madsen stopped. He would burst the man’s bubble, would leave. “I am sorry. I have come to the wrong place”. He hobbled towards the front door, the need to cough reinvigorated by the dragging down of all the moisture in his mouth. “I bid you farewell”. “Wait”. Madsen stopped, but kept his back to the man. “Are you talking to me?” “Go into the kitchen, through that door there. Bernie is back there” Madsen turned slowly. “Bernie?”. “Yeah, Bernie”, the owner rasped. “A real-live nigger”. * * * Madsen pushed hurriedly through the swinging doors, roughly dispelling the air bagged in his throbbing chest. He was doubled over by the force of the impact and now adding to his woes was a ragged fever. Straightening himself up, Madsen spied an elegant- looking black man in a chef’s hat and apron, eyeing him cautiously, but when Madsen smiled and stuck out his hand, the black man took two steps back- wards. Madsen grinned, knowing that the aura of doom that surrounded him could not have been inviting. “You may not believe it, Bernie, but today is the luckiest day of your life”. Then he collapsed to the floor. It came as no surprise to Madsen when he came to that the black man was nursing him, had loosened his shirt, and was wiping his forehead with a cold, damp cloth. “Thanks”, Madsen offered weakly. He reached into his coat pocket. “It seems as if you have already earned this”. He shoved an envelope into Bernie’s hand. “Take this”, he commanded softly, “there isn’t much time”. “Who are you?”, Bernie asked suspiciously. He glared at the envelope with even greater concern. “And what is this?”. Summoning the last of his renown iron will, Madsen tried to stand, but found it difficult so he insisted that Bernie help him to his feet. “Is there anywhere we can have a bit of privacy? I need—”. “This way”. Bernie led Madsen to a table. Once seated, Madsen understood there was a basically only two ways this could go and best of all, both options offered unlimited possibilities, but there was one catch: he didn’t have a lot of time. He coughed, glad it was just a mid-tempo roar and composing himself, he pointed to the envelope. “War bonds. Also some stock certificates”. He stared at the black man. “They’re yours.” “Why?”. Madsen ignored the question. “As bearer of these bonds and certificates, whenever you’re ready to start living like a king, all you have to do is to redeem them. That’s all it takes. Everything is endorsed—-”. “Why?”. When Madsen stopped coughing, he spoke wearily, “You’re rich, Bernie. You’re the fucking richest black man the world has ever seen”. When Bernie fell back clutching his chest, Madsen grinned triumphantly. “You do understand, then”. “I know about war bonds”, Bernie admitted. “There’s nothing you really need to know. I have taken care of everything. You’re filthy rich, Bernie, just like I was”. Madsen winced. “Easy come, easy go”. A tear rolled from the black man’s eyes. “May the Lord—”. “Yeah, yeah”, Madsen grumbled, “my sentiments exactly. I’ve been a very mean person . . . .” After the coughing subsided, Madsen shrugged. “Trouble is, I’ve enjoyed the dickens out of being me, the infamous Paul “Mad-dog” Madsen”. For a while as he spoke, Madsen felt positively giddy, but his depressed lungs were a magnet for pain and pretty soon he was wheezing and coughing again. Turning increasingly morose, he stuffed his hand into another pocket of his coat. “The stocks and bonds were for you. Do you have any children?”. Bernie nodded. “Well this is for your children’s children’s children”. Madsen handed Bernie a simple, unadorned jewelry box. “I-I don’t understand”. “And you probably never will, but listen carefully. What’s inside this box is highly valuable and to be quite honest, people would kill to get their hands on those documents”. Bernie gulped. “Documents?”. “Don’t fear. As long as you keep them in your family, passing the box along from generation to gen- eration, all will be well”. Madsen gripped Bernie’s arm tightly. “No one outside your family must ever know about this box, understand?”. Bernie nodded. “Good, because it is very, very important that you understand this”. Madsen lowered his voice. “To say anything to anyone about the contents of this box would . . . .”He paused. “It would bring about the immediate destruction of your entire family”. “By who?”. “Your government”, Madsen croaked. “Your president”. Madsen released his grip. “You have been warned. I can do nothing more”. “These documents”, Bernie whispered fearfully, “wh-what are they?”. “Enough to destroy this country”. Madsen felt stronger. “There is a duplicate copy of what you have in that box stashed away in a private Swiss bank account, but international bankers and an assortment of other rogues may sniff it out”. “What happens then?”, Bernie inquired timidly. Madsen sighed. “If that happens, then everything will go to your descendants”. “Then what?” “Then what?”, Madsen laughed happily, “they’ll own the whole damn country, that’s what!”

Cynique: Aha! I really wanted to hear from you on this one as I knew I was treading in turbulent waters. I wanted to induce a more in-depth analysis from another perspective. In fact, Flava was written over a decade ago and since then, my views have changed somewhat to the point where both you and I are in lockstep. And you are correct, the white man does not totally want black men extinct, they would prefer that we be reduced, demoralized, and mentally emasculated. That would better suit his purposes. I will write about another program that originated in the prison that was designed to control the thinking of black prisoners. They opened a prison just for mind-control experiments, but when the word got out about the program that was to be spearheaded by a doctor from Germany, the project was scraped, only to be revised on a smaller scale. Wow...it is frightening what could have happened because I know for a fact that the program worked as I was a seeming victim. I will also share my thoughts on what I call "Bob C" Black on Black Crime as it happened in my hometown. In your state of Illinois is a federal prison named Marion which was the toughest prison in the country for a very long time. It was where they sent black men to get killed. It was filled with skinheads and Nazis and other assorted racists who out-numbered the brothas five to one. We were forced to stick together or die. I was there for two years and the smell of death was always in the air. It was very nerve-racking. Nothing mattered except survival. At Marion, you didn't have time to think about your family because you needed all your mental energy focused on staying alive. It was a kind of heart-in-your-throat existence that drove a lot of prisoners crazy I saw things there that shook my faith in humanity. Anyway, I don't know how I regressed. It was what it was! I imagine I need to get a lot of this stuff out of my system. But we all have our demons. Guess what? My demons have demons

CHAPTER THREE THE SELF-REINFORCING THEORY When you take a look at your personal history, the one thing you will be forced to contend with is the fact that what you are doing right now is establishing a reputation that is sure to outlive you. Be advised that right now, at this very moment, you are building your legacy. In essence, you are cementing the posterity you will leave behind to be viewed by your loved ones. Long after you are dead and gone, your deeds will continue to testify either for or against you. Oftentimes, the preacher will embellish his eulogy to make you seem more saintly than you actually were, but what will always remain is the ghosts of your actions and behavior. They cannot be sugar-coated. They are what they are and will forever exist as an indictment against you, meaning that what you choose to do right now will either bless or curse you in the future. Please remember that until you develop a healthy respect for your deeds and the consequences thereof, you will never be in a position to master your destiny. In all honesty, destiny is so much more than a purely spiritual or intellectual concept. It is a personal belief that the universe owes you and that you are bold enough to claim your rightful due. For centuries, black women have been existing in a state of perpetual emotional chaos where, by far, low self-esteem has been her greatest demon. Let me say this. It is, perhaps, very complicated being a black woman in today’s society. Black women are faced with the daunting task of trying to make sense of a world where, on a daily basis, they witness, watch, and observe the physical destruction of black men. What has become obvious to black women is that this trend of killing their men is not going to blow over as this country’s appetite to destroy their men has escalated, and understanding that this trend will continue into the future, black women have to contend with the probability that once the black man has been destroyed, that America will come after them next! Is this fear reasonable? Of course it is. And the number one reason why this fear is so palpable is simply this: How can you hate the product and not hate the producer? If the black man is the most feared and despised creature in America, then how can it be possible for the black woman to be loved and admired by a society when she is the producer of the thing most loathed by that same society? No matter how pretty and brilliant the black woman is, she cannot disguise her capacity to create what this country deems a monster: the black man! With the hindsight of history as a backdrop, what has been consistent about humans is that they feel they will lose the battle unless they destroy the source of the problem. That’s why when you call the exterminator to your home, he does not focus on individual pests, he will go directly to the source and seek out the colony in an effort to destroy all of the pests. Well, in America, the black woman is the source. Here’s the truth. Hidden beneath all the horror of the evening news where black men are the usual suspects in a bewildering array of crimes is the unspoken whisper to black women: “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE” To some in this country, the black woman’s womb is toxic and she has been given countless warnings to shut down her baby-making facility which she has blindly ignored. In the 50s, the word went out to black women to have only two children and no more. When this didn’t work, other measures were enacted. One was the sterilization of black men. Did you know that Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood was a most vocal advocate of sterilizing black men in the south? She was the one who proposed that black preachers in the south be used to spread the gospel of black male sterilization. She felt that since the black preachers were so charismatic that it would be easy for them to persuade the males in their congregation to get sterilized. Black women better wake up. There’s a war going on.

CHAPTER TWO THE LEARNING CURVE Sometimes, the real key is not learning what to learn, but learning what not to learn! Wise people have always known this and it is oftentimes the most powerful aspect of an education. Without a doubt, education is within the grasp of everyone, but without discipline and insight you may end up an educated fool or worse. In the case of the black women in America, there has been long periods of time when she has had to unlearn what she had learned and the most damning lesson she has had to unlearn was that she was not beautiful. Attempting to live up to the Euro-centric concept of beauty has tended to squeeze so much valuable life out of the black woman’s self-esteem in America that it has virtually traumatized an entire nation of women of color. Much has been made recently of the Willie Lynch theory of making black men slaves that was employed before Emancipation and it evidently worked to the delight of white slave masters, but equally viscous was the Barbie Doll Complex, a condition that wreaked havoc upon the minds of black women in the 1950’s. When Ruth Handler produced the first Barbie Doll, this piece of plastic served to magnify the supposed flaws of black women in America. Her hair was too nappy, her nose was too wide, her butt was too big, her lips too full. Essentially, Barbie was a slap in the black woman’s face, a reminder that she could and never would be beautiful. Barbie insisted that beauty was reserved only for white women. If you want to examine how threatening the Barbie Doll Complex was to black women, all you would have to do would be to study the results of a test given to young black girls in the early 60’s where they were given two dolls to play with. One was black. One was white. The young black girls were then asked to choose the doll they liked most. Guess which doll they chose? The white one. Over and over again, these tests were conducted and no matter where the setting was or who the girls were, the outcome was precisely the same: the little sistas wanted nothing to do with the black doll. Even at this tender age, black females had been conditioned to hate themselves. Don’t you think it fair to say that these girls should have chosen the doll that resembled them. They should have taken comfort in the familiarity. It should have been easy for the sistas to gaze at the black doll and instantly feel kinship because she could not have helped but to see her nose, her eyes, her lips, her hair, her skin. Let’s not play games. This was clearly a case of black self-hatred manifesting itself. Without exception, the young sistas expressed fear and hatred for the black doll which looked more like them. It also indicated that the sistas hated the image they saw when they looked in the mirror. And I’m the first to confess than nothing in the universe can contribute to a low self-esteem than hatred for yourself! This black self-hatred started sistas on a guilt ride where they tried to make amends for their “birth” defects by using bleaching creams to lighten their skin or chemicals to straighten their hair so they would be more white-like, more like Barbie. It took generations to undo the effects of this lesson. Black women had to learn what not to learn and it was not until the 70’s Black is Beautiful Movement that black women finally got the big picture. But there’s more. Of all the women on the face of the earth, the black woman is the only woman in existence that had to learn how to be feminine. Slavery, sure as hell, didn’t permit many or any opportunities for black women to express their femininity. How can you be soft and womanly when you were worked in the fields like an animal? There was not much time to be a woman when you were worked like you were a man or a mule. So when freedom came to the slaves, black women found themselves in a position where they had to learn how to be ladies. They had to experiment with various ideas, concepts, and notions that would help define their unique femininity. They didn’t know anything about makeup, perfume, or fancy clothes. Mainly, all they had during slavery that stamped their femininity was their bodies and that is the primary reason why black women place such a heavy emphasis on their physical assets. There was nothing else at the time by which to define themselves, so a big butt became the focal point, the basic building block of the black woman’s feminine foundation. Using her butt as the foundation to building her persona, the black woman in America has gotten stuck with the notion of being “hot-to-trot” and that her only genius is exhibited in the bedroom. This linear way of inventing her beauty from the bottom up, rather than from the inside-out has placed the black woman in the unenviable position of living an illusion, the myth that her body is a formula that will help her to generate happiness. Sadly, many black women use the visibility of their ample physical assets to hide the nakedness of their inner being and oftentimes they attempt to mask any character flaws they perceive by wearing skimpier clothes. They would much rather the focus be on their behinds than on their minds and it’s a sad commentary that so many black women use their butts to compensate for a shallow mind. This self-imposed emotional slavery is a sort of imprisonment that effectively locks black women into a cycle of depression and stress because in America the curse of the black woman is to be pretty. No other woman on the planet is so obsessed with their looks than the black woman and this national, collective obsession is a direct outgrowth of the Barbie Doll Complex where this phobia to always look good has optimized the focus on a big butt and a pretty smile. This obsession has, of course, turned into a cash cow for the cosmetics industry who rake in millions of dollars annually from sistas who insist upon looking good no matter the cost

Throughout the annals of time, everyone from poets to poor men, from scholars to fools have preached, ranted or raved about how strong love is. I agree with the sentiment that love is indeed powerful. In fact, love is perhaps the most potent elixir on the planet, a gift from the Creator. And who is it that can argue about the beauty of love, or dispute the joy of love when it is new. Ahh, when love is new! Throughout the history of mankind, love has withstood the test of time like no other concept known to humans. it has conquered where the sword has failed. It has come through as an agent of change like nothing else before it. Love has been an one-of-an-kind experience, a magnificent miracle, a pleasure that is so exquisite that there are no words in the language of men that can adequately define just what it is or how it is able to do what only it can do.... make us feel so decidedly alive. But given all that love is, oftentimes even it is not strong enough to withstand the strain that being in prison places upon it. Nothing else in the world burdens love like prison because what else is there in existence that possesses the audacity to transform a beautiful butterfly into a braying mule? Prison is a heartache that scars even love. How can love exist where there is no air for it to breathe? How can love survive when there is nothing on which it can nurture itself? Do you have any idea what happens when memories fade or when there is no future? Death is what happens. The death of love. And while there may be a 1001 things that may wound love, nothing kills it as quickly as prison. I know. I speak from experience. I stood mute, helpless as time worked its evil spell, coming in between me and the woman I loved. She was a bigger victim than I was. She believed she was strong enough, but little did she know. How could she when she had been led to believe that there was no mountain high enough, no valley low enough..... She had no idea. But I did. Still, I was not prepared to meet the end of love. Who is.? And what is there that can prepare you for such a terrible end? Even now, though I still bleed from countless unseen wounds, I applaud the merits of love, I commend its warmth and I highly recommend it, but I do offer this caution; YOU CAN STRESS LOVE BUT DON'T TEST LOVE

Cynique: One of the things about my life that I find so depressing is that I have never known happiness. Maybe the lifestyle I have led prevented me from actually knowing just what happiness was or where to begin a search to find it. Anyway, I have stopped trying--almost. Right now, I would settle for just being content. I read somewhere a long time ago that some people were not suited for happiness, that they were meant to achieve. I tried to console myself with that, but what have I achieved? In any event, yes,my life has been truly unconventional. I have spent 35 years of my life in prison. I imagine that is the reason I have not been happy. Prison is no picnic! See, you have helped me find out the reason for my discontent. When I was young, I felt like I was cursed. Bad things just seemed to happen to me. I know I had free-will to make my own choices, but it felt like I was being controlled, like I was a dog in one of Pavlov's experiment. Anyway, like you say, it is what it is. Yet I can't let go. I must find out what or who or why I just kept on making mistakes, especially when I knew what the consequences would be. It just didn't make sense. Throughout prison, there were guys I grew up with in the joint. One in particular was a brotha I first met at 14 in reform school. A few years later, we met again in prison. Years after that we met up in prison in Georgia. We have never met on the streets. He felt the same way as if he was being controlled. I know it sounds like a cop-out, but the feeling is real. A lot of brothas get that feeling. But, thank God, I survived.

Writergirl: I don't throw up my hands because I am afraid to. It's not that I have answers. It's just that I don't know what else to do. I hold life sacred and it would be a travesty for me to allow the deaths of those who have gone before me to have died and suffered in vain. Yes, there are times when I may step back, but I always rejoin the fray. When I was small, my Moms always told me not to let anyone hit me without me hitting them back. The power-that-be have been hitting me so I keep on hitting back. That's just my nature. The outcome has not always been pretty. There was this one time in 1983 when I had come home from serving ten long years in prison for those bank robberies. I had a job at Pizza Hut, was ready to start life anew. Along comes a Regional Manager from Virginia who hates the fact that practically all of the local managers are black. He went on a rampage and starting firing all the black managers. I supported my manager and we initiated a lawsuit against Pizza Hut. All hell broke loose. Most of the others were intimidated into backing off the lawsuit. I didn't. I was fired and the very next week was arrested as the so-called "Pizza Hut Bandit." I was charged with robbing 6 Pizza Huts. All the employees knew this was a lie and rallied around me. The charges were eventually dismissed, but the day I was due to walk out of jail, three additional robbery charges were filed. This was no longer a case of David versus Goliath. It was a personal vendetta. As mentioned in my bio, I had been in a shootout with the police and they were not about to let me walk out of jail when they had gotten their hands on me again. In the end, I ended up going back to prison for another decade----for a crime I didn't commit or know anything about! I am still haunted by that now. 10 years of my life were taken for nothing. That is why I want others to know of the traps and pitfalls.The thing I fear most about the survival of the fittest is that the ones best suited to survive may not be the strongest. It just may be that we end up with strong fools! Remember the saying that "practice makes perfect. It doesn't. Only "Perfect" practice makes perfect. No matter how much you practice a martial arts move, if your form is not correct, you won't be perfect in your execution. Chances are good that Shaq, when he played basketball, practiced his free-throw shooting constantly. Despite his practice, Shaq never could shoot a free throw. Therefore, practice, in and of itself, does not make perfect. Of course, the strong will survive--but are they the ones best suited to carry on the evolution of our species? Sure , they will have developed these wonderful, muscular bodies, and can talk the talk. Can they walk the walk, though? That will be the question. What happens,I feel, in a lot of cases is that the strong operate mostly out of instinct. They remember what works. They don't think about how to make what works.work better. Prisons are prime examples of where the strong flourish. Let me share this with you. I recall one day while in prison, we were let out of our dorms to go to the commissary. It was cold that evening. Everyone rushed to be first in line so they could get out of the cold,but when we got to the bottom of the steps, the gate was closed. we all stood there in the freezing cold waiting on the guard to come and open the gate. The guard in the gun tower merely watched. When we started yelling at him to send for someone to come and open the gate for us, he laughed and said. "Open the gate yourself".You see, the gate was not locked. It was simply closed. We all felt like fools.No one had thought to try to open the gate. we assumed that because it was closed that it was locked! That is what sometimes happens when only the strong survive.

The question has come up about what i do other than write. To be honest, I have made an effort to get my message out in front of the masses. Have you ever heard or read about the pact between the three brothas who made a pact to become doctors. Well, this is a story about a dozen ex-bank-robbers who made a similar pact. In the 70s we were responsible for all of the bank robberies in my hometown, dozens of them. When I first started robbing banks, I intended to use that money to buy "supplies" for the freedom fighters in Africa who were fighting to gain independence from colonial rulers. I also was doing my part to fund the black revolution that was brewing in this country. Needless to say, i soon became frustrated because the revolution was not happening fast enough. As a consequence, I then robbed banks for more personal reasons, my own livlihood. My immediate crew as well as members of the other crews would share info on what banks were easier targets. It was like sharing "insider" tips. When we proved too much for the local FBI, a special task force from Washington, was assembled to bring us to justice. My crew went out in a blazing gun battle. Once confined, we all made a pact to stick together and to this day, some 40 years later, the pact has never broken. Whichever ones of us were out, we would take care of the ones that were still confined. We will look out for any that had just gotten out of prison. We were constantly in and out of prison and were never on the streets at the same time until two years ago. It was then that we decided to start an organization to steer the youth away from a life of crime. We conducted seminars and held workshops, but the public never accepted us as legitimate. Some didn't think we were fit candidates to help the youth. All they saw was our past. Besides me, a writer, the group contained a professional artist, a gospel singer. We were the lucky ones as we could still benefit from our talents. Others less fortunate had been robbed by time. There was a brotha who could have been an Olympic diver, another who could have been a professional boxer, another a professional basketball player. What they wanted to show was how a single decision could rob you of the opportunity to do something more rewarding with your life. The youth responded to our stories and we were invited to speak more often but the backlash was just too much. People just couldn't get over the fact that we had been criminals, but who knew better how to help the youth navigate their way through the urban maze than us. We knew where the landmines were. We knew the triggers. We understood the streets. They called our organization, Thugs, Inc. Additionally, we had an inside view. When I was in prison, I knew about what new crime was about to be unleashed on the public. How? Because, most of these schemes were hatched in jail. Guys have nothing better to do than think of new crimes. I remember when car-jacking was merely a scheme on the blue-print. The same with home invasions. I was there while these crimes were being hashed out. It used to be when we would look at the news and see about one of the new, "designer" crimes, we would laugh and say, "Ah man, that so and so. He done put it down." Even though we were locked up, we knew exactly who was doing what. The prison was merely a laboratory where new schemes and crimes were drawn up. Now, that I no longer participate in that lifestyle, I try to issue warnings. I hate crime. I use my books to make the public aware of what is about to come at them. The last time I was inside, I came face-to-face with a crime that I detested which was the selling of young sistas into the sex trade. What happened was this. Well, imagine Russian gangsters hooking up with local pimps. What you have is sex trafficking in the hood! It is already happening. Did you know that a lot of the missing children from Hurricane Katrina were kidnapped and sold into the sex trade? Probably not. In my hometown, a sista is on trial right now for selling her daughter to pimps. This is happening all over the country. Thanks to rap videos and magazines that show half-naked sistas, what has happened is that men from all over Eastern Europe who come to this country on business and who have never experienced a black woman are now eager for the pleasure. As we all know, the butt of the black woman is the most fabled, world-renown physical asset on the planet. I won't say any more, but you can read about it in my book, Russian Roulette. I will put it up on Kindle tomorrow for 99 cents. It tells the story. I also have a book, :Giving' the devil his due" which is about environmental racism, about how black housing projects were deliberately built on top of toxic waste dumps. A lot of unexplained illnesses of brothas and sistas today can be traced back to where they lived as children. My book, The Root of All Evil, confronts the facts that we are not actual citizens of the United States! Think about this, all citizens have the right to vote. If we were true citizens, why do they have to keep re-newing the Voting Rights Act for us? My book, Beggars' Banquet, is an expose about the human growth hormone now found in the foods we eat and about how food that is not fit to be sold in white grocery stores are shipped off to be sold in black neighborhoods. If I can't write about important issues that affect us, I don't write at all. Finally, click on the link below. It is a news clip about my now extinct organization, The Giant Steps Foundation. http://www.wcnc.com/...-102315609.html

Writergirl: As you can well imagine, you are a part of a very elite club--The Frustrated Black People Group--of which I have been a charter member since I realized there was not going to be a revolution in this country. If you have read my bio, you will have learned that I was a bank robber in the 70s. What I didn't mention was that the reason I started robbing banks was to finance the black revolution. I was also using the money to support the cause of our people in Africa, that was until I became frustrated. Then I started robbing banks for personal reasons. In any event, I was convinced that change would come to this country via revolution and I was more than willing to be on the front lines. I will explain what happened in a later post. When I found there would be no revolution, I became a Muslim. I saw how Islam had transformed the backward, disunited Arabs and had forged them into a power-house, I assumed Islam could do the same for black people in America. Wrong again. It wasn't Islam that was lacking. It was our people. It frustrates me greatly when I see our youth acting as they do. People actually died so they could enjoy the freedoms they have and they treat them as jest. There are brothas and sistas in prison, who have been there since the 70s because they fought for our struggle. They gave of themselves is such a selfless manner---and for what? They rot in jail because they felt we, as a people, were worth killing and dying for. Since I have been out of prison, I founded what was called The Giant Steps Foundation which was an organization to steer young brothas and sistas away from a life of crime and confinement where I taught a lot of the info you have seen in my posts. They featured me and the group on the nightly news and the backlash was unbelievable. One of the most vocal critics was a member of the Carolina Panthers, the football team here. Everyone said we were thugs. We didn't deny that. We weren't out to teach the youth how to rob and steal. Our mission was to save them. No one gave us a chance. That hurt. In addition to this program, I also developed a program for young at-risk sistas called GirlSmart. The program teaches sistas to use their brains rather than their bodies. I also have a program, Project Uplift, which deals with the issue of drug-dealer addiction. I haven't been able to get any of these programs off the ground. I intend to re-launch all of them again this spring. In the meantime, I will keep writing. Right now,my own weapon is my pen. I am enclosing the link to the news segment here http://www.wcnc.com/news/local/Bank-Robbers-reunite-t-102315609.html

This is basically a response to some of the questions to the first part of the series. As Brotha Troy asked: what is the answer? I sincerely feel that a part to the solution will come when we take control of our image. It is important that we regain our platform to control the images of us that is presented to the world. As Brotha Troy mentioned we are losing these platforms at an alarming rate and since we do not control our image, it is easy for the white media to paint us in a negative light. If you will recall when BET was sold, the first casualty was Ed Gordon and BET news. Once the news segment was destroyed, nothing remained other than the entertainment portion where rappers and video vixens enticed the youth into believing into an urban fairy-tale that only existed in the mind of the people who controlled the entertainment industry. Back in the days, black neighborhoods survived because they were centered around :the teachings" from what I call "The 'Hood Trinity" which was the home, the church, and the school. From the combined teachings of the trinity, info was passed down from offspring to offspring for the sole purpose of self-preservation. But a terrible thing happened, especially in the south: Urban Renewal! Okay, let me go back a little further just to show you the "Set-up!" But first,let me address a remark from Cynique about individualism. Across the whole range of history, individualism has never contributed to a people's collective ability to survive. As such, it merely transforms the individual,not the community. Strangely enough, individualism has the tendency to re-enforce the "crabs-in-a-bucket mentality", and thanks to this rugged individualist approach, we became conditioned as a people to compete with one another for what resources were available to us. Accordingly, the material prosperity of the whole was thwarted. But this was also a part of the plan, the set-up. Why do you think we never got our forty acres and a mules? The white man was no fool. He was a personal witness to what the black man could do. He had seen for himself how we had come to this country and had compelled the bitter earth that had never before borne crops to produce crops without limit. We had somehow transformed the south, a barren wildness, into a lush garden of Eden. Can you imagine the awe of the white man as he became a daily witness to what we could do as a collective, albeit as slaves. He watched us perform a sort of black magic, an agricultural sleight-of-hand that would have been an impossible feat for anyone except us. What we did in the south rivaled what the Egyptians had done with the pyramids. It there was ever such a thing as the ninth wonder of the world, it would have been the American south. What we accomplished there was a miracle and this fact was not lost on the white man. Therefore, he knew that,once we were free, that we could not be allowed to act as a single unit. He knew that what we had did for him as slaves would be nothing compared to what we would do for ourselves as free men. Thus the set-up. In addition to not giving us the land and mules, he had to devise a way to get us out of our element. We understood the land, knew most of nature's secrets so he had to get us into a alien environment where we would be at his mercy. Since we didn't know a damn thing about city living, this is where the white man wanted us! What came next was the Great Migration. The urban change was disorienting since we had a tradition of living in close proximity with the soil. The congestion of the city was indeed a novel experience. The truth of the black exodus is that it was a forced march into the welcomed embrace of white capitalism. The south had benefited from us, Now, it was the north's turn. In the south we had been slaves. In the north, we were to be consumers, a new type of slave. Here's what went down. The United States Committee For Economic Development After WWII developed a plan that stated "that in order to keep the cost of labor low, it is necessary to entice or force country people to move into the cities." The Committee decided this was the method by which there would always be a pool of people who would be nothing but consumers. The Committee also declared that since these people would be poor and landless, they would also be susceptible to hire for paltry wages. You think the white man didn't see us coming. Well, he didn't have to see us coming since he was the one who sent for us! In the north, we took to the idea of consumerism like a fish takes to water. We accepted consumerism like it was a new gospel, and hedged in by our first contact with the almighty dollar, we practiced spending with an almost spiritual zeal. We still do. Money, and the belief that to spend was divine, fostered on us, our self-perpetuating identity as consumers. Let's take a look at what happened to the brothas who remained in the south. Was there not a set-up for him? Of course, there was. Ever heard of the Pig Law?. It was the crack law back in 1876. Now sooner had the slaves been emancipated than the white man was set to work to contain him. The idea of a free--to-roam black man was unappealing to the white masses so it was only natural that a new physical world be established for him: Prison! Once the white south lost the power to hold black men hostage on the plantation, they now had to rely on another method. Right after Emancipation, the law made stealing a pig or any other farm animal an offense punishable by five years in prison. Just the week before , stealing a pig would have, at best, gotten the brotha a whipping by the slavemaster. Now, it was five years in the slammer! With no place to go and no food to eat, the newly-freed black man's arrest rate began to rise. And it ain't stopped rising yet. Then started the quest to portray the black man as the biggest threat to national security and as a consequence, the assault on our image began in earnest. And guess what one of the very first attacks was? That he black man was lazy and shiftless. How could the white man get away with that? The black man had just finished building the south from nothing and now all of a sudden, the same black man was lazy. What audacity. Anyway, this was the first negative image of the post-slavery black man. After this lie went over so well,other racial epithets followed. Add to these, the fact that the black man would steal the stink out of sh** and had a thing for white women, he became Public Enemy # ! overnight. We must take control of our image. That is a starting point. That is why I am so adamant about our images in books and in song. They are no less of a detriment than the ones on the evening news. Read the Root Of All Evil. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007DBVVM0

Thank, Brotha Troy for the link. After spending countless hours on the computer, I still am not computer literate. I sincerely appreciate your help, but you have been doing that since around 2002 when I was still locked up and trying to "get my feet wet." Sadly, I am still just as lost now as I was then. I still laugh at the cover of The Root of All Evil. That was a cost-costing measure that failed. You were honest and told us that the cover would hurt the book. My writing partner, Greg Jones is still locked up. I think he has been in for about 25 years now. Thanks to the others who responded to the post. I will offer other thoughts later

PRESS RELEASE SOULFIRE BOOKS 525 Dare Drive Suite 2 Charlotte NC 28206 704-606-1258 WARNING!!! THIS BOOK WILL SET YOUR SOUL ON FIRE! FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE (Charlotte NC)(February 19 2012) Gregory S. Jones of The Paper Tiger Literary Foundation enthusiastically embraces this moment as a red-letter day in urban fiction as it signals the release of MATCHMAKER by award-winning author Gibran Tariq. MATCHMAKER, hailed as the ultimate black female empowerment novel, is also the first release from SOULFIRE BOOKS. “MATCHMAKER is not merely a book,” Mr. Jones emphatically insists. “It is an event.” Even more importantly, he declares that MATCHMAKER is the one book that every black woman in America must absolutely place on her to-do list and his message to black women everywhere is simply this: If you are alive today, don’t dare die until you have read MATCHMAKER! MATCHMAKER, the dramatic story of the first black First Lady of The United States, places black sistahood at the forefront of a compelling narrative that centers around two of the biggest urban myths today: Can black women get along, and can they effect change on a historic level? Those questions and more are confronted and addressed in this timely novel about faith and forgiveness, about struggle and compromise, about seemingly insurmountable challenges and solutions. MATCHMAKER unfolds on “the pretty wings” of Samantha Givens who establishes MatchMaker Incorporated, a secret organization of beautiful, black women intent on taking control of the country. No matter what you may think of her tactics, you will cheer Samantha on as she sets out to make The White House a sista’s house. Gibran Tariq, though thrilled by the great reviews the book has garnered from RAWSISTAZ, and Ella Curry of The Black Authors Network, which seems to suggest that the novel has pricked the social consciousness of black women, is more direct. “My goal for MATCHMAKER was to boldly challenge the current Hoochie-Mama image of black women which I see as a great collapse in black literature.” Tariq went on to explain that the dangerous destruction of the black woman’s image is a needless affront to the national character of black folk. He further proclaims. “I was not merely interested in crafting a good story. I had every intention of acquainting readers with a literary experience that would not only caress their senses, but one that would also prepare them for the seismic shift in urban literature that is about to happen under the leadership of SOULFIRE BOOKS. Available in bookstores in the spring, MATCHMAKER can now be purchased at Amazon.com in both the print and Kindle editions. Go to http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00789SLQG