Esteban Montejo (en Cuba). A man AGAIN.

"…hands were swollen.  I camped under a tree.  I stayed there no more than four or five days.  All I had to do was hear the first human voice close by, and I would take off fast.

I came to hide in a cave for a time.  I lived there for a year and a half. . ..I was careful about all the sounds I made, And of the fires.  If I left a track, they could follow my path and catch me.  I climbed up and down so many hills that my legs and arms got as hard as sticks.  Little by little I got to know the woods.  And I began to like them.  Sometimes I would forget I was a Cimarron, and I would start to whistle.  Early on I used to whistle to get over the fear.  They say that when you whistle, you chase away the evil spirits.  But being a Cimarron in the woods you had to be on the lookout.  I didn't start whistling again because the guajiros or the slave catchers would come.  Since the Cimarron was a slave who ahd escaped, the masters sent a posse of rancheadores after them.  Mean guajiros with hunting dogs so they could drag you out of the woods in their jaws.  I never ran into any of them.  I never seen any of those dogs up close.  They were trained to catch blacks…  When a slave catcher caught a black, the master or the overseer gave him an ounce of gold or more.

Truth is that I lived well as a cimarron, very hidden, very comfortable.  I didn't even allow other cimarrones to spot me: "cimarron with cimarron sells a cimarron."  For a long time I didn't speak a word to anyone.  I liked that tranquility.  …You live half wild when you're a cimarron.

I found out about the end of slavery from all the people shouting. . . They shouted, "We're free now."  But I wasn't affected.  To my mind, it was a lie…  When I came out of the woods I started in walking, and I met an old woman with two children in her arms.  I called to her from a distance, and when she came up to me I asked her: "Tell me, is it true that we're no longer slaves?"  She answered me: "No, son, now we're really free."  And, with that, as quickly as I became a cimarron… I stopped being a cimaroon.  And became myself…a man…again."

[In 1963 at the age of 103, Estaban Montejo recounted his experiences to Cuban writer and ethnologist Miguel Barnet.  Montejo had suffered the lash and toiled as a slave.  He had escaped into the wilderness and lived for years as a Cimmaron/Maroon, and had fought as a soldier in the Cuban war of independence.  His story is a rare and remarkable window into the history of Cuba.]

Black Jobs Disappearing at Depression-Era Rates

BAR Brother Glen drops another timely news item jewel.

"There are no targeted programs to address soaring Black unemployment on the horizon, despite Democratic control of the White House and both houses of Congress. President Obama puts his faith in a “rising tide” that “lifts all boats,” but in the real world “the economic tide is sinking Black boats at two, three and four times the rate of whites.”

Download the audio report here.

Bconx Alert

"The release of the Fed’s latest Survey of Consumer Finances, a triennial assessment of American financial trends, reveals that a focus on policy through a racial lens could come none too soon. The report found that, as a group, people of color held roughly 16 cents for every $1 held by whites in 2007. For Hispanics, the figure was 12 cents. For blacks, a dime*. And those figures were crunched before the collapse of the economy. Advocates fear that the gap probably widened since then because, while fewer minorities than whites own their homes, minority homeowners tend to have a higher percentage of their wealth wrapped up in their homes.

Similarly, blacks and Hispanics have fewer credit cards, but tend to drive up higher debts per card. As a result, said Jose Garcia, associate director for research and policy at Demos, a liberal policy group, “more of [minorities'] income goes to pay debt, and less goes to buy assets.” (article).

So, when a raging fever burns,
We shift from side to side by turns;
And 'tis a poor relief we gain
To change the place, but keep the pain.
~ Isaac Watts, Hymns and Spiritual Songs

*Remember the Grand Master Flash 'NYNY' lyrics?
On 42nd Street, lookin for some action
Women standing on the corner selling satisfaction
One young punk just leaning on the fence
Tryin' to make a dollar out of fifteen cents
Really is a prankster, tried to be a gangster
Real big wheel when a gun is in his hands
Just did a stick-up, just got picked up
One dead punk, killed by the man.

...everything ain't always what it seems...
...but'm down by law, & know my way around.