Starry Nights in Heaven by Brendan Whitt

My summer in Cleveland has been full of adventure. I attended my first Parade the Circle, enjoyed the festivities of The Cleveland Museum of Art’s centennial and even flew on a plane for the first time. This past Thursday I had the pleasure of attending the 81st Anisfeld-Wolf Book Awards. The winners included Lillian Faderman (The Gay Revolution: The Story of the Struggle) and Brian Seibert (What the Eye Hears: A History of Tap Dancing) both for nonfiction, Mary Morris (The Jazz Place) for fiction and Lifetime Achievement Award recipient Orlando Patterson (The Cultural Matrix Understanding Black Youth).

Although Patterson’s speech personally for me was the most moving moment of the awards it was Rowan Ricardo Phillips who had captured my attention. Rowan was the recipient of the Anisfeld-Wolf Award for Poetry for his second collection titled Heaven published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. The first poem of the book titled “The Mind After Everything Has Happened” posed the question “Who in the Hell’s Heaven is this?”

My Truth, My Fiction

Fiction is more than just a genre. It is most often a mirror that reflects the world of which we live in. Sometimes the fictional worlds that we consume can tell us more about reality than we can understand on our own.

Cleveland is the basis for all of my writing. I was born here, raised here and I hope to make a living here. Artists have always reflected on their lives through their work. Picasso’s “Terror and Annihilation” depicted his negative feelings towards WWI and it’s no secret that Spike Lee shares his sociological views through such films as School Daze and Do the Right Thing.

When I first decided to pursue creative writing I had no idea how much of my subconscious and memories would unlock themselves and become exposed on the page. I started off as a hopeful journalist in high school but by college I had figured out that I wanted to become an author and screenwriter because of the power of creativity.

My first short novel, A Summer In Harlem, told the story of 14 year old Beloit, Alabama native Thad as he traveled alone to Harlem during the summer of 1948 to visit his aunt and three cousins. Originally I was trying to create my own Gatsby-esque storyline. The story in turn ended up becoming a representation of the urban life I knew growing up in Cleveland’s east side neighborhood of Hough. Much like a drive from Downtown Cleveland into the upper east side the scenery is telling of Thad’s surroundings.

A Summer In Harlem, Chapter 2:
“In New York the entire street was filled with cars and buses and trucks. And it wasn’t just one street. On every street it seemed like there was traffic from one intersection to the next. Thad hoped the scenery in Harlem was as beautiful as this...

Blought #28: Solving Mysteries to Learn Lessons

From left to right: Eric Anderson, Casey Daniels, Laura Walter,

Kevin Keating and Shelly Costa participate in a panel discussion.

During my final semester at Cleveland State I enrolled into Dr. Anup Kumar’s "Specialized Writing" course focusing on writing narrative long form journalism. One of the most important pieces of advice that I can still remember Dr. Kumar offering the class was learning to have the ability to read a piece on a topic that you may not be familiar with, but one that you can learn from. I personally preferred a good op-ed piece on a pressing sports issue while Dr. Kumar made us read an article about Joan Rivers during the first week of the course.

After taking Dr. Kumar’s class I especially learned to appreciate journalism that focused on technology and science even though I need Wikipedia open to fully understand Einstein’s theory of gravitational waves. When Lee Chilcote, co-counder and cordinator of Lirerary Cleveland invited me to Literary Cleveland’s Winter Fictionfest I was elated.  The workshop and mini-conference took place at Loganberry Books on Larchmere in beautiful Shaker Heights and focused mainly on the elements and style of mystery and suspense fiction.

Go Support #YoungLangston on November 1st!!!

Later this week I will be launching an Indie Go-Go campaign to raise funds to print copies of A Summer In Harlem and When the Crows Come Home along with my promotional bookmarks and laptop stickers. Here is the promotional video for the campaign set to begin on November 1st. I will be posting a link for the campaign in the near future. Thank to all of my supporters, Peace...



 

'Papers' from 'When the Crows Come Home'

When the crows come home
We get high my nigga

When the crows come home
We drink dark French liquor

When the crows come home
It’s like fam got back together

When the crows come home
My heart feels better

When the crwos come home home
Lil niggas got they pops

When the crows come home
We need a red carpet for the block

'Contraband' from 'When the Crows Come Home'

Contraband got him shoes
Contraband stashed in his sock
Contraband paid his momma rent
And got his little brother an XBOX

Contraband bought diapers
Contraband cause fights
Contraband got you a new whip
And keep you up at night

Contraband got you a quick buck
Contraband was the plan
Contraband ain’t no way to live
And it didn’t last

'Gotta Do Better' from 'When the Crows Come Home'

You shouldn't yell" free my nigga"
Instead we should be promotin "teach my nigga"
Take yo son hand
And not a key my nigga
Now we wearin orange jumpsuits
Cause the lick was sweet my nigga
I understand the man don't like us niggas
But why we gotta keep addin to the problem
Cause then we gon keep bein niggas

'Rappers' from 'When the Crows Come Home'

Look at these rich pampered niggas
They all claim to be the realest
You wouldn’t be authentic
Even if the US Mint made ya
Counterfeit thugs got famous
Cause Atlantic or Def Jam pay ya
Like Africans sellin Gucci
Y’all just a bunch of fakers
And Capitol just want capital
Cause once that cell or casket closed
That’s when ya album chart and go gold

'When The Hens Roost' from 'When the Crows Come Home'

The sun ain’t hit the top yet
And the birds out chirpin’
Mr. Farmer just finished his joe
Time to get workin

Had a steer pullin a plow
And the dog herdin his sheep
Mr. Farmer went to the coop
And couldn’t believe what he didn’t see

Not a hen was there
And they hadn’t laid any eggs
“I done lost to a goddamn coyote”
Then an idea popped into his head

If they ain’t in the coop layin
Or walkin around outside
They probably sittin somewhere talkin
Guess I’ll give them some time

'Untitled 3' from 'If I Wrote a Hip-Hop Album'

Can we put the guns down
Put a L in the air
Its like every other week
All a young nigga hear
RIP my nigga
Another black male dead
And it hurt me soul
Make me wanna drop a tear
Another son aint here
Another brother gunned down
Can we put the guns down
I don’t who next
But I hope it aint me
Hope it aint my nigga
Hope it aint my fam
So what you ‘sposed to do
When the streets so cold
You need heat by ya belt
Like a nigga name Pacino
Whats the motive anyway
Mucho Dinero
But the means aint worth it
So I beg and I plead
Can we put the guns down
No more black mothers cryin’
Lil bros grow up mad
Cause he lost his brother, closest thing to his dad
It just make me so sad
Can we please put em down
Just put the guns down

'Afro That Holds My Pick' from 'If I Wrote a Hip-Hop Album'

The Afro that holds my pick is more than just hair.
It serves as a symbol of strength for a displaced now mixed race of oppressed people.
When no one would call out the world’s big brother for what they had done,
we grew out our native kinks, picked them out,
and put our ebony fist in the air.
The Afro that holds my pick was worn when Conductor Cornelius,
led the country on a magical journey upon his train of soul.
When the sweet tunes of The Spinners, Ohio Players,
and The Commodores graced the radios of Black America
My pops and his niggas all rocked the simply coined “Fro”
The Fro I rock has purpose.
I bear the pain from every pull of my pick.
I know it don’t equal lashes
but it’s the best way to represent.
Now from beatin’s to hangin’s, to revolutions, to groovin‘,
not only is my Afro a hairstyle,
it also serves as a symbolic
historical text book for my people.
Ima sag my pants with the pick in my back pocket
to show where I’m from,
And use my pick to show what I’m Is.