Archive for May, 2011

The following is a homework assignment, written by “Stinky” Fuller (age 13),  Brooklyn, NY.

Marcus Garvey was born onAugust 17, 1887, in St. Ann’sBay, Jamaica. He was the youngest of 11 children. His father was a mason. His mother earned money farming a plot of land. They grew citrus and spice trees. Both of his parents were descendants of African slaves who were brought to theWest Indiesto work the sugarcane plantations. Although his father inherited land inJamaica, he lost it in court because he was in debt to his neighbors.

Marcus Garvey liked to read, ride bicycle and go swimming. He played with both black and white children growing up. His neighbors were white. His best friend as a child was a little white girl. When he was 14, the little girl’s parents put an end to the relationship. She was told never to write or get in touch with Marcus. He wanted to attend secondary school but his family could not afford it.

The first time on his own, he took a job at his uncle’s print shop. He was promoted to master printer. He became active in a union and led a strike, but after the strike, no one would hire him. He then found a job with a government printing office. He enjoyed politics, but was not a good public speaker. People made fun of him, but he learned to speak better by attending church and listening to preachers. He spoke on street corners and soon, people started listening to him. When he was 21, he started his own newspaper called “Garvey’s Watchman”. He edited and published newspapers for most of his life.


In 1910, Marcus Garvey went toCosta Ricato earn money on a fruit plantation where he kept track of the hours everyone worked. He noticed that it was dangerous for people to work on the plantation because of animals that attacked and thieves that stole. He tried to get officials to address the problems, but no one would listen to him. He moved toPanamawhere he found the situation bad for blacks as well. InPanama, workers on thePanama Canalfaced malaria. Marcus Garvey got Malaria himself and returned toJamaicain 1912. From there, he moved toEnglandwhere he found work on the docks. He attendedLondon’sBirkbeckCollege.

Marcus Garvey was inspired by a book called “Up from Slavery” written by Booker T. Washington. The book changed his life. After reading the book, Marcus Garvey came up with the idea of uniting all the Negro peoples of the world into one body to establish a country and government of their own. When he returned toKingston,Jamaicain 1914, he established the Universal Negro Improvement Association. (UNIA). The group wanted to found an independent black nation inAfrica. Marcus Garvey traveled to theU.S.(Harlem) to raise money for the group. He got a job as a printer inNew Yorkand he started his own newspaper called “Negro World”. The paper told stories of black heros. Several governments of the world banned the paper.

In 1919 Marcus Garvey decided to show his followers that blacks could gain economic independence. He started a shipping company to transport goods among black-run businesses inAfrica, theCaribbeanand theAmericas. Blacks were allowed to buy stock in the shipping company for $5 a share. More than $600,000 in stock was purchased. In 1922 the shipping line went out of business. Marcus Garvey also started the Negro Factories Corporation. He sold stock for $1 per share. Several businesses formed inHarlem, sponsored by the Negro Factories Corporation.

OnOctober 14, 1919, George Tyler, a former employee of Marcus Garvey, attempted to kill him.Tylerdemanded money he said Garvey owed him. Marcus Garvey’s secretary saved his life by tacklingTyler. Garvey married her, but they separated three months later. The near death incident made Marcus Garvey more popular.


Garvey attempted to set up a settlement for his followers inAfrica. He tried to convince theLeague of Nationsto turn over to the UNIA the African coloniesGermanyhad been forced to give up after World War I, but despite years of efforts, it came to nothing.

OnJune 21, 1923, Garvey was sentenced to five years in jail and was fined  $1,000 for mail fraud. The charges were brought up because advertisements for the Black Star Line were sent through the mail. During his time in prison, he wrote editorials for “The Negro World” that attacked his enemies. He also wrote poetry. Garvey’s sentence was later commuted by President Calvin Coolidge, but he was deported as an undesirable alien. He died onJune 10, 1940from either a heart attack or a cerebral hemorrhage.

I found several poems written by Marcus Garvey. My favorite is a speech given to his followers before being deported from theUnited States–

“Look for me in the whirlwind or the storm. Look for me all around you, for with God’s grace, I shall come and bring with me countless millions of black slaves who have died in America and the West Indies and the millions in Africa to aid you in the fight for Liberty, Freedom and Life.”

The reason I like this writing is because he was explaining his difficulties and using his trials as a means to inspire others. In a way, this is a speech, when read many years after his death, seems as if he were here fighting for Black freedom, still today. I like how he seems to speak to us from beyond, where he leads a group of  angels in the fight for freedom that seems to never end.

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Investigators in New York conclude that multiple psychos were involved in the murder of an entire chatroom full of craigslist hookers. It is logical that forensic scientists make such deductions; there is little evidence available that demonstrates a killing pattern of a single psychologically diluted person.

It seems highly likely to me that the secluded area of the beach where the countless bodies were disposed was well known in internet circles as the place to put high-price tweeters after they have posted their final on-line ad. The internet is a wealth of information.

The Federal Government has likely hired the best psychics there are to assist in pinpointing the individuals responsible for these horrific slaughters.

My spiritual guide, Cassie, has been communicating with me from the light ever since this story broke. She informs me that women who make a living from on-line gambling are as plentiful as the men who play the sluts. Cassie tells me to think outside the box, unlike the police who are “investigating” this case.

There has been no effective means for monitoring the lifestyle that CNN anchor Elliot Spitzer and men like him still enjoy. For every one woman found dead in the sand, there have been thousands of others who turned at least five tricks a week for years on end. Thousands of small business owners never get as much a scratch upon their skinny, near anorexic bodies as they sell themselves in this modern, hi-tech world. It is only natural with so much prostitution in the world that the law of averages would result in at least a dozen murder victims.

How many of the teachers laid-off by Mayor Bloomberg this week will resort to psychical education jobs on craigslist? Where will predators dispose of their bodies now that the once secretive dumping ground of the elite has been uncovered?

There is no end to the line of snatch there is on line in a recession. Where there is crime, there is murder. It is the law of averages when coin is converted to cunt. “Of course there were multiple killers”, Cassie has advised. “They worked together on-line, like a group of spam artists who have taken over the craigslist site and made the world wide web a place for suckers and not just a reliable source of information,” Cassie advises.

Where there is good pussy to be had at a reasonable price, men of power and wealth will exploit cheap labor; remember Egypt. Men will always exploit such situations and be the usual suspects. Sadly, for men with reputations to uphold, one cannot simply walk away when sex with an on-line hooker is over. This is an age where a post on facebook can ruin a reputation faster than a hand job. Cassie asks that we remember ancient Egypt as we dig through the sands of Long Island and piece together the clues.  “Remember, before there were slaves or manna, women sold their ass and were erased in the sands.”

Considering what little evidence there is and from what my guide Cassie has shared, this guru concludes a group of men wanting to be women are the cause. These transgendered individuals were searching for essential body parts, necessary in reproduction. They are responsible for these murders. Buy A New Liver sites are popping up all over facebook. The newest phase in transgender plastic surgery is uterine transplants, and men are dogs when it comes to having a vagina.

Cassie will tell me no more for now, at least not until the Federal Government hires me as a professional clairvoyant, she says.

Perhaps a group of women committed this string of undetectable crime. Only a woman is smart enough to be so clean in serial killing. Cassie has been wrong in what she said inside my head before. The killers could very well be a gang of mad housewives from the Hamptons, and not a pack of wild drag queens hoping to one day get pregnant.

It could be anyone for that matter.

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Uncountable numbers of immigrants from Mexico, South and Central America, and the Caribbean have flocked to Northern New Jersey. Like Canadian Geese migrating north for the summer to breed, they have transformed the northern portion of the “Come See for Yourself State” into a lake of Latino flavor and color.

Those who have crept over the boarder can sleep in peace, cook rice like in their homeland, and raise newborn children in peace here– all, somehow legally.

Early in the morning, many of these slaves of a modern day ancient Egypt go into New York City to work. In the town square, men who do not have regular jobs wait patiently in hopes of being hired for the day. They wait in long lines for contractors to drive up to the town square in their pick up trucks and vans; offering manual jobs such as landscaping and basic construction work.

The beautiful men with silky black hair stand like Mayan gods in the warm, golden glow of spring sunrises at the center of town. As sun strikes their copper skin they seem so humble and appreciative for everything they have. They make the sign of the cross over their hearts– perhaps praying that this day too, the Lord will offer them daily bread. Somehow, despite a recession and recent threats of government crackdowns on illegal immigration, these hard-working geniuses cut a living from the land surrounding Wall Street.

There is a certain Catholic air in the air in New Jersey where they live. They go about their business like little, undercover nuns. There is a bright shiny glow in their dark, brown eyes just like the morning sun. They seem to beam with inner radiance whenever eye contact is made, but always, they look away or down to the ground and never stare at white strangers impolitely.

Locals who work in Manhattan ride to work in what are called ‘roaches’, or ‘cucarachas’, in their native Spanish language. Fares to ride the ‘cucarachas’ are slightly higher than city subways. It costs $2.50 each way. At least for these humble people who make up beds in hotels and dig ditches, there are always seats available on their migratory rides to and from work. One never has to wait too long for another roach to crawl by the street corner. The buses are everywhere and run all hours of day and night– just like real roaches. There appear to be no real roaches in New Jersey, but stray cats are as common as Goya in this unofficial New York City suburb.

Poultry is delivered fresh, so fresh that it is still alive. Chickens are brought in on trucks and slaughtered in shops located directly across the street from a McDonald’s restaurant. Early in the morning on the sidewalk of Bergenline Avenue, a trail of brown and white chicken droppings burn across the sidewalk near 54th Street like a giant, horrific skid-mark. Men pull hundreds of plastic crates stuffed with chickens from trucks into the store where they are killed, leaving behind a smelly stain of nitrogen enriched droppings on the sidewalk that people here do not seem to mind.

There are no white bitches in high-heel pumps in North Bergen and Hudson Counties.

Spanish neighbors who live in my new tenement building leave the doors leading into individual apartments open when cooking those freshly slaughtered hens– offering a scent of cilantro that fills the hallways and seeps into everyone’s place. It seems to be a way of the Latin culture to open doors in the evenings. A woman who lives across the hallway was one such neighbor. I introduced myself to her when leaving my place for a stroll to the local library to check out another book by Carlos Castaneda—“The Active Side of Infinity.”

“Hello, I’m Charles,” I shared, offering my hand. The woman smiled brightly at me, turned and replied, “I’m Lucy. My husband’s name is Juan,” she said to my most pleasant surprise. Slowly, a thin man holding a cane came to the door and extended his hand to shake mine. It is so odd how what one reads sometimes slips into everyday life. The nail on the pinky finger of Juan’s left hand was long and well manicured. His other nails were neatly trimmed to the skin of his wrinkled, bony fingers.

“This is Charles,” Lucy explained to her husband. The old man does not speak fluent English. Juan asked his wife to repeat my name. He seemed confused upon hearing it so I quickly explained to Juan that he could call me Charlie or Carlos. He smiled and his eyes lit up as he repeated the name ‘Carlos’ to himself.

Later that evening, soon after dinner dishes were done, just as my roommate and I had settled in for an evening of comfort here in Little Mexico City, there was a knock upon our door. It was Lucy. She stood at the entrance to our new place wearing tight spandex shorts and a t-shirt that displayed a big round belly. Lucy asked while speaking in near perfect English–

“Are you smoking weed, Papi?”

“No. What do you mean?” I asked in broken English.

“Now listen,” she stated like a mother, running her hands through frizzy red hair, “I’ve already sprayed out here twice and I still can smell it.” She gave me that motherly look of don’t lie to me, little boy.

“Alright, alright, Mommy,” I replied. “I’ll see you later. Thank you, Mommy.” I said, using the Spanish word for lady friend to address her properly and with respect.

Lucy smiled and it seemed for a moment that she wanted to pat me on my head before leaving my door, although she would have had to reach high in order to do so. The next morning, Lucy knocked again–

“Hi Papi. Do you like peanut butter?” she asked, holding two jars against her breasts while standing impatiently outside my door, apparently not at all upset over what she had smelled the night before.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”

“Here– take these. I got four. Now listen,” she said, just like a mother, “They give away food at One O’ Clock on Fridays across the street. If you need, you go– they don’t ask not’ing’– no driver license– where ye work– none of that– just sign your name.”

“Well, that’s good to know. Thanks for telling me,” I replied, wondering why it was Lucy would think a white man would need to take food from a pantry. If I had enough money to afford any bad habits, why would I need to go to a food pantry. Then I realized, it is probably something everyone does here as a type of community event, or celebration.

“Oh Papi,” Lucy stated, trying to peek further into my new apartment, “You don’t got no sofa. You need a sofa? I getting new sofa. You want sofa?”

“No thanks, Mommy,” I replied, resting the jars of peanut butter against my flat stomach. I was wearing a white, wife-beater t-shirt and felt somewhat embarrassed as my somewhat stiff penis slowly subsided within my cotton pajamas at the very look of her fat belly. I thought for a moment she was flirting with me; she seemed not to mind my near nakedness and certainly helped herself to an eyeful. Just then, Juan stepped out from their apartment. I then explained to both of them that I got rid of two sofas before moving here and did not intend on getting another one.

“Listen, I don’t want the cops up here. Believe me, they’ll knock on my door and not yours– and we don’t want them snooping around our place– oh no– we can’t have that,” she explained, glancing towards Juan as if to cast some sort of blame towards him for something he may be doing illegally, across the hallway.

I laughed and gently closed the door without putting on the chain. I stood at the door holding the peanut butter and glanced through the peephole for at least five minutes, wondering if crazy-looking Lucy would come out and knock on my door again.

The door to their apartment opened again. It was Juan wearing a wide-brim hat with a string securing it to his chin. He quickly scampered away without turning to look at our door. Like a little shadow, he moved quickly for a man with a cane. His moves were guarded and secretive. It became obvious to me that he was sneaking out secretively– perhaps Lucy who seems so much younger than Juan had not granted permission for him to leave the house. It was not my business, so I put the jars of peanut butter into our nearly empty wooden cabinets.

An hour later there was another knock at our door. It was a white man– “Is Juan here?” the stranger asked.

“Who are you,” my roommate, B inquired. I was hiding in the bedroom, hoping it was not Lucy again.

“I’m Juan’s doctor,” the man explained. Is he here?

“I don’t know anyone named Juan,” B expressed, “I just moved here and I don’t know a soul.” I didn’t come from the bedroom to confess to knowing either Juan or Lucy.

B silently tip toed across our wood floors into the bedroom and asked, “What was that all about? What kind of fuckery is this? Doctors never make house calls and you can’t tell me these immigrants on Medicaid get house calls. Who, do you think, that really was?”

“I don’t know, B. I saw Juan leaving a while ago. He looked like he was on the run from someone. Do you think that white man was from immigration or do you think they are selling drugs out of their apartment– their door is always open and I hear people coming and going all the time. I’m sure that white man was not a doctor; he was probably looking to score something,” I reasoned.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” B remarked, “No one would ever expect an elderly couple to be selling drugs, unless of course it starts smelling like weed on the floor. That explains everything. The pot was calling the kettle black last night. That old man Juan looks guilty of something. The nerve of them! This is why we cannot let any more immigrants in our country. They come here and ruin the American way of life.”

“Did you see the long nail of Juan’s pinky finger?” I asked, winking at my lover as he passed me something…


For more writings on don Juan, click here:


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