Flagrant City: #AroundBuffaLowe: @juugtalk x @dirtylogan716 presents The Brown Water BBQ [Sept 3rd]

Dirty Logan Association teams up with Juug Talk again for The Brown Water BBQ on September 3rd, 2018!!!

Event kicks off at 2pm and goes until 8pm

Location will be provided to ticket holders!!!

Cop ya tickets here: Eventbrite: Juug Talk & Dirty Logan 9/3/18

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Got Loganberry EP by @doeyvangogh [ALBUM]

In honor of 716 Day (7/16), Flagrant City hip hop favorite from my hometown of BuffaLowe, NY, Dough Van Gogh, formerly known as Fernandough the Poet, has released a drip-worthy EP for everyone to get Dirty to, word to Dirty Loganberry. This dope project is sponsored in part by Dirty Logan Entertainment, BuffaLowe PR by way of Flagrant City and Jenesis Magazine.

Artwork by: @shydaughter on Twitter.

Album now available for streaming on iTunes/Apple Music: Got Loganberry!

It’s Time We Get Honest About Suicide

I am two months away from my twenty fifth birthday, and I can honestly say I didn’t think I would live to see this. I tried more than once to end my time on this earth. At those times I lost all hope . I lost myself in memories that harmed my mind and body . I lived in a state of constant fear and pain , there was no escape. I did try to pray it away, I begged God to remove the thoughts from my head that I was better off dead- yet they persisted. I tried to lose myself in pleasure that had been weaponized against me, and found myself even more empty.

The night of my first attempt was on a Sunday, my sister and father were sitting on the living room floor in front of the couch I was laying on laughing at whatever movie we were watching. I got up dazed, walked to the kitchen, opened my medicine bottle for my chronic migraines and took fistfuls until the bottle was empty. When I went back to join my family I laid down relieved that this would be my last memory and completely okay with it. I woke up to an ambulance moving my body and my sister and mother in tears. I was angry that even at dying I failed. Even when trying to bring peace to my mind I brought on more chaos and destruction. I never forgot that feeling . Or the ones that followed . The doctors telling me that I should be thankful that I had parents and a family that loved me. The children that I met while admitted in the mental health facility that had similar stories to mine and the ones who struggled with different illness of the mind . I was sixteen. I rarely cried during that stay or the one after . I did have an awakening- literally when I woke up on the third day of being admitted. That if something inside me continued to fight this hard so that I might still wake up and live to see another day then maybe I am not worthless , maybe I do actually have a purpose. Life carried on and did bring me to that . Still now I struggle with cycles of depression and anxiety. Still now do I have to remind myself of who I was when I tried to end who I am: a con man . I had built a persona of myself that my parents , Family, and community saw that was actively healing through my trauma and following through with treatment plans , I was going to graduate and go off to college and I was building myself up as a spiritual person. My inner reality was different, I punished myself for not living up to the image I made for the people around me to the point where suicide was indeed the only way out. In my mind then I rationalize that if I die now they wouldn’t have to see me for who I really was : broken and scared, dirty and worthless, sad and hopeless. Post suicidal attempt, my life had shifted from my family and people around me pushing that I follow through with my treatment to being treated like a fragile infant. I felt the pressure of living, differently and for many years after I lived in that. I didn’t know how to switch out of survivor mode to living whole .

Even after successfully processing some of my most traumatic sexual abuse, I struggled with seeing worth in myself beyond what I was capable of creating or adding to life . I felt indebted for each breathe I took, each joy I felt, each life that came into mine that dared to love me. Somewhere in repaying those “debts” for enjoying life I lost myself again to causes and people (mostly men) that were just as harmful as my suicidal bouts . I had redesigned the image of myself and was wilting away in the body of it . So when I say I appreciate and love the community I made for myself it’s because they have saved my life. They saw me for me : That I was struggling and weak And strong And Resilient. That I am worthy and dignified and still imperfect. That I am love.

When we as a country and community talk about suicide know the battle is different for each person and know that it is important to view it as such . See people that are struggling, really SEE THEM and LOVE THEM. See past their social media persona or work persona, or what have you to who they are underneath it.

I’m telling y’all from experience It’s hard when going through it to ask for help , to pick up a phone and call a loved one or anyone when your own mind has convinced you that there isn’t a person that cares or loves you. Don’t wait to hear from folx that you already know have a history or struggle with depression or mental illness. Be the love they need and see them . Offer them help with caring for themselves (grocery shopping, laundry, cooking, etc.) or take them out to do something or just sit quietly with them. Be creative about how you show up and see them in their entirety. I’m telling you that alone can save a life.

Dedicated to the Life of Our Freedom Fighter : Erica Garner

This morning as I washed the tub to bath my son, Zaire sat on the toilet rambling his usual morning rants. He paused and said ‘Mom, we must listen to each other and support each other’

I stopped for a moment, and looked at him ‘ yes, that’s right.’

‘That’s what Papa says and that’s what you say about freedom..? ‘we have to lose our chains’

I remember now, I know what he’s saying to me ‘Oh! The Assta chant: it is our duty to fight for our freedom.’

‘Yes! That’s is – It’s is our duty to fight for our freedom! ‘

I nod, smiling now ‘it is our duty to win ..’

He repeats after me loudly

‘We must love each other and support each other ‘

He repeats bobbing up and down with each word

‘We have nothing to lose but our chains.’

‘You always say that Mom, I knew it was you when I hear that and Always holding signs.. ‘

I had intended this morning to write about the pride and discord I felt in that moment. How my heart both swelled up in his acknowledgment of the Work and broke in two because how far we have yet to go to achieve our freedoms, until I saw the news about Erica Garner . She passed this morning, after suffering from a heart attack a week ago and had been in a coma since.

Her father, Eric Garner was killed by the police in 2014, in a case that would be one of the most publicly know and associated with the Black Lives Matter Movement.

Erica was 24 years old when she began organizing and advocating vehemently on her father’s behalf. She staged die ins where her father was killed, held political figures and politicians accountable, and never gave up on her fight for justice.

I’ve looked to her many times over this past year and now especially reflecting on being in this work at the same age as her when she lost her father in such a violent way. I’ve looked at her in admiration that despite being in the most pain this country can put on us she never gave in to it’s insidious attacks against her – until her body could simply not take anymore.

I know the stress this work can wear on the body. The pain can manifest physically beyond the mental and emotional point of enduring. I felt it recently when the Attorney General visited Buffalo to announce that there was no way No criminal charges found in the case of Wardel ‘Meech’ Davis, the 20 year old black man killed by the BPD in February of this year. The day of the news broke I joined in on the protests with Zaire by my side . I closed the protest with the above Chant with tears streaming from my eyes both from the cold of the cruel wind whipping against my face and the pure emotion of knowing how little black lives amount to in this country. Angered that we still fight for its sacredness that our lives are constantly denied.

My imagination can only go so far as too empathize with what Erica internalized in her three years of this fight for the man that loved her first in her life.

Erica carried that pain every day of being erased, of her father’s life never receiving any justice but instead slander by media outlets-yet she carried on. She was still a person beyond this Work, she brought life into this world and the pain of her father not being able to witness it is what I can imagine was a contributing factor to her first heart attack.

Erica’s heart was broken the day life departed from her father and broke a little more each time he was disrespected, repressed and denied justice after death. It broke a little more with each reported police killing of unarmed black men and women. It broke a little more each time joy crept into her life with the knowing she did not have her father to share it with until her untimely death at the age of 27.

We highlight too often the strength of freedom fighters and not their humanity- their need to be cared for and loved properly. Today her family, loved ones, and folks that been apart of this movement that recognize her contributions mourn Erica Garner. I hope her soul has finally found solace as she joins her father in rest.

I also hope this will help bring awareness of our needs of healing and love within the fight for justice, within the generations of suffering pain that is denied reconciliation.

It Is our duty to love each other and support each, to listen and care gently when there is a pause in all our fighting. It is our duty to find resilience in this from the peace we still have within us.

Sending prayers and healing vibes on this day.

cover photo:Erica Garner has turned personal tragedy into a platform for activism (Photo by Andrew Burton/Getty Images)

BOLD Journey to Durham: lessons on Black Love & Healing for Liberation

This November I celebrate my one year anniversary of organizing with Just Resisting! (Just Resisting is a black and brown community organization that focuses on social justice issues- primarily on injustices involving the local Buffalo Police Department/ Strike Force.) As I celebrate this accomplishment, I sit with the experience of attending BOLD,Black Organizing for Leadership and Dignity Amandla – Praxis. The combination of the timing of both events is not only emotional, but monumental.

For five days I had the privilege of being able to share space with beautiful black organizers and folks from all over this country. We endured twelve hours of intense somatic, embodied leadership training, political education and on the ground practice with the local organization, 10K for Durham. As I write this I’m still unpacking a wealth of emotions ranging from raw newness to frustration.

I was under the impression going into the training that I would be learning practices for my organizing and that some somatic would be practiced.( I still didn’t know or understand the premise of somatic and what it entailed beyond centering). I did not know the small exposure to somatic practice would affect me on the level that it did. As one of the co-director to JR said so perfectly “ it’s like constantly being ripped open layer by layer exposing yourself in your bare humanity” all while maintaining everyone’s dignity in the space- it was amazing. Each practice forced me to acknowledge pieces of my trauma that I tried to deny- things I had buried within myself, beliefs that I thought were long ago debunked.  I discovered the power in living in the truth of my story, living centered in purpose.

This painfully culminated during a practice on the fourth day, where we were instructed to write commitments that we would carry with us back home beyond this training.

My OG commitment went like:  “I am a commitment to being a source of love and strength in connection to myself, my children, and my community for our liberation.”  When I shared this with my team that I had been working with for the past week, they all responded that they had seen me doing that – the way I cared for Zaire and Kelila, in the way I talked about folks back home. I said without a thought “yea, but not myself.”

It was then when one of the lead facilitators that was on our team challenged me to cross everyone else out leaving myself, then try reading it aloud. I did, read it, and burst into tears. I was forced to face the truth that I did not know how to care for myself or felt I was worthy of that.

This triggered memories of my mother- her telling me that I am so strong and have endured much in this life, her trying to reaffirm my worth. I understood that to mean that strength was resource- something I could draw from, tap into in moments of weakness- not gift. Until then I believed that my purpose was to give of myself as a sacrifice for still having life in this body.

I was able to see the life that mattered in my children, in Jose, in Meech, in Aj, in my community- but not mine. I cried because I felt like that suicidal sixteen year old girl I once was all over  again, plagued with PTSD from being sexual abuse that left me feeling worthless. The memory of waking up the day after my first suicide attempt in a hospital room came to mind vividly. I remember thinking that I was not physically supposed to be there but, also knowing this must’ve meant that I still had a purpose to fulfill on this earth. Since that moment, I was willing to live as a martyr for that purpose once I found it.

I first thought that Zaire was the fulfillment of that purpose once I met him and nurtured him as such, the same with Kelila, the same with my organizing work.

As I poured the love and strength in me into them and my projects I felt the pressure of life closing in around me, I felt depleted. In that moment when I acknowledged that my life mattered, and despite my traumas I will always have worth, a shift occurred within me. I spoke my commitment again; tears flowed as I said the words firmly. I️ am a commitment to being a source of love and strength in connection to my own liberation.I strive to live in that commitment since then by honoring myself slowly in small ways. Reaffirming that I do have worth and being gentle with myself has become a daily practice.

I allow myself to feel deeper in my interactions with folks: the boundaries that are born from it and the relationships I challenge to feel deeper in. I feel the frustration in my social media feeds seeing how much of society has feed us bullshit that has shrunk us down and isolated us as black folks.

When we collectively acknowledge our trauma and pain that healing process can begin. The acceptance of how our stories shift and shape us is the source of our power.

I understand the fear to go deeper. It’s not always safe to engage deeply in all interactions- it requires a level of trust in a time in our history where so much distrust has breed between all relationships. It’s also scary to face what lies in wait below the surface- what memories have been denied to revisit, what stories do we tell ourselves daily that are not true- things that sit in our depth that must be sorted through, and unpacked to heal in our full  dignity.

This movement for Black Liberation exceeds breaking systems that were created to oppress us but, it’s for our collective healing as black folks. It is for the moments of freedom we are rarely granted to be extended.

This liberation is for the empowerment that we will always have our dignity- Despite what the society we live in feeds us through media influence and experiences. Connecting from that place of healing will create a people that I can only imagine our ancestors dreamed we would become.