I spat it with a quiet intensity I usually save for enemies: “We buryin’ kids and you worryin’ about a popsicle!” The object of my wrath was no enemy of mine, however, but a kid who lives at the group home where I work. This is the first time I’ve ever spoken to one of my kids out of anger. My work is driven by that compassion which has its roots in understanding, but a few hours ago I sat in a funeral home with salt stinging my eyes and heart; my understanding decided to leave me alone and anger rushed in to take up the vacancy. A 17 year old boy I used to work with is dead–shot in the street for running his mouth earlier in the night.

Time soothes all and the cool waters of wisdom drown the flames of despondency. The relief, however, lies not in answers but in acceptance. It’s not enough to be angry at young bangers for killing each other over the myths of territory and manhood. It’s not enough to be angry at the police for terrorizing communities of color. It’s not enough to be angry at the drugs, the guns, the abuse. It’s not enough to be angry. Our communities are not well, though their infirmities vary from hopelessness to callousness.

So I have to accept this violence by seeing its roots. This obsession with claiming sets is a survival mechanism meant to supplant the otherwise destroyed collective esteem of communities. It fucking pisses me off that things are such. It fucking pisses me off even more that this is a daily reality for so many while most of my demographic is totally aloof.

It’s not enough to be angry. We are collectively sick and the remedy lies in restoring a healthy collective esteem. But since I take for granted that self determination trumps good intentions, what is my role in this struggle?

I leave you with a Cee-Lo verse from the Goodie Mob track Fighting: