African-Americans, Jews and Israel


For the past two years we have seen the growth of the Black Lives Matter movement. The historical systematic persecution, as well as repression through mental, spiritual, and physical violence, of the black communities is well recorded and factual. The movement has highlighted the antithesis of police interaction whether black or white, and through the use of body cameras we can see it all unfold. Unfortunately, this still has little impact where logic and justice are pushed aside for the excuse of preservation of law, and the cult of brotherhood created by law enforcement officers. However, once the platform of the movement became public the movement attacked the state of Israel for it’s oppression of the perceived minority Palestinian communities in the territories. Both sides went on the offensive pinning African-American conservatives, and older liberal Jews against certain African-American far left intellectuals and other Muslim and Middle Eastern academics. However, like Jaws who came out of nowhere to bite you in the ass, this is not new. What if I told you that there was a strong bond between blacks and Jews against racist oppression? Then what would you think if I told you that one source of conflict surrounding the bond was the issue of the state of Israel. Let’s rewind because this happened before, and go back to the the lovely year of 1967.

A recent article in Tablet Magazine pointed to, and many Jewish and non-Jewish writers point to these quotes and sentiments, that there was black support for Zionism going back to Marcus Garvey. However, it is far more complicated as the scholar Robert A. Hill points out that, “While Jewish Zionism served as a kind of political paradigm in the articulation of Black nationalist consciousness, Jews as a social force were also experienced by Garvey and other black nationalist spokesmen as a source of political pressure hindering the fullest expression and attainment of black self-determination.” Meaning that he, and other black nationalists, embraced the Zionist idea while seeing it eschew their own chance for real socio-economic and political upliftment. There is also ample amount of evidence of the unity and cooperation between Blacks and Jews in the labor movements, as well as the Civil Rights Movement. The freedom summer, freedom riders, and the activism of the early part of the 1960’s is basically seen as harmonious toward the groups. However, according to the scholar Jonathan Kaufman in 1966 Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights Movement began to refocus its efforts on the northern cities, which made the relationship far more intense and pointed. He writes that, “For twenty-five years America’s cities were the testing ground, and then battleground, for blacks and Jews as they moved from cooperation to confrontation to competition to conflict.” The first big flashpoint was the Ocean Hill – Brownsville incident pitting the local (black) families of the community against the mostly white (and Jewish) teacher’s union. It becomes a heated battle which would foreshadow the battles between blacks and Jews in the 1970’s and 1980’s concerning Affirmative Action. This was due to the shift from King’s integration to the Black Power movement’s call for separation and the militant calls by the Nation of Islam and the Black Panther Party. This scared liberal working class Jews.

What I just added is a lot of information, but the most important is the flashpoint where the tensions began. The strike in the Castle Hill – Brownsville section of Brooklyn came to a head in 1967. Certain scholars point out that the white, mostly Jewish teachers represented by the powerful teacher’s union received communications in their school mailboxes. Some of these communications, which were put there by black activists, condemned the nation of Israel, but also had a rather distasteful anti-Semitic ring to the anti-Zionist literature.

The distinguished African American scholar Clayborne Carson noted in one of his works that certain African American civil rights activists picked up on specific language spoken by Malcolm X, who had been assassinated a year earlier. Some of these remarks were perceived as anti-Semitic. However, we must understand his past and interactions in the urban areas, as well as the rhetoric from the Nation of Islam. One of these activists was Stokely Carmichael. He, and the radicalized portion, decided to change tactics so they began excluding whites from SNCC, some who’ve been part of the group before he joined. These were the first steps toward exclusion. Next comes the connective tissue of the past and present. After the expulsion leading into the summer months of 1967 SNCC also took positions on the Six Day War that happened in early June of 1967. Unfortunately, some of the rhetoric is very familiar in the Black Lives Matter platform. The subsequent rejection of white activists from groups like SNCC and CORE, accompanied by ideological factors such as the shift in emphasis to a revolutionary anti-colonialist struggle, and anti-Zionist sympathy for the Palestinians, led to a permanent souring of relations in America between blacks and Jews. Although he stated in his posthumously published memoirs that he had never been anti-semitic, in 1970 Carmichael proclaimed: “I have never admired a white man, but the greatest of them, to my mind, was Hitler.” Carmichael would later move to Guinea, African and change his name to Kwame Ture, but the vitriol kept coming. He would distinguish Jews from Zionists, which in the 1960’s was pretty solid on both ends. There is a direct path from his words to the words we hear from certain African American activists such as, Zionism is nothing but a European bred colonialist movement founded by an atheist, which is far off the mark of reality. He hated Zionists, not Jews. However, in 1967 that was preposterous as American Jewish support for Israel was at an all time high, especially after the miraculous victory of the Six Day War. His most famous attack on Zionism was saying that, “The only good Zionist is a dead Zionist.” This was further fueled by the vitriol coming from the Nation of Islam, and prominent Jew hater Louis Farrakhan. Going back to Clayborne Carson he reflects that as for the future of this controversy people like Carmichael “and other Black Power proponents used opposition to Israel to demonstrate publicly their independence from Jewish control and to undermine the position of leaders who maintained their pro-Jewish positions.”

Many of these articles are in a reader titled Struggles for the Promised Land: Toward a History of Black-Jewish Relations in the United States, and was originally published in 1997. One of the last articles, by Gary E. Rubin, he presents the reader with collected data about the relationship between African Americans and Israel. First, he cites polls saying that 1. Black support for Israel is usually lower than white support and 2. Blacks as a population were pro-Israel. He concludes by writing that the overall data shows that Israel is not a hot topic or issue for the African American population. The context of the polling is also very important due to the actions on the ground in Israel, and the adjoining countries. Today there might be more radicals criticizing Israel, but this is probably still only a drop in the bucket compared to other issues. I think that African American communities have far larger problems than the state of Israel.



1997: The Year Rap Broke!!!


1997 was quite a year for me, and quite a year for you if you were born between the later part of the 1970’s and earlier part of the 1980’s. For me it was yet another change, personified in another move, mind you both my brother’s and I moved to New Haven, Connecticut, from Tel Aviv, Israel only five years earlier. This was quite the transition for my younger brother and I, but mostly for me who had just ended his sophomore year of High School and turned the ripe bold age of 16. I had soaked in the New Haven life, first attending the local neighborhood middle school, which was predominantly African-American and Latino. Being white, Jewish, and Israeli lumped me into the basic food groups being, “he’s a white boy,” “He’s a Jew Boy,” and “Where yo from, and where’s your camel?” However, by the beginning of high school, I attended the newly moved and renovated hippy commune school in downtown New Haven called High School in the Community, or HSC as we all called it. Being downtown, as well as downtown New Haven being the focal point where all the local high school students transferred bus services, there was a shit load of mixing matching, scrapping, fighting, and plenty of chilling, smoking and listening to rap music. However, by then it wasn’t only rap music, but rather a new burst of confluence between the musical cultures. I heard a lot of different things, but one thing I realized more and more, and is my central thesis to a moment in time for Hip-Hop culture, is that 1997 was the breaking point where rap exploded to the stratosphere cementing it not only as a valid and commoditized culture, but as American Culture, writ large. That was also the year where, somewhat like rock and Roll’s grandiose moment in the decade of the 1970s (a la Fellini’s Satyricon) – looking at you Emerson, Lake and Palmer, E.L.O., etc. etc. It seemed as if the sole image plastered across the walls was the money-making machine wearing fancy suits, fancy cars, jewelry galore that would make Diamond Jim blush, grand mansions, and anything else under the sky. That is why this was also where the underground, back packer, unsigned, independent, and there are many people who keep labeling and re-labeling these artists, movement that grew to exponential proportions. For every Bad Boy, Def Jam (and mind you it was an independent label in the 1980’s, and was given homage by the classic and now defunct independent Def Jux label, or Definitive Jux to the chagrin of Russell Rush!), we had Rawkus Records and Stones Throw Records, which churned out some amazing classics.

I always believed that 1997 was the year of the shift, the pivot, the change in styles, as well as the diversity of content in the music and production. The shift was pushed by the overt extravagance and bloated aspect that some believed rap music had become by 1997. The bloated aspect can be traced and personified by one man, love or hate him and Nelson George makes this case in his classic book Hip Hop America, Sean “Puffy” Combs. This all came to me after many trips to the bathroom, where I do plenty of my reading, reading the great and greatly opinionated book by Shea Serrano titled, The Rap Year Book: The Most Important Rap Song from Every Year Since 1979, Discussed, Debated, and Deconstructed. This is a great read, and like an old foggy once we reach the mid-2000’s I’m scratching my head like grandpa Moshe asking why? or who the fuck is this? 1997 was the year that saw the release of Puffy’s debut album No Way Out.

In the book Mr. Serrano points out that Bad Boy released a string of albums that sold a shit load of copies beginning with B.I.G’s debut album and up to Puffy’s debut release. In the Ego Trip’s Book of Rap Lists they list the top 40 singles of 1997, where we see Puffy’s name on at least 10, which is a quarter of the list. He was also the face of Bad Boy, remember what Suge said at the 1994 Source awards of a producer being, “All up in the videos,” nonetheless his face and presence was everywhere. Mr. Serrano further exclaims that this year saw “The Dominance of Puffy,” where the Billboard charts was full of Puffy related songs.

At that time I was a hardcore purist of rap music, including the resurgence of the DJ culture through such great compilations such as Bomb Records’s the Return of the DJ series, the first dropped in 1995, the Axiom label mix of DJ/Trip-Hop/Electronic comp Altered Beats – Assassin knowledges Of the Remanipulated, released in 1996, and my personal favorite (that you could get for free with a subscription to the underrated Urb Magazine, and unfortunate for me they were out so I settled for Company Flow’s Funcrusher Plus, not bad!) OM Records Deep Concentration, released in early 1998. Me, and many other white fans of Hip-Hop culture, predominantly began to explore the diverse and burgeoning underground hip-hop scene. This is not to say that race was a line of demarcation, but many of the indie and underground artists had a large white fan base while the more successful artists, like Puffy, captivated both audiences. Still, there was plenty of African-American artists and fans, who remain productive and relevant to this very day.

1997 also saw the release of a string of independent songs from independent labels by new artists who did not fit into the exploding success that rap’s image became. This was the year that saw the release of Mos Def’s “Universal Magnetic” and Reflection Eternal’s (group consisting of Talib Kweli and DJ Hi-Tek, along with Mos Def and Mr. Man from the Bush Babees) “Fortified Live,” both on the newly formed Rawkus Record label. We also got more of Mos Def, as well as Tash and Q-Tip, on the smoothed out funk single “The Body Rock,” which interestingly enough had a B-Side “Manifest” by none other than Talib Kweli. This was also the first single off the great Rawkus compilation that launched its status as the mouthpiece for the indie movement, the Lyricist Lounge. This was followed by a tour, I attended the Philly string where De La in their Stakes is High era hosted while KRS-One hosted the event with intermittent underground and somewhat known rappers and rap groups. This was not a new thing as the Lyricist Lunge hosted open mic nights throughout New York City in the 1990’s, but this was a re-configuration of that. That night was also very memorable because I got to speak to a fresh MC from Detroit who was about to drop something big, or so he told me. Lo and behold Eminem is now a legend, but back then he was part of this indie world, just check out his superb track on the Soundbombing 2 compilation, “Any Man,” nuff said.

As I wrote earlier, 1997 was the year I stopped reading The Source magazine, I felt like every issue was full of the Made Men ads and boring filler, so I switched to Urb magazine. This was a great read where you can have an article on DJ Shadow, DJ Wally & Swingset, Kid Koala, right next to a profile on the many faces of Kool Keith, or on the methods of Mumbles and how he produced the amazing 2nd album by Aceyalone, A Book of Human Language, and on and on and on. My boy Paul got his subscription first so I used to read his copies. However, this all changed when in 1997 my mother remarried removing me and my younger brother from the city of New Haven to the green, suburban and boring pastures of Guilford, Connecticut. This was that picture of the red barn, farmer’s market, town green, and all the rest that you see in films about New England, scary. I needed a steady stream of culture so Urb was on the menu. When I received the subscription originally I wanted the Altered Beats compilation, but I ended up getting the debut album by a group called Company Flow. When I first saw the CD cover I loved the alien art with all the bizarre colors captivating beings from outer space. I then opened it to see the three members, a rainbow coalition of sorts. El-P, Big Juss and Mr. Len gave us this amazing time capsule of what a Run-DMC album would sound like in the avant-garde, post industrialist, post apocalyptic world. The beats were hard and dirty, and the flows just kept going and going where the structure was completely destroyed for a new sound. This sound, including what came out of that in the guise of the Def Jux label – with artists like Aesop Rock, El-P, Mr. Lif, RJD2, and Cannibal Ox – was Hip-Hop’s natural progression. If there was no Puffy, as well as the many other artists at this point getting into a formula such as Nas until Jay Z re-awoke the beast, there would be no Def Jux nor the influence of someone like El-P who has evolved to great heights recently with the Run the Jewels projects.

1997 was the year that bucked the formula. That was the year where we saw what would become a new branch of experimental Hip-Hop, that arguably is the norm in this decade. This year saw the release of 3 masterfully DJ’d compilations ushering the new school while giving praise to the “authentic” acts who were not making money like their peers in the mainstream. These are in no specific order, The World Famous Beat Junkies Vol. 1 cut masterfully by DJ Babu and hosted by the charismatic DJ J. Rocc, the first installment of Rawkus Records’ Soundbombing, the first being cut nicely by DJ Spinna, and the third being Beats & Lyrics by DJ E.Q. Each had their own special spice, the first being a mixture of the new (Camp Lo, J-Live, Company Flow, Black Attack, East Flatbush Projects) and old (veterans like Kool Keith, and the Native Tongue collective), the second being an introduction to the new stable of artists from Rawkus records (L-fudge, RA the Rugged Man, and Blackstar), and the third is a spatter of some of the masters of the West Coast, especially the Hieroglyphics crew (who would go on to drop their amazing debut Third Eye Vision in 1998).

There were also plenty of releases that year that expanded our ears to other parts of the United States such as the duo of Slug and Spawn, known as Atmosphere, hailing from Minnesota, dropped their tight debut album Overcast. From the Bronx came Camp Lo taking us back on a cool journey where everyday is 1976, especially the fashion sense, with the Marvin Gaye nod down to the cover art titled Uptown Saturday Night. Detroit gave us the great Slum Village and their insanely hard-to-find yet so rewarding when found album Fan-tas-tic, RIP J. Dilla. From Cincinnati, Ohio came the crew called Mood, but what really resonated was their album Doom. This is the first time I ever heard of Reflection Eternal, and by extension Talib Kweli, as well as J. Rawls and the Lone Catalysts Crew.

The West Coast was also churning out the experimental on the strength of DJ Shadow’s 1996 classic debut release, Entroducing….MC’s and other artists he worked with were called the Solesides Crew and out of that came the groups Blackalicious and The Latyrx. The Latyrx, consisting of Lyrics Born and Lateef the Truthspeaker, had a track on the Deep Concentration compilation, and they fully fleshed their spoken word, sometimes rapping, sometimes singing, sometimes both, style on their debut album simply titled The Album. This is also the year I first heard the duo from Philly calling themselves Jedi Mind Tricks. I first heard a taste of Canadian rap through the group Rascalz and their debut Cash Crop, which pushed a single that used the same sample from DMX’s big hot of the day “Get at me Dog.” This was a launchpad into the depths of the underground, and solidified the fact that Hip-Hop culture has become so popular that I bet every single state has a scene both in the urban areas as well as in the suburban areas. I dare you to prove me wrong!.

Yes, I have to admit that there were plenty of artists who dropped great stuff who were considered mainstream such as the Wu-Tan Clan’s Wu-Tang Forever, Biggie’s Life After Death, Wyclef’s The Carnival, Missy’s Supa Dupa Fly, Jay-Z’s In My Lifetime, Vol. 1, Busta’s When Disaster Strikes, O.C.’s Jewelz and Cru’s Da Dirty 30, and the return of the veterans with Kool Keith’s Sex Style (fresh off the Dr. Octagon persona), Rakim’s The 18th Letter (His first non Eric B. having solo, which was very good and insanely overlooked), and KRS-One’s third solo effort I Got Next. I was a huge fan to that point, and I still think majority of that album is strong until you get to the very last song. The song is a remix to the great single “Step Into a World (Rapture’s Delight),” and guess who both produced and performed alongside the blast master? The man who called himself Hip-Hop!!! and One of the leading MC’s who opined the commercialism of rap at that point??? fucking Puffy!!! It’s over and shit ain’t safe no more. I’m just naming a few as the list of releases is long, and grievances is longer. However, if you look at that list we should be honest enough to say that the first half of albums were over done, bloated and overloaded with material that should have been kept on the cutting room floor. The last half on the list are personal favorites, but they also suffer at times from an uneven amount of songs that stifle the cohesiveness of the entire work of art. Many of these rappers who began in the indie circuit remain there as elder statesmen and political activists like Talib Kweli. Some have expanded into cinema, but remained politically active, like Mos Def. And with El-P you have someone who has crafted a niche and constantly pushing the boundaries of Hip-Hop. The following years saw the further expansion into the underground as well as in the mainstream. The nature of Hip-Hop changed dramatically in the last two decades, but if you want to pinpoint a year, it was 1997. In the end this is just an assessment, but that was the year of the split both for better and for worse.


Yom HaShoah and my trip to Poland



As the sun set over the trees, mountains and universes last night we commemorate as Jews, as humans, and as any type of beings those who perished, fought, and lived through the horrendous time we now call the Holocaust. Instead of writing about the tragedy or by championing the progress of Jews today, or even bemoaning how the treatment of Jews in Europe is akin to the climate in the turn of the 20th century, I want to present the photos of what was in Poland – a vibrant Jewish life and what came with the Nazi occupation and Polish complicity as well as the aftermath, which is up in smoke and the ether of reality.


#NeverForget #Poland2008 #AishHaTorah #AishNY


I Was a PhD Reject: Part 3


Cue the Music: Harry Nilsson’s “One” with the incessant ring, ring, ring…

The cellphone next to my brother Matti and his soon-to-be-wife Alicia is ringing and shaking violently. It’s 1am and the cell keeps ringing and ringing and ringing, as Matti dreams. Matti is dreaming of drowning in a pile of phones, descending further and further into the sea of phones, frantically answering each one, “Hello, Hello, Hello!!!” he screams, and then he awakes. Wiping the corn out his eyes he realizes that this was no dream, but reality ringing next to his ear. He picks up the phone and I’m on the other end, gasping for any sense. “I need to crash at your place because it looks like the shit really hit the fan.” Let us take pause and rewind to a week earlier.

The moment she arrives I feel a medley of emotions both good and dread. She returns to DC bringing all her baggage back with her, along with the misery. The entire week I was split in two between trying to accommodate her every need while studying hard for my first comprehensive exam. The first few days were all right, but she still had this vacant feeling she was emitting. By the middle of the week she loosened up a bit, but it got very strange once we hit the sheets. That Wednesday night She was decked out in a nightgown, but much to my chagrin, she was wearing a rather large crucifix around her neck. She knew very well that it would make me feel weird, but that wasn’t the straw. During our session under the sheets she kept telling me to call her by my last girlfriend’s name. What the Fuck? She even knew her name, which killed it and brought all flags down to no mast. I kept telling her that what she did was messed up, but she neither cared nor felt that she was in the wrong. The next day she barely speaks to me and then that night as I try to converse with her about a serious issue, us, she freaks out, runs out of the place and after some time returns and remains in our living room praying over her prayer beads. For Shabbat I pretty much kept to myself and did my thing until it all came to a head on Sunday night. Since Thursday she also made it clear that she didn’t even want me to touch her, not even one finger. I guess this was her form of protection. We watched a movie, she went on a tirade about how terrible Jews are, and then she left to visit a friend. I’m pissed so I start drinking some beers, and getting up the courage to say, “enough is enough.” She returns, get’s ready for bed and wants to go to sleep. I say No. We have to talk, and I took the initiative by saying, “That’s it, we’re done.” This freaked her out to no limit. I was loud, but I stayed on my side of the room. I said we have to end this; this is insane and not working at all. She at first said, “Fine, I’m sleeping in the living room.” But a minute later I hear my roommate saying, “Diana, please don’t do it” as I was completely beside myself. She called 911 acting like I was attacking her, which I didn’t and I didn’t lay a finger on her. She then walks out of the apartment and waits in the lobby along with my roommate who is trying to talk some sense into her. Three jacked cops and one-woman cop show up and at first they surround me like I’m the terror who caused all the pain to any non-white minority. They all spoke to her in Spanish, but thankfully my roommate told them that nothing had transpired. Even though she was not on the lease I said that I’d leave and go to my brother’s place for the night. They said “good.” After packing my bags I stepped outside where the cops stood and casually asked if they could give me a ride. They said “no, we don’t cross into Virginia.” So, I grabbed a bag at 1am, crossed my street, bought a pack of Newport cigarettes, and hailed a cab as I headed out completely traumatized. I kept calling my brother Matti in order to let him know that I’m on the way, and this is where the saga continues. Hence the beginning of the end of our non-alignment pact…

Cue the music: Pere Ubu’s “Non-Alignment Pact,” figures right?

I show up at his place and am chain-smoking, nursing a whiskey drink and casually telling my brother about the shock I was living in at the moment. The night slowly faded and by 3ish in the morning I managed to fall back to the sleep. That Monday I was procrastinating at my brother’s place not knowing what to expect once I set foot back in the apartment. I gather up my physical strength and slowly make my way back to the sterile neighborhood of Foggy Bottom near George Washington University. I walk through the main doors and slowly place one foot over the other until I came face-to-face with the wooden front door to my apartment. I slowly unlock the door and stroll in, meekly saying “Hello!?” I hear nothing so I head towards my room in the one bedroom apartment I shared with my roomie. I walk in and all her stuff, clothing, make up, hair shit, anything remotely belonging to her was gone. That is when I let out a rather long sigh of relief. She’s gone, and finally my misery is over, or so I thought. Apparently I got the full story after my roomie came back home from work later that day. He told me that once I left, the police remained but then left shortly after she calmed down. Then like a whirlwind she desperately gathered up all her belonging. She did it in such rapid fire speed, I was told, that it was as if she was about to be targeted by the Stasi and take her away for good. No matter what I really thought that she would leave and I would hear from her later in life. That was not the case.

Tuesday passed without incident. However, Wednesday was another story entirely. That morning as I was still fuzzy about reality and my life, there was an annoyingly loud knock on my door. I got up, put some pants on and ran to the door sensing its urgency. As I opened the door I was face-to-face with another muscle-bound officer who thrusted his hand holding court documents. Surprised by the visit I wasn’t sure what to make of it, until I opened the packet of information. It read that I was being accused by Diana of terrible crimes including sexual abuse, physical abuse, and she claimed that I did this while threatening her about her immigration status. It also included an order of protection as another hard slap to my face. I was fucking dumbfounded, and had no idea what just hit me or how she contorted reality by projecting herself to be the victim. This was also served to me almost two weeks before my big comprehensive exam, which she knew. At first I was in a fog, but then the sheer anger and rage came popping up and how I would love to throttle the shot out of this lying rich girl. Still, I needed to calm down and collect my thoughts, as well as evidence in order to build up my case. For the next two weeks I was getting advise from various lawyers, as well as writing down all my correspondences with her, and counting the many days she left me in DC, which was about a third of our time married, while studying furiously over my US history II notes for the behemoth exam on Friday. I had all the documents ready a week before the case so that I could study. I have to say that I would have tanked into oblivion if it wasn’t for my brother Matti, Alicia, my cousin Rachel and my buddies at school, Arie, Brian, Rebecca who hooked it up with the notes, and my main man Ben. As I was getting prepped the week before the court date I get a memo from Diana’s lawyer!?! Apparently she hired, or got assistance, from an organization advocating for women in abusive situations. Literally at the 11th hour she, who put the whole case in motion, needed help cause she knew I had plenty of facts to back me up, as well as truth to knock down all her lies.

Friday morning, and I’m standing outside the test taking center at American University. I can’t even describe how I felt because it was a duality of feelings. Part of me was so stressed that I felt like a mental patient before a complete breakdown. However, the other part was a fighter and I was ready to knock this shit out the park, and then go to court the following Monday and tell the truth. After four and a half hours of sitting in front of a computer screen, reaching into the furthest regions of my history loving mind, I went home and collapsed and remained that way for the entirety of Shabbat.

Cue the music: The Gravediggaz great courtroom drama track; “Diary of a Madman” as it captures the aura of court.

Monday morning courtroom fun, and as I wrote earlier that when you walk into the court room the air conditioner is set on super high getting into your body and soul as you shift and turn in your seat waiting to be called up. Thankfully I was not alone having my roommate, father and younger brother flanking me for moral support, and my roomie being a witness as well. As we’re sitting in a tense row outside the courtroom ready to call in the crowd, I see her showing up out of the corner of my eye. She walks in flanked by three women including her lawyer who was a short Indian lady with a belly full of child. I knew that the optics didn’t look good for me, but I was resolved to tell my story as it was. They called us all into the courtroom, along with many others whose cases were called for that specific time period. I vaguely remember the various case, but there was one that stuck out sharply like swallowing a tack. The case was between a Mexican couple who were each assisted by an interpreter. As the translation roll off their tongues the story kept getting worse and worse. The wife claimed that her husband came home drunk and beat her in front of their kids, and then he proceeded to rape her in front of their kids. The casualness of their demeanor was astounding, especially when the husband pleaded guilty, and it resonated. I was astounded to hear this account while my ex was using the court to her advantage to lie about something as heinous as this.

After a few more cases I hear my name called, as I approach the podium on my side. She then walks up flanked by her lawyers, having her chief lawyer (the pregnant one) plead on her behalf. The judge went over the charges, and the judge was a black woman so I felt that the house of cards was stacked firmly against me. All women’s eyes were on me, so I spoke using extreme caution. I told the judge and members of the court that every single allegation raised was a lie, and how I had both written proof as well as my roomie who was willing to testify on my behalf. After I pleaded my case I thought she would realize that we should argue instead of wasting more time. Her lawyer countered by asking for an extension in order to pick up the police report. I countered that I had a copy of the same report, which read that there was no basis to her claims. Unfortunately I was correct in my predictions and the judge allowed for an extension. I vehemently protested and when she asked me when would be the best time for me, I said “Never.” It was such bullshit, but I was railroaded by a system that favors women due to the atrocious ways men treated women throughout the centuries in the history of the world. Thanks guys!

The extension was a farce, and by the following date I was both emotionally and financially depleted. After much thinking, drinking, smoking and more drinking I decided that enough was enough. I worked out a deal with her lawyer, which stated that I would plead guilty with no contest meaning that I was not culpable for any of her accusations. I also stipulated that this would be the end of our sham of a marriage, although it took much longer than I would have enjoyed. In our nation’s capitol you have to be legally separated for a year before you proceed to sue for divorce. She showed up to the next hearing, but by the last she acted like she did during our marriage, absent and uncaring. The crazy thing is that we did meet after the divorce for a last conversation. She told me directly that she did it in order for me to fight for her love, what ever the fuck that means. However, when you deal with unstable minds you will never get any clear answer or glimmer of clarity. The even bigger clincher is the fact that she also kept my last name! I have no idea why she would do such an act, especially if she alleges that I was the cause of her suffering. Anyway, next time you see Diana Cipriani you will know that I gave you fair warning, Beware! Beware! Beware!

Cue music: Big Punisher’s end credits with the song “Beware.”

Stay Tuned for the next part as the saga continues,




Peace Phife Dawg, and Thanks for the Memories


Growing up first in Israel and then in New Haven, Connecticut, opened me up to much pop culture phenom. Music was an integral part of my life, and remains to this very day. That is why when I first heard of the sad news of Phife Dawg’s passing, I took a deep long breath. It was a bizarre feeling, but it hit me in such a fashion that I can only relate it to when my dear aunt passed away years ago. This is a loss, but it’s also the end of the not-so-innocent days of my youth. Me, along with many men and women in our 30’s and 40’s, lived our teen years in the 1990’s. That is why it is sad to hear that such a mainstay from my youth has passed away into a higher more spiritual plain of existence. However, the loss of Phife, from the legendary group A Tribe Called Quest, triggered a spark of nostalgia saying gone are the days of our youth. Gone are the days of popular culture of the 1990’s, presently seeing a resurgence of false nostalgia brought on by the millennials. They harken back to a time they fantasize about, but only we know its true essence.

Like my journey finding Tribe’s music, many of my peers probably feel the same way. I stumbled upon the wonderful world of Rap music thanks to my older brother. However, he had his distinct flavor of the genre. Hence, I was far more familiar with rappers and acts like Ice-T, Big Daddy Kane, 2 Live Crew, Jeru the Damaja and Gangstarr, and of course I cannot fail to mention that my brother Anton introduced me to the Wu universe. The thing is that he was not deep into the more bizarre and off-the-wall acts. That is where my main man Paul comes into the picture. During my Freshman year of High School in New Haven’s hippy dippy High School in the Community (or HSC for short), Paul schooled me to the indie and underground like Del the Funky Homosapien and the Heiroglyphics crew, Company Flow, and the Hobo Junction just to name the very few. But, the first few times we hung out I clearly remember him giving me 4 CD’s of his personal favorites. He gave me Del’s second album, the amazing cosmic trip titled No Need for Alarm. He gave me one of the best and funniest Hip-Hop albums ever to be released, the Pharcyde’s Bizarre Ride Through the Pharcyde. We were so anti-anything resembling a pop sound, that we shunned the mainstream darlings. In 1996 when our entire school was bumping The Fugees seminal album The Score, we said “fuck that” and bumped Pharcyde’s classic second LP, Labcabincalifornia. But I digress.

The remaining two CD’s were two classic albums by the Native Tongues group A Tribe Called Quest, and you know I’m talking about The Low End Theory and Midnight Marauders. Before this I only heard Tribe’s singles and videos, but never listened to a full length album. Once I hit play I was hooked into a smooth Jazz side of Rap, which cooled my innards to the very core. The way the bass hits when you listen to the first track from Low End Theory is mesmerizing.

In the documentary film also titled after their fourth LP, the group members say that Phife wasn’t as present on the first album. However, by the second album he was present and on point. He reminisces that he wrote the line for “Buggin’ Out” on the train, and the burst of animated energy is abundantly clear.

It’s a perfect time capsule of the early 1990’s, as well as a gateway to the diverse universe of Hip-Hop. This was the time where the G-Funk era was screaming out of the West Coast. The rhymes, samples, and all around vibe was very different, and was further complemented by the other Native Tongue family releases, especially the Jungle Brothers, De La Soul, Queen Latifah, the Leaders of the New School and Black Sheep. Within the jigsaw puzzle Tribe caught that youthful approach, but never lacking when it came to fun and substance.

Personally, I still think that the smooth Jazz cool of the second album was eclipsed by the beautifully crafted third album. I remember many a times hanging out with my buddies in the East Rock section of New Haven while passing around beers and blunts and arguing which album is better. I always felt it was the third, and from the first track I wasn’t only bobbing my head, but also asking questions.

After vibing to the music I looked at the track listing seeing that it was called “Steve Biko (Stir it Up).” I immediately began researching and finding that the track is somewhat of a juxtaposition of the fun and the serious. In the intro the group introduce themselves with fun and uplifting lyrics. However, Q-Tip somewhat gives us the semblance of seriousness when he says that he needs to be crying, because of people killing and people dying. That’s when the information about Steve Biko resonates. Steve Biko was an activist in South Africa during apartheid. Although he was never a member of the African National Congress (ANC), he was an anti-apartheid activist, who was killed. He was beaten to death by white police in 1977 after detaining him during a protest. His death prolonged apartheid, but at the cost where it would all collapse a decade later. This is also the first time seeing the video for “Award Tour” and my introduction to De La Soul.

It is a perfect album and unlike many album that falter towards their end, they ended it with a bang, and three of my most favorite songs of theirs in a row, “The Chase, Part II,” “Lyrics To Go,” and the best of the three, “God Lives Through.”

Oh my God indeed.

I also remember the disappointment I had once I heard their fourth album, Beats, Rhymes & Life. Funny thing is that when I was walking beside Paul telling him this, he simply smirked at me, and in his laconic response said, “It’s still dope.” This is the crux of the attempt of this post. Phife, as well as Tribe, solidified this somewhat innocent arrogance we had as young teens in the 1990’s. Being carefree high schoolers with pimples, uneven haircuts, and baggy cloths, the music defined us as well. I keep hearing the new debate about which era of rap was, or is, better; past or present? However, the question is irrelevant to me because as a product of the 1980’s and 1990’s I identify much more with these artists than the new. That is why it is always sad when you hear of a great artist’s passing at such a young age. Phife, along with other greats like Sean Price, Pumpkinhead, and more, the list reminds us that we ain’t kiddies anymore, so make room for the new kiddies in town.

Much love and Respect to Phife Dawg, A Tribe Called Quest and all of my compatriots who feel me.


#PhifeDawg #ATCQ


I Was a PhD Reject: Part 2




Cue The Music: No Music, just the deathly silence emanating from the DC courtroom

In my wildest dreams I never thought that this would end in a drab, cold, and sanitary smelling courtroom in the depths of a building in Washington DC. The courtroom is located in the lowest floor reaching the depths of legal hell, spewing the coldest air you ever felt. The air conditioner is set to ultra high for the entire cycle of the year. No matter the day or time you will inevitably find yourself sitting down in the small rows of stadium seats freezing to your inner core. It’s probably a ploy to freak out both parties with sudden jolts of chills going up and down the body. As I sit on the right side I’m waiting patiently to be called up for the last status hearing of my separation to her. The room is set in a fashion where the judge and clerks look down on you and wait for the inevitable slip up in order to be able to slap you something to their liking, sadists I tell you. I sit, shifting every few seconds due to the cold, but remain fidgety because God only knows how the day, and the case, will end. Like a whirlwind through a city, my heart nearly leaps when she makes her appearance in the courtroom, oh Diana. I still can’t believe that I’m witnessing the complete breakdown of our marriage, the downfall to despair on my part, and sanity on her part.

Diana Castro came into my life at a precarious time, but I remember the first time I laid eyes on her I knew I wanted her. Years ago I worked for the Jewish Agency, as well as the Zionist foundation where the prime donors are decrepit old New Yorkers who still believe in the campaigns to plant trees all over the deserts of Israel. All I knew is I needed work after I got my Master’s degree from Brooklyn College so I got the job to fight for my country in a clerical sense. Then one day as I turned a corner I spotted her in her immense gorgeousness. I over shot the office she was working in immediately stopping dead in my tracks and reversing my feet to the door. There she was amidst a stack of large manila folders and books. Diana is from below the American border so she has this amazingly luring accent, which drives sailors wild all across the oceans. She is petit with beautifully soft light brown skin, very deep brown eyes, which could peer into a man’s soul, amazingly luscious jet-black hair that would make a crow jealous, and so much more. She has this smile that lights up your heart with such excitement, and she oozes sexuality that would make any man clinically insane. I gaze for what seemed a century of history, and then she says hello. The topic of conversation is not important, but what is more amazing is that later in the month I asked her out and she agreed. For the rest of the workday I was torn between taking victory laps all over the office, and sheer dread at the task of entertaining such a vivacious woman. From work we descended into the lower world of the subways in New York City, heading to the southern rim of Manhattan. South Street Seaport was the destination and the day was foggy covered with a mist, but humid. We walked and chatted it up until we climbed up the stairs looking over the river into the heart of Brooklyn. The moment reeked of magic when a small wave of mist covered our clothing due to a small drizzle. I couldn’t stop staring at the beautiful mist mixing with her falling on her beautiful legs, which were very accentuated due to her short black skirt. The mountain of mist electrified that very moment with such strong emotions that I still tear up every time I think of the excursion. Unfortunately we only went out on one more date and then as if destiny hit we went our separate ways in life. I decided to apply for a PhD program in Washington DC, while also taking a year to dig into the minds of many Jews in a Yeshiva in Jerusalem. She returned to her country for a short period of time only to return to New York City so that she could work on a Mater’s degree. From the point I was in Israel and she returned to the States we emailed each other using playful language to liven up the mood. Although never awkward I still held a strong desire for her, which had only intensified over the years. We communicated and spoke, but I deeply wanted to admit that I always had a high school crush on her. Of course in life’s comedic turns she said the exact same, but the moment was killed with the silent pause. This inevitable silent pause, which is a leading cause of conversational death and other unknown maladies, went on for centuries. We then decided to go our own ways, but the bizarre desire still loomed very large in my brain. Like a ghost haunting me nightly, the specter of Diana couldn’t have been shaken.

Months passed as the summer heat descended onto the western world. We speak, but I pay no mind because I feel like she’s playing me like a slot machine. The few times we meet up it seems forced and I don’t feel completely comfortable because I just can’t stop thinking about my love/lust for her. One day she wanted me to give her a tour of Brooklyn, in the Jewish/Italian neighborhood of Bensonhurst where my father’s family lived. After walking around we end up back at my father’s place, where I used to live. This is a home with a nice Jewish Synagogue on the bottom, with a congregation reaching the age of one hundred including some of the congregants themselves. My father leaves for his late shift at the census office, and we stay talking to each other. We then seriously start speaking of the possibility to authentically start a tangible relationship. I’m talking over and over and over while trying to rationalize the differences by brushing them under the rug. By the way I’m an observant Jew and she isn’t. The entire time I was rationalizing she was looking at me with those deep eyes mesmerizing my thoughts. I started sounding like a salesman trying to sell Korans to a bunch of Orthodox Jews. She was so beautiful brushing her hair to the side with her gorgeous lips, and she was wearing this short light blue dress that drove my sanity out to the far corner of my mind. She broke the tension by slowly leaning over and planting a sweet kiss on my lips following her soft tongue. My heart was skipping at the usual techno beat pace as I was trying to figure out the reality of the situation. There was a lot of kissing and rubbing involved especially on her part because I was still in a state of shock, awe, and ecstasy all at the same moment. The embraces and kisses gave way to realization that she had to leave my hold and head to the drab subway half a block away. As we walked to the open gates of heavenly bliss my head was in the whitest of clouds while my heart was hovering towards the outer reaches of space. We kissed as she slid past the turnstile and out of my arms into the open stench of rats, ammonia and Brooklyn. I marched back in triumph, raising my chin like the New England snob I always hated. My march was that of victory, Julius Caesar would have been proud, pride ran through my body cavity. Finally, I uttered while screaming softly to the GOD above, I got the hot woman no questions and no reservations.

A day went by and she was plaguing my mind, running in concentric circles. Diana and her beautiful smile, luscious lips, tasty skin haunting my brain like the ghost of Christmas I never celebrated. Another day went by and I wanted to give her some space, but I knew something was somewhat awry. By day three I received her response as to why she hadn’t responded to my smoke signals. The email read that she didn’t want to be with me, don’t attempt to use any modern methods of communication to get in touch, all phones disconnected. Signed, good luck, good riddance, and nothing else good. I caught the whirlwind in my face, and I still couldn’t understand how this happened? My insides began to hurt like I just swallowed an entire vat of broken glass. The glass was churning, crunching, and breaking all inside while tearing me to bloody pieces. The glass scraped and spread throughout my entire body leaving blood all over, which would make Iggy Pop or Sid Vicious hungry for more. After my initial reaction of shock and awe, I decided to say “whatever” and dive into a bottle of bourbon. The hunt for a woman continued, dating sedate, fake plastic orthodox broads. Then, one day in late August I received a letter that would change the course of my universe, and yours.

The letter was from Diana and it simply read that she was sorry for the abrupt shut out and a big what if. Initially I wasn’t impressed thinking she would screw with my body, and then brain. I didn’t need this aggravation so I threw the letter away, deep in the garbage of thoughts, and refuse. However, I had a weak spot for her, tugging at my insides. This reflex spread like cancer to the brain, telling me to forget about all the differences between us, and just go for it! As if poking or prodding her without a full reach out I emailed her that I got her card, which opened a new set of cans full of dead worms. It got to the point where we both decided to take the abysmal leap of relationship faith and become exclusive. It was tough to process being a long distance relationship me being stuck in the waste land that is Washington DC and her in the cultural Mecca of the universe, New York City. I also hesitated because she wasn’t an observant Jew, and I was, and I didn’t want her to have any resentment towards myself, or Judaism. Still, we took the leap and became the item we wanted to be, and the following months were magical. From September to December we spoke every night for an hour or more. We would talk about our pasts, presents, and hopeful futures. The immigration issue always lingered because she was in the US on a student visa set to expire in the middle of January. Regardless, it was wonderful, and I remember the first time I showed up at her place for a short vacation in the middle of October. I showed up and she was prepared for me with a lavish meal in her cozy Wall Street apartment in the sky. She looked so beautiful in her short oriental silk robe, covering a white, and happily for me, transparent nightgown. All I could do was stared at her majesty while trying to eat with my mouth closed. After that I couldn’t keep my hands or lips off of her. The night was sheer ecstasy, which would only be possible in the dream world. My heart beat with passion as we embraced, and I couldn’t stop thinking of how fortunate I was to be in this situation. Life is fucking great, or so I thought.

The next few months were wonderful and full of fun with my Diana. There was a small stumbling block thrown when I was informed at a burlesque show that she wasn’t Jewish. Actually, she had some Jewish in her, but as far as Jewish Law she wasn’t one hundred percent kosher. It took me a while to grapple with that fact, but that night also pushed me into a new level or threshold with her. That was the first night we had sex, unprotected at that, and I couldn’t break it off the next day. I was a man caught between his Jewish principle and the girl he was growing so fond of. Not only that, she was the anti-Jewish chick. She was vivacious, passionate, fully aware of my needs, and so physical that she was the antithesis of the typical observant Jewish woman. In the back of the cobwebs of my mind I knew I should have thought it through a bit further, but why? I was looking into the eyes of a woman I knew was only once in my lifetime and I didn’t want to mess it up, or cause any waves in our sea. Still, all was well and quiet on the western front and each time we spoke she was interested in my schoolwork, as I was in hers. She was also very interested in the Bible portions of the week as we discussed them in-depth, as well as other theological topics. We were expanding each other’s minds, and I developed very strong feelings for her as I figured she was as well. At times it seemed like she had some emotional baggage from her past, but I didn’t want to pry. Besides that it seemed like nature was taking its course and I thought I was happy.

Then came the month of December where the insanity of finals for the fall semester began. Finals and papers galore spread through the mind so I think of Presidents, race theory, and the fate of Hip-Hop music as I toil in the stacks of the library. Shelves reaching the ceilings, so much reading and writing that after the hours your eyes look like spinning plates. To top it all off Chanukkah came early so I had to remain behind while the rest of the family, and Diana, celebrated in New York. Still, Diana was always there with me every night to light the candles together. It was such a beautiful sight to hear through the circuits of our cell phones. Each night I would call her as the sun was slowly setting and she’d have her menorah all set with the candles and ready to go. Then we would do the blessing together, she lit the candles on her end, and then we would speak briefly until I had to go to class. As my imagination would project her lighting the flickering lights over the horizon of the lowest office buildings in Manhattan’s belly of the beast I felt it. My heart would melt every night like the candle wax dripping down and slowly melting into the base of the Menorah. The sensation made me happy only thinking how we would be doing this every year for some time. Once I finished my work I ran up post-haste to New York City to meet her mother who came to see her daughter graduate. Her mother came from the old country, and barely spoke English. I tried my best to make her feel comfortable around me. It was a little frustrating having to share my love with her family, but she was presenting in her school, and she did marvelous.

After her mother left we cuddled and embraced for days until December 25th when the first signs of bizarreness peered through. That Friday night I prepared a dinner for us both at my father’s house. After the dinner we were joking with each other as she shot a joke at me that I presently forget. However, when I hurled the same back at her she froze dead in her tracks. As if on some robotic mode she coolly rose from her seat, put on her coat, and ran right out the door. I was standing on top of the stairs in shock. After a few minutes she returned stating that I could pick up my stuff from her place the next day. I ran down pleading with her explaining that she took the joke out of context. She eventually came back and relaxed, but that was an odd moment of unsettled ambiguity. Later that night we realized that we hit an impasse and we had very few options to keep the relationship going. Guess what we chose? I asked her to marry me, and she said sure. My family was very supportive although I knew that some thought it to be a little crazy and rash. Her family at first was fine with it, but as we shall see they began to resent me early on. So, in a matter of a week culminating in a city hall wedding on December 30th we were officially hitched and on our way. We decided that she would live with me in Washington DC and once I finished my course work we would return to New York City for a proper fun life. I had to leave earlier because of school and we agreed that she would follow me down a few days later. A few days later she called me in a panic, sobbing and unsure of the situation. Apparently her father told her that she should annul the marriage and return home to her parents and normal life south of the border. She was at a loss, but I was resolved to keep on by refusing to annul the marriage. She was alone and the voices of the demons were all around her, feeding her head with ridiculous thoughts of hypothetical consequences. She feared being disowned by her family, who are wealthy oil merchants full of money that makes my family look like ghetto dwellers. I kept pleading with her to come down and we will work it out together and she eventually agreed. That was early in the morning, so I left for classes and I figured I would call her after class to see how she was doing. Nothing. No answer. I called again later that evening, and still nothing. Later that night I got home and was on edge, shaking, and freaking out. Where is she? What happened to her? As I tried to settle my nerves over a few glasses of whiskey I had no idea what she was doing or if she was Ok or alive for that matter. After a few drinks I called my father literally crying over the phone feeling both confused and rejected. In the back of my mind, helped with the fuel of alcohol, I thought she got up and left the country. I couldn’t bear to think it sobbing over the phone while my father told me to just go to bed and sleep it off. The following day I was still at a loss with no success through contact of any kind. I asked all my family in New York to call her and even my mother to check on her, and still nothing. My younger brother, who lives in the DC area, came over by late afternoon and proposed to call the police. That’s when it dawned on me that maybe something did happen to her. After I called the police I needed to settle so I left with him to his place. As we leave I receive a text message from her asking for some alone time. Mind you this is after more than 24 hours of no communication, and I lost my shit. I got so angry, waiting to spew all the vitriol and ask her why she put me through this. We spoke later and the entire time she couldn’t understand how worried and hurt I was. After the police showed up she was angry with me for calling them, but this is where the psychological imbalance comes into play. To this very day she can’t understand how much I felt, and still do in some sense, for her. I worried, but she kept calling me insensitive and she was incensed because she spoke with my mother before me, and my mother unleashed the maternal screed. Never screw with a freethinking Zionist Jewish mother, born in the city and lived in Israel, unless you want to lose some limbs in the process. Their conversation was cordial until Diana kept criticizing me, and then my mother let her have it. She called her a rich brat who is more worried about retaining her financial connections than experiencing the consequences of true unbridled love. In the end we settled and I really wanted to make it work so I played the peacemaker and pushed aside that bizarre aura of emotional uncertainty. She came down a few days later, but she still had no idea how I really felt.

The following few months were fine, but one of the initial skirmishes with the Jewish community put her on the defensive and me in a rather precarious position. At first when she came to services on Friday nights and to meals with the local Jews all was nice and polite. However, one night after services the local head Rabbi came up to me carrying a very somber tone. He asked if I could speak with him the following week during his morning sessions. That morning I was nervous as I sat down and exchanged some pleasantries until he came right to the point. He said that some of the white village elders were questioning her. Now, my initial response was “mind your fucking business.” Apparently, a woman of color who veers off the elder white Jewish men’s radars causes concerns and alarm. Their used to the white disciplined Jewish female and Diana was the antithesis of that. I then explained to the Rabbi that I’m not the one to question her Judaism or Jewishness, but he persisted in wanting to question her. When I first told her this she broke down crying asking what she did wrong. I felt so bad because I understood the line of questioning, but no one fucks with my Diana making her feel inadequate. In the end she spoke to the Rabbi and told him of her status and that she wasn’t at all interested in conversion. Because of that my role was diminished so I had lost my “honors” and I couldn’t be within a few feet of the Torah without supervision, etc. Some cryptic old school shtetl thinking, which tore me inside.

Still, we were partners in crime doing many things together, travelling, hanging, talking, loving, and expanding, or so I thought. The oddest thing about the relationship was the feeling that she never believed me, especially when I uttered these three words, “I love you.” She would almost always counter that with a smile and say “bullshit.” Time and time again I would shrug it off, but at certain points I would grow weary and upset questioning her motives. She explained that due to an early childhood trauma she couldn’t experience that. Throughout her dating life she never was in love. Once I tried to dig and ask her why, and after dropping many subtle hints and dropping a few tears on her part I think I could connect the dots. I’m almost one hundred percent sure that either a relative or a friend of the family sexually abused her when she was a child. It also seems that her parents took the quiet road keeping all of it a secret and continuing their pathetic lives as if it never happened. This is why she had these issues, why she could be emotional one minute and the next cool, calm and collected at her detachment. She was also very wild in bed, changing roles and at times was borderline violent, saying things that would make me feel awkward and uncomfortable. She would tell me that she had many issues with her parents, especially her father who was a strict disciplinarian, and would beat her many times for no reason. During this time her relationship with her parents deteriorated and most told her that they were disappointed in her, while constantly downgrading me as a person. She would leave to see her family in New Jersey many times basically being a way a third of time we lived in Washington DC. This all came to a head during the holiday of Passover. We celebrated in New York City, and oddly enough she didn’t want to participate in the second Seder making me feel weird in front of my family.

We returned to DC and got into a huge fight, as she was planning to return to her family the next day up in Jersey. I think we both concluded that we should divorce because it would be for the best. Still, as I was going to leave and stay with my brother as she kept crying and pleading with me to stay. I stayed and she kept talking about saving the marriage and how this was a chance for the both of us to reexamine our commitment and the relationship while trying to grow from these experiences. The tears kept streaming from her face as she gently extended her soft hand grabbing mine so softly. She then brought me closer to our futon made bed and she slowly lay down and brought me down with her. She kept asking me to hold her closer as my mind just became more and more vacant with thought and emotion. I had no idea what was going on and my heart was breaking and collapsing under the pressure of love lost and torn from the root of my abdomen. As we held each other she wanted to make love, but I couldn’t get close to her, feeling a deep chasm between us the size of the black lakes known in the stories of HBO lore. I couldn’t give her an outpouring of emotions because I had no idea how to feel, and I was in complete misery as well as deeply lost in the jungle of my delusions of grandeur. The rest of the night I felt so uncomfortable around her in my own apartment, she became the gorilla and the egg shells were already spread all over the room floors, walls, and ceilings. She left the next day and would not return in almost a month. We didn’t have conversations over the phone because she would either not pick up or would become emotionally freaked. She began to experience these waves of intense panic attacks anytime anything sensitive came up. I had no idea how to handle the situation because she would either ignore me or fly into a frenzy or panic. Due to this I just kept it simple, but even after two weeks she didn’t understand that I missed her. Also, every time I asked about our marriage she kept saying that she needed to work on herself first and foremost before she returned.

What frightened me the most is that I became both her love and her worst enemy, both embracing and cringing me, my mind was slowly taking a leave of absence from the reality at hand. Before she left she had a hint where she would close down and ball for her own protection. She had some abuse trickling down from her past infecting her rational path of thought. When she was a young girl, little innocent Diana lived in her little jungle of beauty and ease. Her mother loved her while her father loomed over her sometimes for good, but at times for bad. She could have been fussy and out of line but no matter king dad always brought her into line because one day the black gold will be all hers. The trade of black gold was the king’s trade, uprooting the local who dared to live in the past and brought them kicking and screaming into the future. Little Diana lived happily ever after in her gardens of blue, beaches of green, and shades or purple swirling and swooping down for her control. Darkness in the soul came down in the form of Bob, black gold friend of the king. Diana was so happy to share the beauty with a new friend, showing him the mountains of glory and hills of uplifting vanity. But Bob was from the white/black room(s) and he was not interested in innocence of gardens. He came in for the kill racing little Diana to the point of exhaustion in the realm of nothingness. The path was set and he like an oily snake skin salesman extended his hand out, and the dark side grabbed her hand close. Ever since this event, years, days, ages, ago today she lost what she deserves, and what aches me to give her. Control.

Minutes, hours, days rolled as I incessantly stared at my cell phone for any missed calls, messages, hypothetically missed calls I thought I heard, I think. The time ticked slowly as every day I kept thinking to myself that this was amiss, what did I do? I kept asking that as I was pouring my brains and guts out, hitting the books and studying for my exams. After the first week passed I thought to myself that she was getting better and readying herself for our reunion. By the end of the second week I wasn’t sure if she felt safe or secure around me, so it was going to be a coin toss flicking the quarter into space and undoubtedly hitting the odds against me. Day after day dragged through the murkiness of my mind, and then before you know it we reached week number three. I was at a loss of words, and thoughts of what to do. We barely spoke, at least the way we used to before the dark day of marriage, no long conversations and time flying, no no. This time around it was forced where I would plead with her that I wanted to work things out. She agreed, but would then act very guarded about her own emotions, and any hint of the conversation getting a bit heated would send her into a frenzy of panic and anxiety ridden shocks all through her body. I yearned to make her feel better, but she made it impossible to reconcile with the meaning of this all. By the end of the third week I called telling her that if she didn’t return then just don’t come back at all. I refused to live in this miserable limbo. She caught the bus on a Sunday, which would trigger the beginning of the end, as well as the start of a bizarre week with my soon to be ex-wife/mutilation professional of my mind and soul.

Next Post is a return to madness, as well as more adventures from the bullshit world of American University.


#AmericanUniversity #DanielBCipriani1 #DianaKills

I Was a PhD Reject; Part 1




I’m currently sitting in a white room sitting with my arms spread across the squared table. Facing me was my dissertation committee, flanking me with these grins and self-assured smiles of prepared destruction. All these years of hard work, mind numbing exams full of tedious details, research, and field work have all led me to this table. Not only that, but it was also a long two years where I re-wrote my proposal at least six to seven times, thanks to my confusing pain of an ass, and so-called, advisor. It all comes to this defense of my work, my soul, and my life. Sitting here amidst the words of devastation being hurled at me my mind constantly retreats to the Woody Allen film Stardust Memories. The scene that keeps reverberating through my mind is when he is being asked questions about his work. He then utters a great joke saying, “Intellectuals are like the Mafia, we only kill our own kind.” Every time I’d see the scene I would laugh hysterically. However, now it’s becoming apparently crystal clear that I was the next one in their sights. But why? Why was I being torn down constantly? Why was I left in the wind many times, not only by them but by scholars in my so-called field? And why was this meeting, which at first seemed like a constructive conversation, the site of my execution? In order to answer these questions your narrator has to divulge some information on his process before we get to the grand inquisition.

Cue the music, “Paid in Full (7 Minutes of Funk Coldcut remix)” by Eric B. & Rakim.

I was born to some far our parents in a far out land. My parents were the unconventional thinkers and doers of their generation. My mother protested the Vietnam War before it became a fad, and my father is an Italian stallion of a drummer. They eventually moved to Israel, or made Aliyah as they say in Hebrew ascending to the land, in the late 1970’s. Being born in Israel to New York City, or Brooklyn bred, parents was quite an experience. However, one thing that remained constant was the music. My love for music started at an early age as my father would play classical and world music, while my mother played nothing but black music. The only white band, besides the old school masters, we heard was the Beatles. They were also very liberal when it came to our explorations into music. That’s why when my older brother started listening to Rap music they encouraged it. This encouragement from my parents has remained to this very day. Growing up in Israel was also very different from the US because the notion of being a hard Jew was more in style. Once my brother’s and I moved to the US we could not connect with most of the American Jews because they were timid pussies. Because of that we tended to gravitate towards the non-white crowds, as well as their  music and culture. This is where Hip-Hop comes into the picture. Although I listened to rap music in Israel, I didn’t immerse myself in the culture until I moved to the US, and after my grunge and classic Rock phase. This is why to this very day I don’t understand the American Jewish ethos, and I cringe at the timidity and waspish tendencies. Hip-Hop was the guiding force in my High School years, even after my mother re-married and we moved to the suburbs of Connecticut. In the town of Guilford, where I learned how to drink cans of Bud and shots of Jack Daniels while bumping Yes, Blue Oyster Cult, Steely Dan, the Allman Brothers or the town favorites Lynyrd Skynyrd, I still bumped all the classic Hip-Hop joints.

Cue the music, “Doper Skiller” by Viktor Vaughn (AKA Doom) featuring Kool Keith.

This would continue into college and even more so when I relocated to Brooklyn for school in the fall of 2002. This is when I fully immersed myself into the culture. I did all that shit that we see in the nostalgia shows and the bullshit PSA’a from the “ambassadors” of New York who come from the corn fields of the Mid-West, fuck that. I DJ’d at Brooklyn College, and other hole in the wall dives. I went to shows constantly throughout the city, hitting up all the independent and underground rap groups. Me and my boys lived that life, smoking blunts, drinking beers, and causing much damage while enjoying ourselves. However, by the time I hit 25 years of age I started asking, “is this it?” What the fuck am I going to do with my life? I earned a Bachelor’s and Master’s from Brooklyn College, pseudo-respectively. I was working a shitty job at a Jewish non-profit in Manhattan. No direction. But I started getting more into my Jewish faith, and this is where I began to find my own spiritual depth. Still, I needed a turning point in my life in order to push me in that direction. Unfortunately, the event was the death of my beloved Aunt Lenore, who was a huge force in our family. Her loss pushed each one of us to discover, meaning me and the entire family, ourselves and the true essence of our lives. I did two things; first I applied to PhD programs, and second I decided to go sturdy at a Yeshiva, Jewish school, in Jerusalem for the remainder of the time before I go back to school.

Before applying I decided to look outside of New York for other viable options for graduate school. This is when I visited Washington, DC. My younger brother attended George Mason University, so I decided to explore the schools and their history programs. Mason was nice, but too far from civilization. George Washington University was too big, and it seemed as if you could get lost in the shuffle rather quickly. I then visited American University, where I was warmly received and got plenty of face time with the chair of the department. I was also introduced to faculty, and one of them took an interest in my story and my field of research, which I chose to be Hip-Hop. This faculty member, let’s call him Mr. K, told me that if and once I get accepted to the program that I would work under him. I was both delighted and excited to begin this chapter in my life. However, after my acceptance, I traveled to the Holy Land, Israel and lived in the Old City of Jerusalem while attending the Aish HaTorah Yeshiva.

Cue the Music, “PUNKLEZMERAP” by Eprhyme.

Those months in Jerusalem were amazing, as I learned day in and day out various text and scripture while breathing in the spiritual aroma all around me. Being an Israeli I also visited plenty of old friends, and my youngest brother who was living there with his mother at the time. Emotionally, spiritually, and in other ways these months changed my life, as I became more religious and started wearing the uniform. Although I was still the rebel sporting torn jeans, T-shirts, and long hair, I still wore a Kippah and Tzizit, which I still wear to this very day. The crazy thing is that after living there for that period of time I become more sensitized to the mundane cultural bullshit. I had a great time with all the guys there, but there were times where I felt that the brain washing was in full display, and how some of these Rabbis had such a patriarchal stranglehold over the young guys. Most of these guys were lost with no direction home, so these Rabbis created new directions, and at times new ideological outlooks which were the antithesis of the true core of these guys. I distinctly remember that before I left one of the biggest donors to Aish showed up in Jerusalem. He wanted to speak with me the week before I left. When we spoke he seemed kind and nice, but also a bit pushy with his assurance that I should remain in Jerusalem. I said “thanks, but no thanks.” My resolve was strong, but I knew that I did not want to become one of the black hatters who all dress the same.

Cue the music, “NY State of Mind” by Nas.

I landed in New York City in the summer of 2009, and within a two-week period I slowly moved myself down to the land of political slime, Washington, DC. The break-neck speed of change didn’t register until my first day on campus. That is when the bizarre ride of my body and soul began to swirl in many directions. While I was in Israel us Yeshiva boys were encouraged to visit other Jews around the city and literally invite ourselves over for a Shabbat/Sabbath meal. For many of my colleagues this posed quite a challenge. Why? Because most of these guys were your standard out-of-the-box American Jews, who were mostly timid when it came to these types of social interactions. However, for the loud mouth pains-in-the-ass, like myself, it was no challenge at all, but rather a welcome rotation of interesting meals and conversation. Another big part of the Yeshiva, as well as the greater Ba’al Tshuva movement, Jews who were born secular or unaffiliated and later became religious, is that we were conditioned with eternal optimism when it came to the Jewish people. We had bright smiles and optimistic views on the religion and the many swaths of Orthodox communities. However, these Orthodox communities were not always that hot for people like myself. Especially this guy who sported loose-fitting cloths, and very long hair. Walking through the uber religious neighborhoods like Meah Shearim or Bnei Brak was always a trip. All the eyes of the boys, girls, men and women were beaming run on me as if to dig a hole into my very soul. Still, in Israel the communities were far more friendly and open to us, as opposed to the wonderful Jews of the United States. Regardless of all the bad press and sensationalism, Israel is one of the friendliest places I have ever been to. Neighbors care for neighbors in such a way that the fear of private space is non-existent. This is such an American thing where it’s not about community, but more about this is my spot, and if you don;t like it, get the fuck out. In Israel I always felt as if it was an open land where I can rest in any spot without someone pushing me off their property, or “land.” Dominicans are just like this as I experienced from my in-laws and soon-to-be wife. But I digress…….So here I am back in the land of the US of A after being brainwashed, or just a little laundering, and trying to get my bearings. Before I left for Washington, DC I hung around the city mostly in Brooklyn and Manhattan. That’s when I got the harsh truth of how self-segregated Orthodox Jews are, and how pathetically clannish the rest of the observant Jews are in this country. It’s not only the segregation that’s upsetting, but my family and I are very aware of certain Orthodox Jews superiority complex. They are the so-called keepers of the Jewish gates, and they are the ones who say who is Jewish and who’s not. We usually tend to stir clear of them. However, what hurt me the most in the beginning is the simple greetings that these Jews refuse to return. In Israel if you greet someone on the Sabbath you say “Shabbat Shalom” or the more yiddish friendly “Shabbis.” Usually it would be returned by the person you are saying it to. In the US it’s exactly the opposite in these Orthodox communities. These people not only refuse to respond, quite the keepers, but ignore in such disgust like you just ran over their father, while your buddies rape his mother and pour sugar in his gas tank. Fucking crazy! And crazier by the fact that if they were true to Jewish law they would be far less apprehensive. However, years of repression, incest, and other old world issues has stunted those people.

I’m now standing in front of my school’s spiritual center in the fall of 2009, and what a feel as well as look. Those first few days on campus were quite a shock to the system. For the past year I’ve been cloistered in this spiritual center taking in all this knowledge, but at the same time I also eschewed most forms of entertainment and popular culture. It’s amazing how that time period dramatically raised my sensitivities to the western ways, as well as sex and the sexualization of popular culture. Don;t get me wrong I ain’t no prude. After living in Brooklyn for years, and even before, I always enjoyed some nice drugs and a good piece of ass, preferably the non-white bread kind! But coming back screwed up some of my perceptions, as well as reminded me that the Yeshiva stint was my maturation period. So, here I am standing and read to learn. The first year was a tough adjustment period for many reasons, such as the change of style and content of my education. I was also looking for a place to live so for the first month and a half I had an hour and a half commute from the plush campus of American University to my brother’s apartment in Arlington, VA. However, by mid-October I was settled and slowly getting a grip on my academic performance. My advisor, as us PhD’s have, worked well with me and he helped me get through the adjustment period.

Cue the music: “Banned in DC” by the Bad Brains.

Washington, DC is nice, clean, full of politics and bullshit, and it’s such a bizarre existence living in the capital of the world. DC is also interesting as it’s the breeding ground for festering politicians and political movements. That’s why it can be a headache when your hanging with people whose political views don’t align with your own. Dc is also bizarre because it has certain northeast tendencies, yet it’s the opening slit of the south. You feel the progressive politics while traipsing over old plantations, which can be a real mind fuck. I showed up, literally two weeks off the plane into the land of DC, as a wide-eyed optimist with regards to my future in academia as well as integrating into the Modern Orthodox Jewish community. Lo and behold, within a few years my hopes and optimistic feelings took a nose dive with regards to both. After starting school at American University I also began to look for an apartment around the area in both DC and Maryland that were close to Orthodox synagogues. Maryland had nice communities, such as Kemp Mill, White Oak and others, but I couldn’t live in the wilderness devoid of city life. I also couldn’t live in these cloistered Jewish neighborhoods, that reminded me of the same segregated Jewish ghettos of Brooklyn. I ended up settling in Foggy Bottom, close to the modern synagogue Kesher Israel. Yes, this is the same place that sent its disgraced Rabbi to the clink not that long ago. Funny story, first time I was invited over to his house, with his family, for Shabbat dinner he did a round of introductions. He said that we should say our names, place of birth, and famous claim to fame. He then followed that by saying that “no one can beat me because I was on the Ali G Show.” Ironically this would not be his only claim to fame. G-d works in mysterious ways, but he’s got quite a sense of humor.

I joined the congregation in the fall of 2009 and began to integrate into the Jewish community. Now, I was not at all your typical Orthodox Jew boy. At that point I had very long hair, around 15 inches or so in length, baggy Hip-Hop and grunge era cloths, while wearing a big crochet kippah, and with flowing Tzizit, the strings that certain Jewish men wear outside of their belt line. I was a walking contradiction, thank you Green Day!, and the first time I walked into services the eyes were pinned to my back, and searing through my soul. The young men and women, the elders and the rest reacted with mixed caution. Some members of the community were beautiful souls who didn’t care. Unfortunately most of the men and women my age were basically WASP Jews who were so hardcore conservative and rigid in their beliefs. Once I walked in, I blew them out, which is why it was very hard for a single guy like myself to find a lady, let alone a date. For the first year I was content, and enjoying the Shul and the academic process. However, with academia it was a struggle at first re-adjusting back to the life, and my advisor did help me acclimate by the end of the year. By my second year I was getting far deeper into the PhD process. Unfortunately, my social life wasn’t the same as I kept going on pointless dates with either bizarre hippy Jew chicks, or certain women from the DC community who are were so repressed it was just sad. You’d think that these women, who mostly became more religious, would embrace the passion of faith instead of the repressive parts adapted by the Ultra Orthodox Jews. Also, almost all of these Jews came from very different socio-economic backgrounds than I. They all came from the lily white suburbs, and attended all white schools and were probably bullied, but now with their new-found spark of faith have a new method of control. It’s so sad to go to a thirty-something year old’s place for a Shabbat meal, as you’re surrounded by childish hobbies and meticulous bachelor pad. Once I was at one of these meals along with other guests including the parents of one of the guests. As the father extended his hand to reach for the wine, the host put his hand on the wine and said, “No, I do that.” This guy was bullied so much that now he’s become the asshole who pine for nothing but control. It’s sad how some of these men and women need to get laid.

Cue the music, “What’s Next” by Leaders of the New School.

Two years later my school work is going good as I began to wrap up all my required courses, and began to study for the oncoming torture of exams we call comprehensive exams. At the same time the dating scene was getting nowhere as I came to the realization that a modern Orthodox Jewish woman was not for me. This was tough coming from a person who wanted to stick to the more observant way of living. However, I began to delve into the world of secular and even non-Jewish women. That’s when I made the terrible mistake of reconnecting with a woman I’d worked with in the past. After living with my younger brother and his girlfriend and seeing the track record at the synagogue of either couples on their way to marriage or the aging spinsters (both men ad women) hanging from the galleries. That shit became old and depressing very fast.what was even more depressing was the local Lubavitch Chabad in DC. I’m a big fan of the Chabad movement, which was centered in my neck of the woods, Brooklyn. The Chabadniks in Brooklyn were, and remain, amazingly wonderful in their inclusiveness and unbiased look at who you are, regardless of your background. The Chabad of DC was the antithesis of all this and what Chabad stands for. When I first attended services Shem Tov, the Rabbi, came up to me and asked what brought me to DC. I said school. He then turned around and ignored me ever since. To call him a political opportunist is just the tip of the ice burg. That’s what happens when you mix spirituality with politics. You get dicks like that. Anyway, Diana was her name and she’s another load of words that I’ve written about in the past, which I’ll add next time around.

Peace, for now……