Jam Master Jay
Rest in Peace

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Legendary DJ shot at recording studio
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"Thirty-seven Years Young"
I have lived long enough to know that death comes when it comes, that there may not be an answer or reason or even consolation. Death is a void we must all face. I pray his survivors find comfort in a time of shock and devastating loss.

It's early in the morning and I don't really know how to talk about this. Should I talk about being in a little hotel in a little town in Louisiana? It was 1987, and my mother's family was amassing for our first real family reunion. A few of my cousins were staying at the Clifford Motel in "downtown" Angie, Louisiana. Among other things (lying about girls, mostly...), we bobbed our heads to the sounds pumping out of the boombox. LL Cool J was talkin' 'bout "Candy" and how "bad" he was. But he wasn't as bad as Run DMC. They almost single-handedly pulled hip-hop from the block parties to the top 10. And who was that on the 1's and 2's? Jam Master Jay. Adidas'ed down, fat chain swingin', Jay put the needle on the record for the Kings of Rock.

He always looked like he was having so much fun back there, hypin the crowd; a one-man band. I can close my eyes and still see his head bobbing to the beat, his smile channeling joy from a bygone era. Jam Master Jay was lucky, perhaps, to be in the right place at the right time, to be a part of hip hop's ascendancy. And some of us were lucky enough to be there with him.

"continuing"

for my hope, i thank the many
the marchers, boycotters,
rabble-rousers, litigators
and saints.

i thank the ones who sacrificed
safety, jobs, fear and life
to bring freedom songs, freedom
rides and freedom ring;
sacred acts of love
into the world.

i thank the unknown
and unknowable martyrs
whose memorial is our continuing
struggle, courage

and hope

that each tear, each drop
of blood, each life lost
on the journey to
build a beloved community

will be redeemed;
and our humanity
affirmed; and the sacred
rendered commonplace
(c) 2002

Looking back on that last post, I realize I fell into the "clash of civilizations" mode for a second. Right now (it's late right now), I'm more in the "some people are just nuts with the conclusions they draw from simple propositions" camp. That assessment cuts across cultures, across history, nationality, etc. Not quite a unified theory of "why" but it's helping me think past what I pick up from the Washington Post & the NY Times.

Anyway, what I really sat down to share this lovely morning is a piece I did as an exercise for a writing workshop I'm in. The exercise involved selecting an object, and then writing about the object in "objective" and "subjective" perspectives. Here's my subjective look at the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle:

There's only one day each week I dare to venture outside in my robe and flip-flops-- Sunday. Sunday morning, to be exact: crossword time!

Many of the people I know-- college friends, colleagues, news junkies, art aesthetes, travel-happy continent-jumpers, investment bankers, and coffee shop pundits alike-- all find a section of themself in the Times. But none of their sections is quite like mine; none quite achieves the delicate balance between the written word and empty space, like mine.

The coquettishness of its flirty clues excites my imagination and challenges me to give it what it wants: the answer it requires to be complete. There is only one answer. I must complete the grid, cross-checking clues against a world of knowledge soaked up year after year... I am a fact-sponge; a media baby; a Navy brat, a nerd-cool hybrid; a descendant of slaves with a Stanford degree; an un-televised Jeopardy champion; jack-of-all-trades and master of one: the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle.

Can I love it, knowing it was created to vex me? I do! I confess, I do! I do love its symmetry, its blend of certainty and mystery. The more I hover over the Crossword, the more I understand it as a metaphor, as talisman, as amulet and symbol for life: rooted in culture(s), textured by experience, unforgiving and rewarding, with a built-in, predictable (and sometimes perfunctory) ending. It's all there in the grid.

There, each Sunday...waiting on the stoop... sheathed in diaphanous blue plastic, folded safely between other peoples' sections... my New York Times Crossword Puzzle.