On my way home tonight, I saw something that felt really super-Shaw.

At the Chinese take-out joint across the street from me, a group of rowdy high schoolers—to lift from Zadie Smith: the sort who make 10 times as much noise as their number might suggest—were inside and outside of the little shop, purchasing nasty, greasy Chinese food, laughing and goofing around, as teens everywhere are prone to do in big groups.

Two little Chinese girls in school uniforms and ponytails, the older one (Je-je) holding her baby sister’s (mei-mei) hand, walked past the older youth with looks revealing equal parts curiousity, innocence and fear.

They walked around the shop front to the white door to the immediate right. As I had guessed, they are the shop owner’s children. After being buzzed in, they literally ran inside as quickly as they could. I can just imagine their mother screaming at her husband about moving the store somewhere else now, as the girls sit down to their homework and rice.

If this sounds stereotypical, it is: I’m Chinese, and I know how my parents think. Chinese parents are incredibly protective to begin with, and (for various reasons, some of them perhaps less politically correct than others) often highly distrusting of Black people. They also seem to be doing quite well: every time I walk past that store, there’s always local business. I’ve tried their grub once, and it’s a quality example of adaptable ethnic cuisine: it’s the most American-tasting Chinese food you could possible imagine.

But this is a scene I can see played out across thousands of tiny Chinese take-out stores across the country, and indeed, across much of the world. Poor neighborhood, crime-fearing parents..and cute little children.

On the whole, the slam workshop was a success, and I’m glad I organized it. Though by no means a moment of spontaneous creative revelation or a mass poetic call-to-arms, the poets were well received and we had a better Q and A session than I had expected.

As I walked into Parkview Recreation Center, located on the other side of Howard University from my home, I passed three large murals. The individuals depicted — Thurgood Marshall, Mary McLeod Bethune, and Frederick Douglas respectively – appeared immensely stern and wizened. As I rounded the corner of the building, I passed another one, of the African continent, with a black strip of folks in African costume running down its centre. Being Australian, South-east Asian, and holding acquaintance with people from each of the continents, I hoped that some sort of internal glint of “with-it-ness” might kick in. It did not, but rather, a kind of apologetic discomfort settled about my stomach.

However, upon entering the center, I was pleased to see that Delrica and Dwayne were already comfortably seated, joking around and bopping to the DJ’s hip-hop beats. It didn’t lessen the way I stood out as the sole non-black dude in the building, but I imagine subliminal waves of acceptability flowed from the heads of my two confident African-American friends and down into my hooded jacket.

This being a teen night, there was nobody in the main room, where we were to hold the event, bar two little boys of about six. Instead, the actual teens were huddled around a Playstation, shooting pool, braiding hair, play-fighting outside. After juggling measured returns to the playful boys’ soccer kicks, I helped set up chairs and was surprised to see that a handsome little crowd of about 25 to 30 teens had sat themselves down. I asked DJ SUPA RO to play his “hottest joints” in order to keep the seats warm, then nervously waited for the other poet to arrive, having driven the not insignificant distance down from Baltimore.

DJ Supa Ro keeping the crowd happy

At practically the stroke of eight o-clock, Chris arrived, as energetic as usual, slightly flustered, and carrying a bag of writing supplies.

“Have you ever done a workshop like this before?” I asked him, a thinly veiled question roughly translated as: “You’re an unabashedly white man about to perform in front of an entirely African-American collection of street-seasoned teens…can you handle it?”

He waved off my concern. Being a Special-Ed teacher in inner city Baltimore, I should have realized how wonderful Chris is with such audiences vastly different from the whiter, intellectual urbanites I encounter at weekly slams.

Delrica opened the workshop with a longer poem, before Dwayne B. and Chris took center stage, taking turns to introduce one another. Dwayne, who is undoubtedly one of the dopest cats to walk DC’s streets, was striking in his dark grey outfit of fedora, cable-knit mock turtleneck, baggy jeans and self-knitted scarf. He works for Cityworks, a neighborhood NGO performing youth HIV prevention, (making him essentially my hero) in between knitting scarves for all of his friends and recording albums (making him essentially my man-deity), and the youth nodded knowingly to his homespun themes of gang violence and class struggles. Dwayne exudes smarts and charisma, which is why I had been so excited to have him express interest in the workshop in the first place.

I was more worried, but also very interested, in seeing how the youth would reach to Chris’ poems. His delivery is manic, his delivery stream-of-consciousness quick, and he leaps and tumbles about in improv-dance fashion, a style not closely associated with the body rhythms of the Kanye Wests and Ying Yang Twins of contemporary BET rap programming. Additionally, I feared that his themes, such as childhood autism and disabled athletics, though not entirely alien, may bounce off of this particular audience with little impression. And yes…Chris, who competed earlier this year in the national poetry slam competition in Austin, with his long hair and effete mannerisms, is very white.

I was proved quite wrong again. The natural comedy of his theatrics brought visual relief to his performance, and the workshop was far better for the variety and diversity (in its multiple forms) that came from Dwayne and Chris’ perhaps unusual partnership. The young audience was indeed civil, if not exactly hollering from the stands. After the performance, having not developed a formal workshop, the poets opened the floor to questions, something that I, having partaken in my share of awkward workshop silences, found a little unnerving.

Dwayne and Chris on 'How to answer questions at a slam poetry workshop'
Dwayne and Chris on ‘How to answer questions at a slam poetry workshop’

Janice, who I’d coordinated the event with, threw in some early ‘gimmes’, following which came a slew of excellent, thoughtful questions from various fragments of the audience. Forgetting words mid-poem, finding inspiration, where to find events…Delrica, Dwayne and Chris handled the kids’ questions with enthusiasm, before ceding the floor to the organizers of the teen night and a DC parks and rec rep. As soon as the workshop concluded, and the kids’ dissipated, two junior-high age girls performed an impressive, effective routine which would have looked at-home behind a performing Beyonce or Fergie. I’ve come to love hip hop dance for its looseness and sassy, forthright sensuality, qualities so distinct from the nervous jerk of Black Cat dance nights, often frequented by white-bred men such as myself.

Chris, Delrica, Dwayne, and co-organizer Janice Wright

We took photos, before an enthusiastic brainstorm of future, larger slam workshops, or bringing in Culture Shock, whom I would consider the coolest dance troupe in this city.

I’m going to be around for at least another six months, so I hope to jump into more of this stuff. Though originally a product of class guilt, I’m beginning to see such civic engagement as something I like doing, as opposed to something self-tortured gentrifiers should be obliged to do. I love working with young people, and if they all offer as rewarding an audience as this one, I think many others in circles of new gentry the country over, far beyond the realms of Washington, would find refreshing. Next time, though, I’m going to try and hold something at the Kennedy Rec, involving as many community residents as possible in the planning. Some of whom I hope may be reading this very post.

After much delay, the slam poetry workshop is taking place tonight. There’s a teen night taking place at Parkview Recreation Center, in Pentworth, and we decided to combine the workshop with this event, given the already captive audience. I’ve cajoled a local MC, prominent in the DC scene, into emceeing, and she’s brought a couple of poets, one of whom was on last year’s DC/Baltimore national team.

It’s taken a lot of unreturned calls, but after some bouncing around, I’m excited to see it finally take place. I really don’t know what to expect, but I’ve told the poets that they should shoot for 45 minutes max. We’re dealing with short attention spans here, and, according to Janice, slam’s been around for ‘a good minute’ so it won’t be new to most of the youth.

Having said that, I’m still interested in seeing whether this workshop can develop into a series, or a youth performance of the kids’ own poetry. The main hurdle is putting that initial spark out there, and that’s what I’ve tried to do.

Last night, I brought Halloween to Shaw’s various super-heroes and monsters, taking the initiaitve and applying my former-college activist skills back into use. M&Ms, Milky Ways and Musketeers were duly disseminated in exchange for some semblance of a mouthed reply to the consistent question: “So who are you tonight?!”

My favorite responses came from the younger of the already youthful demographic, who offered “Jamal” or “Tanya” in response, before their guardians cajoled their reluctant alter egos out of them. The Human Torch, an extremely confident young chap of about five, was a definite highlight.

I didn’t see too many folks with lit homes making a particularly large effort, and being on my way out, I wanted to distribute my candy rather than waiting for the kids to come a-knocking, but it still felt really fresh to have this neighborhood, seemingly so divided at this juncture in its history, come together for a tradition such as this one. Plus, you’ve got to adore little tikes, whenever and wherever you have the chance.

As for the slam poetry workshop, it’s tentative date is November 14th, at the Kennedy Rec Centre. I just need to get the flyer authorized by the Department of Parks and Rec, confirm my poets, and pray for an attendance.

October 2nd, 2006.

Last Thursday night, Starlight Ballroom in the Lower East Side, our 21 year-old guy is wearing the new Diesels. The Thanaz. Sure, the back of his knees are nasty and sweaty from the bike ride over (he got the Bianchi frame from some pawn store for $120 – seriously), and the mousse that’s keeping his asymmetric bangs carefully plastered to his skull is dripping into his mouth, but there’s got to be some sort of trade-off for credible indie super-hipness. It’s probably in the guide book. So anyway, the fresh baile funk dance punk shredcore trio from North London are halfway through their ragged set when he sees her. The leggings are what got his attention at first: bright red and white, running all the way up to that black micro post-feminist skirt with the cyber-punk-grrrl patch where her right asscheek would be. But it was the buttons that really got him: three of them, lined up in a neat row upon her camo-headphone print messenger bag. The first one: green, ninjatunes. A way down hip hop label. On the other end: Morrissey, “Viva la Hate” era. That’s sort of by obligation, but still…quality. In the middle, however, a total thrower: “Drop needles, Not bombs!” She’s into knitting too? This is too rad…

Buttons through a broken apertureButtons have been in existence since, well, people shed robes in exchange for trousers, during what may have been known as “The Great Separation of Jacket and Pants 647 AD. Perhaps even before that. But the indie button is a very different story. It combines the 60s inspired art school influences of Pop and Dada with iconic elements of youthful rebellion such as punk, feminism and anarchism. Throw in a liberal dash of po-mo (post-modern) irony with the cute subtlety of two dollar upward-mobility-angsty tastes, and the indie button (“iButton” if you will) is at this stage a fully entrenched staple of the discriminating urban hipster diet, nestled cosily in handfuls on the dresser next to the “I’m Gay, Ask me how” shirt and old Yeah Yeah Yeahs ticket stubs. But how long will the button, and indie pop culture for that matter, remain cutting edge and relevant? Will it eventually go the way of Hot Topic economics, down slicked tunnels leading into the annals of ephemeral pop culture trashiness? Or, alternatively, does the button point the way to the birth of an enduring, independent culture capable of rejecting the watering down of mass-niche market consumerism and, as has remained a constant question for the indie faithful: can it remain true to artistic integrity and expression?

It was with such questions in mind that I descended last weekend upon Crafty Bastards, DC’s only “indie” crafts fair. It fell on a pleasant Fall day in Adams Morgan, where Marvin Gaye blasted from turntables and crowds strained to observe b-boys cartwheel. The crowd was largely young, trendy, and discerning. In 2006, that means going heavy on the aviator glasses, slouchey boots, and naturally, lots and lots of buttons. As I wondered the stalls, I wondered how much further all of this could really go; in fact, there was little ‘traditional’ craft on display at all, but rather a slew of plastic buttons, rings, bags, and clothes.

The button-makers at Crafty Bastards were much like the indie button makers I’ve encountered at similar events: young, clever, fashionable and articulate white women whose appearance suggests well-read, pop-culture quipping personas. Through casual conversation, I found that several had attended art school and been making buttons since their middle school days, while some held neither formal art training or more than a few months’ experience.

Their buttons offered a good synopsis of the themes and attitude currently framing the conversation of their generation. As with any of its other incarnations, the indie button spans an unsurprisingly broad cross-section. Upon further inspection, however, a handful of recurring motifs become prominent. The most traditional (or ‘safe’) of any aspiring buttonista’s collection are her music buttons, sporting favorite band members and logos of the indie rock institution, both classic and current. Perennial favorites include early punk and mod heroes like Lou Reed and Paul Weller, and current (many might say unfortunate) well-represented groups from recent derivations such as emo and neo-prog. Extending naturally and often directly out from music, one generally encounters the political: ranging from anti-corporate to pro-gay marriage, but practically universally liberal. One strand of indie kids—the anarchist punk batallion—particularly enjoy wearing their politics on their sleeves, as rally cries like “Insert anarchist slogan here” affirm in a most direct fashion. Feminism remains an extremely popular theme amongst the female half; not atypically, this involves a stereotypical housemother from a 1950s magazine with an unexpected piece of separate text stuck across her image, spouting lines such as “Phone sex is so outdated” or “Can you say ‘sleeping on the couch tonight?’”

“The point is to give voice to these women, who may have not had a voice in their original [depictions,]” explained one button maker from Mischief Shop.

Other buttons at the fair invoked more innocent times. Jenifer from Sprout studio, an elementary school teacher, took pictures from children’s books about to be thrown out from her school’s library in San Francisco and recycled them into cute, Enid Blyton-esque buttons, equally suitable on a first grader’s dotted frock as that of a Boston art student. One was even of Curious George!

The same selection featured a popular botanical collection of fine plant sketches. When asked whether she was interested in sustainable ecology, Jenifer told me that indeed, she was, but that that “wasn’t really the point.” More important, it seemed, was her commitment, like all of the other crafties at Crafty, to creating only one-of-a-kind, organic work.

Line 'em up; now if only I could squeeze out the light...

Despite button-makers’ earnest striving to create unique work, it is very rare to find original drawings or art within the indie button oeuvre. At its core, the button is a thoroughly modern artform, drawing inspiration from the Pop and Dada movements, which recycled images and text from advertising and entertainment mediums, and infused them with new, often subversive meanings. In the case of buttons, this largely involves outdated magazine articles and books. Through their “recycle and recreate” philosophy, it occurred to me that button makers are similar to many of the musicians they might listen to. Having reached a stage at which creating entirely new sounds within contemporary rock music has become a formidable task, critical and artistic trends have reoriented their efforts towards the pastiche-honoring yet still unique combination of sounds. The pretense for such “re-packaging” is that truly original sounds or images are almost too difficult to come by or bother creating.

The majority of images used at this stage in the indie button evolution are culled from a very particular period, including the stiff, outdated images of the mid-20th Century…the sort that originated during the blissful, pre-sweatshop-busting campaign days of American consumerism. This is done almost exclusively in jest, with irony and kitsch the major preening-tool through which it seems they were selected. I asked one button lady about how she chose particular images, taken from an old dictionary.

“Well, there’s a fair bit of grab ass in some of the boy scout pictures,” she quipped, referring to the apparent homoeroticism her buttons illuminate.

“That’s too funny,” commented a browsing button-purchaser. Such irony-laced, insinuating high-context comedy, which pokes fun at itself as much as at others, is another essential piece of elite indie discourse.

The current generation of mid-20 through early-30-somethings who prescribe to this Radiohead-era indie subculture are often the children of blue-state baby boomers, and subsequently, one might infer, thoroughly secular. Removing the traditional spiritual and classicist American bedrock from the equation, their art thus focuses on the themes with which their generation grew up in the 80s identifying with: social liberalism, disgust at Reagonomic values and the working stiffs they poked fun at, rock rebellion, and, of course, pop culture. The fetishizing and subsequent commodification of this most particular of music and fashion eras, has been solidified in recent years by the music channel VH1, whose tongue-in-cheek “I Love the 80s” programs and rash of contrived culture-jabbing, failed-celebrities-cum-failing-comedians, has in turn spurred a new mass market for ironic t-shirts and thrift store devotees. Slogans such as “Jesus is my homeboy,” “Jersey girls aint trash (Trash gets picked up),” and “Stop Stalin, Start Russian” have, quite bizarrely, become the light-hearted earmarks of a generation which at face value could be seen as a mySpace-obsessing cohort of apathetic consumers; smarmy, nihilistic vagabonds to those with little to go on but face value.

Of course this, like most assumptions, would be rash and oversimplifying in the most demeaning way. Ours is in actuality a generation of over-achievers, of 50s-aping careerists. It just happens to be that some of us are compelled and able to temper such ambitious economic compulsions with healthy (sometimes perhaps extreme) levels of satire and irony. The post-industrial, mass middle-class society our parents built has provided ample resources, as well as an education system which encourages critical analysis. The humor drawn from our buttons frowns upon the traditionally blinded, “Yes-man” mentality, whilst remaining in tow with traditional American values of hard work and earned merit. This newly carved space, which allows for corporate-ladder scaling that actually embraces the sexy and dark, is manifesting itself in the ascendancy of potty-mouthed, sexualized post-feminist journalism from the likes of former-Wonkette, now Time reporter Ana Marie Cox and other Gawker-stylized blog pioneers. It redefines masculinity through the mainstreaming of the Metrosexual meme, and through reading habits which can finally combine the ambition and technological savvy of Harvard Business Review or Wired with the unabashed mindlessness of People. It’s the bourgeois and the bohemian; the classically kitschy with the giftedly technological.

How this generation’s meta-critical smarts might match up with the more traditional work ethic and business drive of the new-India and China generation of dreamers remains to be seen. But we are who we are, and whether our parents’ look upon this as the great decline or most fortunate peak of human civilization. If nothing else, this indie generation’s worldview and aesthetic habits offer testament as to just how far the consumer society can travel. Or, more specifically, how far the humble button has already gone.

I had my keys stolen tonight.

It will prove to be a pain in the butt, losing office and leave time to wait for a locksmith to change the locks and worrying about our things in between, but that of course is not the main blow. What does smack is that just as this spoken word workshop seems to be getting rolling, I am reminded that putting oneself out there to do something does come with its risks.

I’d been playing ball at the Rec, running a pick-up, waiting to get in for a second run, when I noticed that my bag was missing. My slip-on shoes were there, but my keys, spare shirt and the drawstring bag within which I’d stashed them were gone. I notified Tanya, whom I’d gotten to know a little last week and who quickly warmed to the workshop idea. After searching around the bleachers, I checked the men’s room, where I found the bag within one of the stalls, sans keys. Another of the kindhearted staff searched underneath the bleachers and spoke to the kids and adults who remained at the gym, but to no avail.

“They don’t know that all this is only temporary,” he explained. “And when they reach the pearly gates, they’ll have to answer to Him, and this sort of thing doesn’t look good.”

I’ve reached the point at which I recognize almost all of the guys who play at the Rec, even if I only know a handful of them by name. But it’s become quickly apparent that being a semi-familiar unusual face does not equate to being an accepted one. Perhaps they thought I’d brought money (I never do); perhaps it wasn’t personal. But this won’t stop me from coming. If anything, it makes me more aware that I need to market the workshop thoughtfully, removing my own fingerprints and allowing the benevolent power of the art to speak to the young folk itself.

At an ECCA (civic) meeting following the loss, I shared my plans with my neighbors, and several are interested in working together on similar programs for youth in our neighborhood. It’s great to see such active interest in improving their currently barren opportunities, and the call to action on DC’s crippled education system is timely and overdue. But at this point, it’s high time that discussions become preparations for activities, and that real changes are instituted.

It’s going to be a cold winter, and I think all of us are trying to revel in the last days of pleasant Fall crispness before the chill sets in.

I’m semi-psyched tonight.

I finally managed to make the time to talk to the folks at the Rec in a more official manner about holding a spoken word poetry workshop. Previously, I’d mentioned the idea to some staff in passing, but this time I spelled it out thoroughly. After some initial suspicions at this Asian boy with one jean leg rolled to his knee (a byproduct of biking and unraveller inertia), they quickly warmed to the idea. We even concocted a new vision, starting with a small performance by the poets and a workshop, with an end goal of getting young workshop participants to perform their own pieces during a grand full-scale slam to serve as a major event for the season.

I’ve been in contact with one helpful poet, a prominent figure in the DC slam scene, and she’s told me she’d get back to me with poets willing to lead a workshop.

I focused on the “positive messages” aspect, also selling the Rec staffmember on the need for youth HIV prevention ideas. She seemed a little surprised at my familiarity with DC’s AIDS statistics. They certainly seemed to help, because she called in the acting manager—who I’d previously discussed the slam with—and he assured me he’s take it to the building manager to be authorized by the Department of Parks and Recreation. I don’t see why they’d be opposed.

Since I first started balling at the rec, I’d been constantly considering ways to contribute to youth activities in Shaw. There were drama club sessions I kept missing, the half-serious notion of an Amnesty International-sponsored human rights high school course…but for various reasons, such as my work hours, things failed to come together. Well this is my chance.

It feels good to be organizing these sorts of things again, after a good little break post-AIDS activist burn-out during my college organizing days.