The picture of the first love of my life (who didn’t realize that we were “going together”) hung in my locker for months before being moved to the “left.” I took great care to hang the freshly cut 1976 Jet magazine photograph of Prince in my locker. The beautiful singer’s picture survived four years of air kisses and good luck blessings before exams from a host of teenaged girls who attended St. Fuda, in Cowtown, Texas. (I use a pseudonym to protect the innocent.)
I was absolutely overwhelmed by the magnitude of his talent and equally mesmerized by the music that we would all come to know as so fabulously Prince. In fact, I more than likely still can sing all of the words from the 1976-1985 catalogues. In those days, there was no internet. If you wanted to learn the words, you had to tune into the radio or buy the 45 or LP. Yes, pay for the work.
I was equally fascinated by the ability of anyone, specifically a contemporary, who was able to tap into and be successful at capitalizing on their own talent, in addition to resisting older and seemingly powerful folks who tried to dictate your work. He was outspoken, transgressive, and unapologetic. He also was kind, a humanitarian and truly humble. (He never claimed this like folks do now-a-days).
I watched him school folks during interviews through words and through subtle eye rolls and blank stares — now referred to as throwing shade — with cool and subtle swagger. His disposition resonated with my own at St. Fuda, but I was no musician and could only hope to know someone with one drop of the talent and half a drop of that cool, purplish, Prince-like stank disposition.
Although not all artist, that particular time, the 70’s, marshaled in a group of young people with similar dispositions at St. Fuda — mine included. Transgressions and aspersions became synonymous with my name and with my conduct grade on my report card. While my grades were “good,” I never made the honor roll because my “attitude” was never quite honorary-like — “character and compliance” counted.
I spent an inordinate amount of time in the hallway, complete with desk, listening to the lecture from outside the door, and in after school suspensions. I was once suspended from suspension for staging a coup d’etat of 16-year-old pen clickers who protested silly after school punishments.
My saving grace is that I didn’t grow up in this current era. I most certainly wouldn’t have completed a Ph.D. I more than likely would have been suspended, expelled or placed in some category that may have fed me straight through to the school to prison pipeline. Excuse me, people to prison pipeline. People must be accountable for the pipeline. Naming the structure, as in “school” to prison, lets the people off the hook. People are helping to push folks through the pipeline not the building.
