EVERY TIME I USE the N word I feel like a third grader turning over his lunch money to a school bully. It's not that important, I tell myself. I'm not hungry anyway. I don't "need" to speak the word that dare not be spoken by a white man. But imagine the absurdity of trying to write a column about the awesome power of the word nigger in America without actually using it. N word, please!

I'm thinking all these forbidden word thoughts in the wake of the death of George Carlin, the comedian who immortalized the routine "The Seven Words You Can't Say on Television" none of which was the N word -- and a good thing too because otherwise there'd be a lot of dead air on Def Comedy Jam and Live from The Apollo. Those seven immortal unspokens , two of which are compound nouns combining two words, (the MF of which has been famously described as the "black national adjective") can be abbreviated as SPCFCSMFT, none of which "means fine tobacco.."( a Lucky Strike cigarette reference I wouldn't have had to explain in 1972 when Carlin came up with his list of unspeakables). This was eight years after the publication of Nigger, the title of comedian/ social activist Dick Gregory's autobiography. Calling nigger the N word is like calling war naughty, like a Geneva Convention agreement about language that no one obeys except the diplomats.

Barack Obama's remarkable and knee-trembling honesty in his first book, Dreams From My Father, described what no future president of the United States has ever written regarding personal ethnic identity. "(I'm) wearing a Brooks Brother suit and speak impeccable English and yet have been mistaken for an ordinary nigger," he wrote about his feelings of being biracial and trying to fit in in an American society obsessed by racial labels. "Don't you know who I am? I'm an individual!" Such is the power of a single word. Nigger strips a person of personhood, and an entire race of its humanity. And spelling it nigga doesn't change the meaning, it only perpetuates it. Riding in the car Friday with my 18-year-old daughter I heard the word nigger at least 20 times in a single Mos Def song she was listening to on a CD. "Hip hop is all about street cred," she explained to the complaint from her old fashioned father, who remembers not so long ago riding in the same car as his daughter sang along to the Beach Boys singing "Wouldn't It Be Nice."

Continue reading "Just an Ordinary N Word" »

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HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE PART OF PHILADELPHIA HISTORY? Well, maybe not exactly Philadelphia history, but certainly Clark DeLeon history. This summer I'm going to be a tour guide at Independence National Historical Park. It's a 75 minute walking tour around the sights and sounds of old Philadelphia called Franklin's Footsteps and I've been training to give these tours for the last couple of weeks. And look who I got to show me around. Who better than Ralph Archbald, Philadelphia's most beloved Ben Franklin (I hate to use the word "impersonator" because Ralph is really a Ben Franklin "inhabitor.") ?

I invite you to be part of my first guided tours this weekend starting at noon and 2 p.m. on both Saturday and Sunday beginning at the Sightseeing Tour Kiosk on the north end of the Independence Visitor Center at 6th and Market. Streets. It's a private company offering the tours, which cost $14 for adults, $12 for seniors and $10 for children (4-12 years) Yeah, I'm doing it to make some money, but you know what -- it's a perfect fit. I don't have to tell you how much I love Philadelphia. I'm really going to enjoy doing this.

So help a brother out, would you? Contact phillytour.com or call 215-389-TOUR and let them know you want to be part of the inaugural Clark DeLeon walking tours in Ben Franklin's footsteps. It would be great to see some familiar faces, even if we've never met. I'll post my schedule during the summer so you can tell out-of-town friends, neighbors and family. Tell'em Clark not only talks the talk, but he walks the walk. After all, look who I have as a coach.

Continue reading "Getting Some Advice from the Best" »

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LET'S GIVE IT UP TO THE MAN IN THE BRONZE HAT Now that I know what a sycamore tree is, I want to doff my hat the the man who started it all, William Penn. It was Penn who declared that the capital city of his Holy Experiment should be a "green countrie towne." And more than 325 years later the country has long left the town, but the green still graces the city.

Whenever we see William Penn it's usually as a stiff bronze statue atop City Hall. But Penn was the original 17th Century Green Party leader. It makes sense he should be viewed through trees.

Continue reading "Still a Green Country Town after all these years" »

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I'M NOT A SMART GUY REALLY. What I don't know could fill all the books in the Library of Congress and probably does. What I do know I'm glad to share, which is why some people think I'm smarter than I am. It reminds me of the line from The Great Gatsby where F. Scott Fitzgerald writes that Daisy thought Gatsby was intelligent because "he knew different things than she did." (See, right there, quoting that made me sound smarter than I am.) But the truth is I'm as dumb as the next guy when it comes to everyday things like the names of trees. But then maybe the next guy knows the difference between a sycamore and an oak.

When I was younger I knew so much more than I know now. I could tell you the model and the year of almost any car built in America between 1950 and 1970. As it drove past from 50 yards away I could identify a Chevelle from a Cutlass and a Firebird from a freakin' Camaro. I could imitate the high whiney sound of the starting motor any Chrysler, Dodge or Plymouth. From 500 yards I could tell you if the roar of the engine in the unseen distance was from a hemi or a goat. I knew that the number 442 meant Oldsmobile, 289 meant Ford and 327 was just a bored out 283 cubic inch Chevy engine. And I knew that the year of manufacture of any car was printed somewhere on the red plastic of its tail lights. You can look it up.

But I can't tell one car from another these days. Not by make or year or country of origin. That is a battle long lost. I used to feel embarrassed when I didn't recognize the brand name in stories that might mention a Suburban, a Crown Vic, or a Bronco. I remember Miatas because they remind me of jellybeans. But everything else on wheels looks like traffic. I think it was about the time that Honda became Nissan that all cars began to look alike. A Volkeswagon began to look like a Pontiac. The product was better than ever but the identity was gone. Everything became a sensible sedan. Like leaves in a forest I no longer recognized tree by tree.

But nothing makes me feel dumber than not knowing the name of the trees in front of my own house. That's a sycamore. Look at the bark. Thats a white oak (look at the rounded edges on the leaves compared to) that's a red oak. We have a cherry tree (that's a bark thing again when the cherries are gone) and we used to have a dogwood tree named after our dead dog Max. But the dogwood tree died and other than that I can't give you the name of another tree I see everyday. Ignoring the obvious? I look like a homicide detective who who can't tell you the color of his wife's eyes. Hazel, incidently. But suddenly Seymour I now know what a sycamore is and I felt like such a dope I thought I oughta tellya.

Continue reading "But only God can make a sycamore" »

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I DON'T KNOW WHAT I like most about this photo. Is it the way the sun is hitting the ivy on the red brick? Or is it the way the blue wall stands out with the glint of the razor wire above. Light changes everything in a photo and an alleyway. I don't know how long the ivy has been growing up the side of this building on the 1300 block of Waverly Street (an alley between Pine and Lombard) in Center City, and I don't know when the wall was painted blue or when the concertina wire was installed. But I've passed this spot hundreds of times and I never noticed any of the above until Friday afternoon around five o'clock, a few hours before the summer solstice.

Is it just me or does Philaelphia find ways of surprising you when you least expect it?

Continue reading "Another Ugly Philadelphia Alley" »

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WITHIN MINUTES BEFORE HE DIED, I took this picture of a group of Muslims praying in a place called First Amendment Plaza, a fair-sized concrete space in front of Independence Hall in which assembled people are allowed to speak their minds, their hearts and their faith. Because they are in America.

Tim Russert would have loved this because that's what he was all about. He loved the difference within America. He loved the nooks and crannys. He was a student of the electorate. And he loved America like he loved the Bills.

Imagine an Eagles fan who ended each Sunday's Meet the Press program, after grilling politicians until they were filleted, and then happily declared, "Go Eagles." That was Tim Russert every week about his hometown Buffalo Bills. And I not only respected him for that, I loved him for it. He was a hometown guy describing America to itself and he always sounded honest, sincere and personal.

Ya never know when we'll lose someone we love. And we never lose them, but we will be denied the pleasure of their company, until we meet again. That's what I believe. There's got to be some Valhalla, where an Eagles fan can sit across from a Bills fan in the Superbowl and both home teams win.

Clark DeLeon
Philadelphia

Continue reading "TIM RUSSERT WOULD HAVE LOVED THIS" »

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WE MUST TALK OF ROBERT KENNEDY because he matters, especially this year; a presidential election year, the 40th since he died tragically young and needlessly. Many of us ache, and I mean ache, when we think what might have been. Had Bobby lived.

To describe Bobby Kennedy as the Barack Obama of his generation is, sorta, kinda, maybe or perhaps -- EXACTLY -- like what is going on today.How couldn't he win? And that's why I'm getting a creepy feeling all over because I am about to add, "Unless." Unless something happened. We are a nation of assassins, are we not? We kill our neighbors and our presidents. Why? Because we don't like one and the other is dating Jody Foster. Nothing has made sense in America since the hurt of Robert F. Kennedy's life. Ended the way it was.

It took me years to understand it, and I'm not even sure I do. All I know is that everything would be different if Bobby had lived. No Nixon, no Cambodia, start with that. No Kent State. No Watergate. That's what I mean, it's impossible to imagine. And Bobby Kennedy was everything Barack Obama is except colored. Harvard educated. Erudite. Yet with a common touch. Eliteists. Only in America is eliteism considered a flaw in a candidate for president. I kinda like my president being smarter than me. I don't want him to think I think he's smarter than me, but it would be comforting to know he probably was.

This brings us to George Bush. Which of course sends me running screaming from the room. And here comes the best shot for the Democrats to change the world since Bobby Kennedy and the candidate's last name rhymes with Yo'mama. And this is real life in the world of America in the year 2008. For a lot of us, and I know there are a lot of us, this is a huge page to turn. The weight is so very heavy. The hurt so real it's hard to believe it's a memory from long ago. Or last week.

Race in America doesn't go away. It just goes on television. So, yes, let me just put it out there. I fear for Barack Obama the same way I feared for Bobby Kennedy. And I pray I am wrong because hope is a terrible thing to waste.

Continue reading "Barack, We Hardly Knew Ye" »

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"HARD TO BELIEVE, HARRY." (I'm channelling for the late great Richie Ashburn) " Clark DeLeon has been writing about this famous international bike race in Philadelphia every June since it debuted 24 years ago, and Sunday was the first time he watched the race live from the top of 'The Wall' in Manayunk."

"Right you are, Whitey." (Now I'm channelling for Harry Kalas.) "But I believe the top of 'The Wall" is actually in Roxborough, not Manayunk.. It starts at the bottom of Levering Street in Manayunk, but by the time the racers turn right to begin their return to Center City at Pechin Street, they have reached the heights of Roxborough. In fact, Levering Street becomes Lyceum Avenue on the west (uphill) side of Manayunk Avenue, the official border between uptown (Ridge Avenue) Roxborough girls and downtown (Main Street) Manayunk boys."

"Geez Louise, Harry, usually you let Wheeler make those boring distincttions."

"Not any more, Your Whiteness, not since Clark's grandaughter Lucy Ann moved into her parents' newly purchased house in Roxborugh. You know what a Philadelphia neighborhood nazi Clark is. And when he saw the top of 'The Wall' was only two blocks away and how Levering Street had suddenly turned into Lyceum Avenue, the same weird way Second Street becomes Third Street south of Snyder Ave. in South Philly. Well, sir, that just set of some alarms inside the head of Mister "Thinks" He's Mister Philadelphia. "

"Harry, don't tell me Clark is going to try to change the unofficial name of America's premier bike race from the "Tour 'd Yunk" into the "Top of the Rox."

"Whitey, I wouldn't put anything past a proud grandfather on a mission. Did you see that 'Friends of 'CLARK PARK.' T-shirt he was wearing during the race. Clark 'thinks' his children believe that their neighborhood park in West Philadelphia is named after him."

"Hard to believe, Harry."

"Not if you know Clark, Whitey."

Continue reading "TOP OF THE WALL, MA!" »

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I CALL THIS PHOTO "DASHIKI" and it is one of the 40 featured photographes in the Off the Wall Gallery's "Enter Digital" photography show that opens tonight at seven o'clock at Dirty Frank's bar at 13th and Pine Sts. third. I am one of 25 artists featured in the show which runs through the end of July.

I made this shot at the Kimmel Center in Januaray before a perfomance by vocal group Ladysmith Black Mambazo, the South African vocal group that rose to international prominence following their incredible performance with Paul Simon on the Graceland album. This man in this golden robe (I'm not even sure if the garment is called a dashiki) carried himself with the dignity of Othello.as he climbed the stair toward Verizon Hall.

Come on down to Frank's and check out the show. There are some wonderful pieces.

Continue reading "Digital Art Show at Dirty Frank's" »

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JEROME ROBINSON HAD A SMILE that could stop the stars, a wit that could melt hatred, and a love that made me believe he would live forever. He was an angel, I said, often before he was murdered, put on this earth to make us believe in God all over again.

I was wrong. He was human. Angels don't die under the el gutshot by a boy.

This isn't an obit for Jerry Robinson, or Wino, or the Wheels of Soul. This is information for what you are about to read in the column I wrote for today's Metro:

WE LIVE IN A PART OF TOWN where the sound of birdsong and gunshots are common in the lonely cool before dawn. So common, I'm afraid, that when I am awakened at three in the morning by the distinctive sound of pop-pop (pause) pop-pop-pop, I roll over and go back to sleep. I have heard this sound -- and weirdly or significantly -- it is usually in short bursts in groups of five. Either pop-pop or pop-pop-pop followed within a half second by three or two pops. It must be in a manual somewhere, the same manual where they teach you to shoot while while holding your hand sideways, same as how you wear your baseball cap. These shots in the night always sound like they are from the same gun. I consider that signature five pops as a sign of bad marksmanship.

Once I heard a full scale gun battle with different caliber weapons barking like dogs in the distance. Maybe 20 shots were fired in the course of 30 seconds, but it seemed like a lot and I had a hard time rolling over and going back to sleep. The sound afterward was too too silent to be real. It was like hearing the roar of the crowd and then the hush without knowing who had scored. I actually called the cops that time. Usually I don't. I almost feel foolish. "Hello, 911, I heard multiple gunshots in West Philadelphia. No, not on my block, on someone else's block." There's never anything in the newspapers in the following days about the dead or wounded within a five block radius. I find it hard to believe that all these bullets in the night haven't killed somebody. But frequently they don't, and because of that I am sad to say, bullets barely disturb my sleep.

Why? Because I know those bullets aren't aimed at me or mine. Not at 3 a.m. Nor are they aimed at some innocent merchant or cab driver or citizen waiting for the trolley. "Pop-pop -- pop-pop-pop" is the sound of playahs attempting to assassinate one another. I don't even know what a playah is, except a playah probably has a gun and a mother and at least one child. And he probably kills and dies for reasons he cannot possibly explain to his mother or his children. A playah killed my best friend, perhaps the finest man I've ever known, for no reason at all. Felt disrespected, returned to the scene and shot the first man he saw. Killed him with a single bullet. I sat through two trials, watched the playah convicted of first degree murder and saw him sentenced to life in prison for a crime he committed at the age of 19. I don't hate him but I do I wish him a long life. And every time I roll over, after being awakened by five pops fired by fatherless sons at one another in the middle of the night, I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

Continue reading "WHAT A PLAYAH TOOK FROM US" »

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BRANDYWINE RUGBY'S OUT OF THE PISS AGAIN Out on the piss again. Out on the piss again. Brandywine Rugby's out on the piss again. We're gonna we we now. It should be "wee wee" now, but I meant "we we." As in us. And there is a lot of us in Brandywine. A lot of Philadelphia. A lot of Whitemarsh. A lot of every club going back to First City Troop. Brandywine is the son of many uncles, and today the rugby uncles gather on the TV sideline at 4:30 p.m. to watch one of their nephews play for the national rugby club Division II championship. Brandywine,PA versus Red Mountain AZ. Check out : http://usarugby1.tampadigital.com/mediamanager/

Brandywine defeated Detroit 31-8 yesterday to advance into the final. The photo above was taken last month with Brandywine in red defeating Div. I Media RFC at Media's home pitch. There are at least two, and perhaps more Brandywine players who were members of the 1987 Philadelphia-Whitemarsh Final Four national championship team that advanced to the final by coming from behind to defeat the host Denver Barbarians before losing in the final to the defending national champions OMBAC (Old Mission Beach Athletic Club in San Diego).

Brandywine's shot at the national championship also takes place in Colorado, Glendale in greater Denver. Is it a coincidence that Dair and Cass are wearing the red and black? And aren't they old enough to be proud uncles themselves? If I didn't know better, I'd think Brandywine was another name for fountain of youth.

But believe me, I know that story.

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THIS JUST IN: Brandywine lost the national championship to Red Mountain today by a score of 41-18. After leading in the first half by 8-7 Brandywine gave up two length of the field tries and was never able to recover, nor did they give up. Brandywine's last try came in the 78th minute. The 2008 Division II Champions, Red Mountain, answered with a try in injury time (the 81st minute.)

Congratulations to two fine rugby clubs.

Continue reading "WE'RE PROUD WE TOLD YOU SO AHEAD OF TIME" »

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