Tuesday, February 19, 2008
A Closer Look
In celebration of February as Black History Month, American Aperture turns its focus on the earliest days of American history. It is of little known consequence Washington D.C. in the District of Columbia was in fact designed around one basic fundamental geometric shape: the pentagram. Everything from the placement of the Capitol Building to the White House to the surrounding Washington, Lincoln monuments, streets and roadways, National Mall, and housing were all derived from one central point. From this one locale rippling concentric circles and true meridian energy points spread across the nation’s capital ensuring the United States of America to be the most powerful nation in the world.
It is a less known fact that an African American aided General George Washington,
Thomas Jefferson, and French born, Major Pierre Charles L’ Enfant, in the initial plotting of the land in accordance with nature and the celestial constellations in the heavens above. Though Benjamin Banneker was a black man in a slave nation he was a completely self-taught mathematician and astronomer whose work was widely sought after. When we return, American Aperture sharpens its focus on, Benjamin Banneker, in a section we like to call: “It’s all in the stars.”
Thank you for joining us this evening as we turn our attention to Benjamin Banneker, mathematician, astronomer, clockmaker, publisher, swanky dresser, consummate gentleman, and African American.
Little is known of Benjamin’s early years. He was born to Robert Banna Ka a freed slave who was freed and wed by, Molly Walsh, a European American woman. He grew up on a farm at Ellicott’s Mills where he was taught mathematics by a Quaker schoolmarm.
Andrew Ellicott gave Benjamin his first watch after seeing how amazed and enthralled the young African American was with all of its working gears. Banneker dismantled and mantled the watch several times a day until he understood the inner workings of the timepiece.
From this simple act of generosity, Benjamin formed the building blocks to forge ahead where few ventured. He became an astute astronomer who along with Ellicott mapped out Washington D.C. in alignment with the stars. The most notable being Sirius before leaving the Potomac area to return to his home on the Ellicott farm, due to illness.
*A historical reenactment.
The elderly Banneker sits in a country cabin with four other black gentlemen who range in ages from early twenties to Banneker’s age. A single candle is placed on a table illuminating city plans, calculations, and layouts. Shadows wobble on the walls behind the men.
The youngest of the four leans into the light, “Nigga, iz you crazy? You can’t give these white men the secret. You need your clock cleaned.” “Watch your voice, Fredrick,” Benjamin replies in earnest, “Look these men have assured me they would change the policies regarding African American’s if we just work together.” Fredrick yells loudly, and stands, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” The group reacts quickly ushering Fredrick to sit down. Fredrick sits and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Are you out of your fucking mind? We have a deal with the reds. No white man can know the secret. Can you imagine the hailstorm we’re gonna get if word gets out.”
“Fredrick relax,”
“Don’t tell me to relax. Man, you gonna have to fake a illness or something, I’d don know.”
“Shh, someone’s comin.”
A member of the group extinguishes the candle.
Fade to black.
This has been a, moment in time, provide by American Aperture. Thank you, when we return we’ll explore further the little add that started it all:
In front of a huge ship, a young pilgrim crier yells loudly to passers-by at a dock bazaar in Freetown, Sierra Leone, Africa, a sign next to him reads: “All expense paid cross-Atlantic cruise. Free lodging and board, cozy accommodation, plus on board workout facility. Come ye, explore America.”
After that, a powerful expose on the petition sweeping some southern states to remove the first “r” in February changing it to Febuary, and what the federal government is doing about it.
Sound bites: “First they give us the shortest month, now they want to shorten the word February. What’s next raising the rim height, or lengthening the field? They’re nickel and dimming us, I say, just nickel and dimming us.” “This ain’t motivated by no race issues. Just look at the word. February, just don’t sound American.” “It is the expressed concerned viewpoint of the federal government to urge this to remain under the jurisdiction of a purely local government.” “What with this year’s corn parade and the jelly-off the county clerks office just ain’t equipped to handle all this paper.”
It is a less known fact that an African American aided General George Washington,
Thomas Jefferson, and French born, Major Pierre Charles L’ Enfant, in the initial plotting of the land in accordance with nature and the celestial constellations in the heavens above. Though Benjamin Banneker was a black man in a slave nation he was a completely self-taught mathematician and astronomer whose work was widely sought after. When we return, American Aperture sharpens its focus on, Benjamin Banneker, in a section we like to call: “It’s all in the stars.”
Thank you for joining us this evening as we turn our attention to Benjamin Banneker, mathematician, astronomer, clockmaker, publisher, swanky dresser, consummate gentleman, and African American.
Little is known of Benjamin’s early years. He was born to Robert Banna Ka a freed slave who was freed and wed by, Molly Walsh, a European American woman. He grew up on a farm at Ellicott’s Mills where he was taught mathematics by a Quaker schoolmarm.
Andrew Ellicott gave Benjamin his first watch after seeing how amazed and enthralled the young African American was with all of its working gears. Banneker dismantled and mantled the watch several times a day until he understood the inner workings of the timepiece.
From this simple act of generosity, Benjamin formed the building blocks to forge ahead where few ventured. He became an astute astronomer who along with Ellicott mapped out Washington D.C. in alignment with the stars. The most notable being Sirius before leaving the Potomac area to return to his home on the Ellicott farm, due to illness.
*A historical reenactment.
The elderly Banneker sits in a country cabin with four other black gentlemen who range in ages from early twenties to Banneker’s age. A single candle is placed on a table illuminating city plans, calculations, and layouts. Shadows wobble on the walls behind the men.
The youngest of the four leans into the light, “Nigga, iz you crazy? You can’t give these white men the secret. You need your clock cleaned.” “Watch your voice, Fredrick,” Benjamin replies in earnest, “Look these men have assured me they would change the policies regarding African American’s if we just work together.” Fredrick yells loudly, and stands, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” The group reacts quickly ushering Fredrick to sit down. Fredrick sits and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Are you out of your fucking mind? We have a deal with the reds. No white man can know the secret. Can you imagine the hailstorm we’re gonna get if word gets out.”
“Fredrick relax,”
“Don’t tell me to relax. Man, you gonna have to fake a illness or something, I’d don know.”
“Shh, someone’s comin.”
A member of the group extinguishes the candle.
Fade to black.
This has been a, moment in time, provide by American Aperture. Thank you, when we return we’ll explore further the little add that started it all:
In front of a huge ship, a young pilgrim crier yells loudly to passers-by at a dock bazaar in Freetown, Sierra Leone, Africa, a sign next to him reads: “All expense paid cross-Atlantic cruise. Free lodging and board, cozy accommodation, plus on board workout facility. Come ye, explore America.”
After that, a powerful expose on the petition sweeping some southern states to remove the first “r” in February changing it to Febuary, and what the federal government is doing about it.
Sound bites: “First they give us the shortest month, now they want to shorten the word February. What’s next raising the rim height, or lengthening the field? They’re nickel and dimming us, I say, just nickel and dimming us.” “This ain’t motivated by no race issues. Just look at the word. February, just don’t sound American.” “It is the expressed concerned viewpoint of the federal government to urge this to remain under the jurisdiction of a purely local government.” “What with this year’s corn parade and the jelly-off the county clerks office just ain’t equipped to handle all this paper.”
My Distant Gaze
When you’re running this fast, it’s hard to make it out, but, Cheryl’s hair is amazing. It’s a special blend of coconut and cotton and I can almost smell it. I’m faster than you thought, I’m sure. Under the right circumstances I can be persuaded to haul ass and now happens to be the right circumstances. If I didn’t have to jump this fire hydrant and run through the intersection I’d have a strong urge to turn back to talk to Cheryl. She looks cinematic. Framed by the wide-open street-facing window. Shear Joy, the hair salon her sister owns, corners Sixth and Dober and if I was worth a nickel to my name I’d be a fool to say the world didn’t revolve around Cheryl.
The street lamp glare and the sign obstruct my view as I try to check out her ass. It’s the best ass you’ve ever seen like a quarter poking off the edge of a table and she always smells clean like baby-powder. Not perfume. When she walks by you, the stream of freshness attached to her passing aura will change the color of whatever you’re looking at. Make it brighter and a hell of a lot sexier, too. All I can smell right now is the cold sting from the air and fried fish poring out of filthy vents over at Dusty’s Place. Her hands are small and firm and she’s got black “snips” as she calls ‘em, and she’s whacking away at a housewife with age-denial syndrome. Cheryl is trendsetter. I’d let her take those snips and slice my throat if it would make her happy. At the rate I’m moving, the way my heart is racing, I’d be a bled dry mess on her floor in a half an hour. All covered in loose hair and globs of dark red blood. Her sister all panicked and hysterical and shit screaming from the back room about her linoleum. I’d suffer those odds, though. Cheryl could chop me into a million pieces and spread me out over her father’s green Graft County acreage if she wanted.
Only six steps to the curb and I honestly couldn’t tell you which was moving faster my feet or the ground. Sidewalk lines mark my pace two, three at a time. Left. Right. Left. Right. At this speed, a steady rhythm wins it. The alternative is to trip, fly head first into Dober. The cars rushing on Dober have no reason to stop. If I were driving down Dober, listening to Otis, and someone wearing all black at night ran out into the street, fuck it all if I couldn’t say I might just have to smash the shit out of ‘em, as terrible as that sounds. Especially on this corner dark as tonight. Otherwise, I’d be liable for a chain reaction of unforeseen proportions. The data on swervers isn’t promising. I’ve seen it. My dad runs the emergency department at Memorial six blocks from here. An ambulance on his shift just hurried past not more than twenty seconds ago. Red lights flashing.
My lungs are hot, burning. The feeling of being squeezed is only a side effect. My arms, up, down, up, down amuse me. Each pump propels me farther faster. The whoosh of cars flying through the intersection is constant. Oddly, my eyes turn to the blue newsstand on the corner. It’s crippled and flaked. The faded cracked plastic window obscures the full headlines of the daily local paper behind it. Through a broken hole in the plastic shield I can read December. I can’t get the day or year. It must be Tuesday. Cheryl’s long days at work are on Tuesday. At other times she does what she damn well pleases. On the wide open faced window “ShearJoy” is painted in white lettering with black drop shadow. A pair of gray and black scissors underlines the salon’s name; it’s obvious the artist goofed. Behind that the natural cherry front desk and behind that Cheryl talks as she works. The modest mirror-lined walls reflect her every movement. She never looks up as she routinely cuts, then runs a comb through a long strand of dark brown, and cuts again. This time as I pass by because of the glare from the streetlight refracting off the face of the window I won’t get to see her amazing lips. Full, tipped permanently in a grin, the right level of moisture. Cheryl never seems to wear the same thing twice. Her closet must be a who’s who of celebrity fashion names. Not because she’s snobby, but because it was made for her.
My knee is holding up better than I had anticipated. In fact, as I look out across the blurring car lights, through the intersection, up Sixth, to the top of the hill I picture my legs turning like the iron coupling rods that connect to the driving wheels of a locomotive. Churning more furious by the second. My muscles, bred lean and strong, are pulsing. Cheryl’s muscles are supple, taut, and perfectly proportioned. Underneath an air-thin blouse her skin, elastic and smooth, rubs gently against her clothes. The asphalt on Dober is crushed rock and tar. The long row of cars parked at the curb runs down Dober all the way to the water. A good thirty blocks.
The sweat covering me, clinging to me has no chance to cool and dry at this pace. The moon slowly dodges patches of low-lying clouds to catch a glimpse of the streets below. The full broad disk stares unrelenting, glowing white, until a tiring fog lid shuts it out, momentarily. The slamming sound of my rushing footsteps is only loud enough for me to hear. The rest of the world is awash in it’s own soundtrack.
I make my fists tight. The streetlamp is taller than the building rented by ShearJoy and it sways slightly in the winds. Lined by mighty elm trees the neighboring buildings extend down the sidewalk following Dober to the water. The elm in front of ShearJoy has leaves that shake on their limbs like rattlers tails. All the other elms follow suit. Trash skips down the sidewalk having missed the receptacle.
Engines roar as a muscle car and a truck sweep by me blowing the hair off my face. I can still smell the exhaust, even though they’ve passed. My stride is long, steady. The meridian in the center of Dober is three left feet away. If I make it. One misstep and I got chipped teeth, staring at a bloody bumper. Or worse.
Before leaving the safety of the sidewalk I hear Cheryl’s soft confident laugh. She has an amazing sense of humor. I shut my eyes. The moon is undeterred and round. Cheryl’s eyes are greenish-blue. Her eyes, I’ve committed to memory. They change color depending on her mood. Right now they’re more green. Last week they were more blue. The rumbling of traffic rises, crescendoing; an angry herd with fire red eyes, stampeding with rubber hooves, on a freshly laid pasture of tar and crushed rock. My breathing and thought infuse. The tree leaves tremor and rattle. All I can hear now is nothing.
I open my eyes. The madness of Dober now behind me. Cheryl returns my distant gaze merely as a formality. Her eyes remain unaware of my passing presence. She strikes the lights on ShearJoy and I too push on up Sixth, up the hill, and into the night.
The street lamp glare and the sign obstruct my view as I try to check out her ass. It’s the best ass you’ve ever seen like a quarter poking off the edge of a table and she always smells clean like baby-powder. Not perfume. When she walks by you, the stream of freshness attached to her passing aura will change the color of whatever you’re looking at. Make it brighter and a hell of a lot sexier, too. All I can smell right now is the cold sting from the air and fried fish poring out of filthy vents over at Dusty’s Place. Her hands are small and firm and she’s got black “snips” as she calls ‘em, and she’s whacking away at a housewife with age-denial syndrome. Cheryl is trendsetter. I’d let her take those snips and slice my throat if it would make her happy. At the rate I’m moving, the way my heart is racing, I’d be a bled dry mess on her floor in a half an hour. All covered in loose hair and globs of dark red blood. Her sister all panicked and hysterical and shit screaming from the back room about her linoleum. I’d suffer those odds, though. Cheryl could chop me into a million pieces and spread me out over her father’s green Graft County acreage if she wanted.
Only six steps to the curb and I honestly couldn’t tell you which was moving faster my feet or the ground. Sidewalk lines mark my pace two, three at a time. Left. Right. Left. Right. At this speed, a steady rhythm wins it. The alternative is to trip, fly head first into Dober. The cars rushing on Dober have no reason to stop. If I were driving down Dober, listening to Otis, and someone wearing all black at night ran out into the street, fuck it all if I couldn’t say I might just have to smash the shit out of ‘em, as terrible as that sounds. Especially on this corner dark as tonight. Otherwise, I’d be liable for a chain reaction of unforeseen proportions. The data on swervers isn’t promising. I’ve seen it. My dad runs the emergency department at Memorial six blocks from here. An ambulance on his shift just hurried past not more than twenty seconds ago. Red lights flashing.
My lungs are hot, burning. The feeling of being squeezed is only a side effect. My arms, up, down, up, down amuse me. Each pump propels me farther faster. The whoosh of cars flying through the intersection is constant. Oddly, my eyes turn to the blue newsstand on the corner. It’s crippled and flaked. The faded cracked plastic window obscures the full headlines of the daily local paper behind it. Through a broken hole in the plastic shield I can read December. I can’t get the day or year. It must be Tuesday. Cheryl’s long days at work are on Tuesday. At other times she does what she damn well pleases. On the wide open faced window “ShearJoy” is painted in white lettering with black drop shadow. A pair of gray and black scissors underlines the salon’s name; it’s obvious the artist goofed. Behind that the natural cherry front desk and behind that Cheryl talks as she works. The modest mirror-lined walls reflect her every movement. She never looks up as she routinely cuts, then runs a comb through a long strand of dark brown, and cuts again. This time as I pass by because of the glare from the streetlight refracting off the face of the window I won’t get to see her amazing lips. Full, tipped permanently in a grin, the right level of moisture. Cheryl never seems to wear the same thing twice. Her closet must be a who’s who of celebrity fashion names. Not because she’s snobby, but because it was made for her.
My knee is holding up better than I had anticipated. In fact, as I look out across the blurring car lights, through the intersection, up Sixth, to the top of the hill I picture my legs turning like the iron coupling rods that connect to the driving wheels of a locomotive. Churning more furious by the second. My muscles, bred lean and strong, are pulsing. Cheryl’s muscles are supple, taut, and perfectly proportioned. Underneath an air-thin blouse her skin, elastic and smooth, rubs gently against her clothes. The asphalt on Dober is crushed rock and tar. The long row of cars parked at the curb runs down Dober all the way to the water. A good thirty blocks.
The sweat covering me, clinging to me has no chance to cool and dry at this pace. The moon slowly dodges patches of low-lying clouds to catch a glimpse of the streets below. The full broad disk stares unrelenting, glowing white, until a tiring fog lid shuts it out, momentarily. The slamming sound of my rushing footsteps is only loud enough for me to hear. The rest of the world is awash in it’s own soundtrack.
I make my fists tight. The streetlamp is taller than the building rented by ShearJoy and it sways slightly in the winds. Lined by mighty elm trees the neighboring buildings extend down the sidewalk following Dober to the water. The elm in front of ShearJoy has leaves that shake on their limbs like rattlers tails. All the other elms follow suit. Trash skips down the sidewalk having missed the receptacle.
Engines roar as a muscle car and a truck sweep by me blowing the hair off my face. I can still smell the exhaust, even though they’ve passed. My stride is long, steady. The meridian in the center of Dober is three left feet away. If I make it. One misstep and I got chipped teeth, staring at a bloody bumper. Or worse.
Before leaving the safety of the sidewalk I hear Cheryl’s soft confident laugh. She has an amazing sense of humor. I shut my eyes. The moon is undeterred and round. Cheryl’s eyes are greenish-blue. Her eyes, I’ve committed to memory. They change color depending on her mood. Right now they’re more green. Last week they were more blue. The rumbling of traffic rises, crescendoing; an angry herd with fire red eyes, stampeding with rubber hooves, on a freshly laid pasture of tar and crushed rock. My breathing and thought infuse. The tree leaves tremor and rattle. All I can hear now is nothing.
I open my eyes. The madness of Dober now behind me. Cheryl returns my distant gaze merely as a formality. Her eyes remain unaware of my passing presence. She strikes the lights on ShearJoy and I too push on up Sixth, up the hill, and into the night.
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