2008 was a very exciting year for us, and we’re rapidly moving into the new year. Since our first call for submissions last spring, we’ve received thousands of submissions, and more continue to pour in on a daily basis.
As we near the end of our review of the first round of submissions that we received, we’re moving closer toward deciding on the manuscripts that we will launch with in 2010.
Of course, this has lead to some active campaigning by staffers for their favorite submissions, and I’ve come to realize how difficult it will be to narrow down all of the great submissions to the four that we publish next year. Going forward, we will seek to gradually increase our titles each year, publishing five titles in 2011, six titles in 2012 and so forth before we cap out at a maximum of ten titles per year.
Being a small publisher gives us much more freedom and the ability to (hopefully) impact multicultural publishing. And, as our country moves into a new era, I’m even more aware of the need to elevate what we read because books can impact our perception of ourselves and how others view us. We appreciate your patience and respect for our review process, and we hope to make announcements in the near future.
Tony Elliott
/ August 23, 2010Interested in having my memoir based novel published. I think I can honestly compare it to an updated, faster paced, “Manchild In The Promised Land” by Claude Brown. “Down These Mean Streets” by Piri Thomas would be sinilar as well. Excerpt From “Escape From Shaolin” (Diary Of A Street Kid)
by Antoine Shaheed Elliott
Chapter 27
(1978)
Skinnyboy
When I got out this time I had missed too many days of school to be promoted and I would have to repeat the twelth grade. I knew without a doubt that I was gonna do it because even in my lost and confused mind I knew that I had to finish high school. Even at seventeen years I understood the hopelessness of a person without a high school diploma. I never doubted that I would finish high school but I also went back to doing burglaries.
This day, I was on a mission, going to do a burglary. I say “mission” because Alexander Monday went on missions when he did his burglaries and he was one of my idols. As I was walking through this white folks area, I saw with eagle’s eyes three long haired white boys in front of a bar about one block ahead of me. They were directly in my path so I needed to assess the situation: Would they be hostile or attack? Should I make a detour? It was still daylight and there were some blacks who lived in the area so I decided to chance it and keep to my path. That strange curiosity was upon me like at Nudorp which kept me to my path. I also had the option of running for my life as a back-up plan. No white boy could outrun me! I noticed that the skinny guy, the smallest one of them, who looked like he might be about my age, had a bead on me. The other two were bigger and older. “Skinnyboy” looked my way as I pretended not to notice him. Little did he know that I had already sized him up and knew exactly what he would do. They had been talking animatedly just before Skinnyboy had noticed me and now they were silent , awaiting my approach.
Skinnyboy began walking toward me as I neared. I acted nonchalant as he approached and as he passed me he leaned in and tried to bump into me. (White boys always seemed to do that when they wanted to fight you: they bumped into you by “mistake on purpose” so you’d have to either say something or back down). I slid my shoulder back sideways so he completly missed me and I continued walking without missing a step. Fucking faggot! I thought. I could probably kick hiss ass easily! I thought, and knew he wouldn’t have tried that if it were just him and me. I was well past them now and none of them made a move or said anything so I was safe but I was seething with anger at the skinny punk frontin’ on me like that so I stopped, turned, and stepped back toward Skinnyboy and said something like,” Why you acting like it was a mistake?”
Skinnyboy hesitated a moment, surprised that I had stopped and came back. “What?” he asked, walking toward me, trying to look as if he wasn’t going to do exactly what I knew he would do next. I stood still, with my right leg back to maitain my balance. “You heard me,” I said, as he was upon me. He swung a slow, clumsy punch and I just leaned away like Muhammad Ali would and I turned to the two big guys and asked, “Could I have a one on one with him?” They looked at each other a moment, not quite sure what to make of the situation and then calmly nodded yes, without speaking. I knew this would work because I was respecting their turf, and letting them know that I understood that they were in charge. I was younger, smaller, and no match for either of them, so they had nothing to lose. Their egos weren’t challenged. This also left Skinnyboy all alone because now the big guys wanted to see him prove himself against the black guy his own age and size. After all, he’d started it but he probably thought I’d just run like a scared dog with my tail between my legs because I was outnumbered and on his turf. Skinnyboy hadn’t counted on my counter move to nullify his boys or that I’d stop and fight him. Now he had me all to himself but it he was all mine!
I turned to face Skinnyboy and he came in and swung a looping right hand that I easily avoided. I hit him with a quick jab. His head snapped back. He swung the same punch again and I did the same thing, snapping his head back again. Then he tried to kick me and I grabbed his foot and held it, causing him to hop up and down so he wouldn’t fall. I kicked him in the ass and threw his foot down. I was making a fool of him but I knew not to push it too far because if I did the two big guys might have felt the need to put me in my place. “Next time, maybe you’ll think about who you try that with!” I said to Skinnyboy, who stood there looking angry and stupid yet not willing to try and throw another blow. I looked to the bar door where one of the big guys had ran in to get somebody. Another big guy popped his head out the door to see what was going on. He glared at me a moment and I looked at him. I knew him and he recognized me. They called him big Red and he was one of the few white cats that walked freely in the tough black area of Stapleton. He was respected for whatever reason I didn’t know, but he and I had a run-in before and I waited to see what he would do or if I would have to run. He just looked at me with what I think might have been a reluctant respect.
I’d had a run-in with Big Red a month or so ago. There was this guy I would see in Stapleton from time to time that I didn’t like because it seemed like he was trying to pass for white and I wasn’t sure if he was Puerto Rican, Arab or what, but he had black blood for sure because his afro was about as thick as mine had ever been and his skin wasn’t quite white. You could see that he wasn’t all white, although he did speak like a white dude. Although we’d never spoken or had any run-in before I couldn’t stand the guy. So one day I was getting a burger from one of the local fast-food joints and the wannabe white guy was in there too, along with Big Red. Me and the wannabe got into words and I sucker punched him – a stiff jab – and we began to rumble, knocking over tables and chairs. He was big but looked clumsy and I felt I could take him, although I had to move around alot so he couldn’t pin me down. He charged me more ferociously than I’d expected so I made my way out the door in order to have more room, throwing punches as I backed out with him following and throwing punches back at me. He was enraged because of all the blows I’d landed upside his head and face and his nose was bleeding. He just couldn’t land a clean shot on me.
Soon, Big Red had seen enough and jumped in between us, pushing me away and saying, “Get outta here!” I said, “Fuck you!” “What?” he said, surprised. He stepped toward me and I backed up a little. He was older, bigger and clearly stronger so all I could offer was a, “Fuck you, mutha fucka!” as I got a little distance from him. He came quickly at me when I said that so I turned and ran off a little, picking up a discarded soda bottle from the ground and turning back. I could always count on finding an empty beer or soda bottle on the ground in New York to use as a weapon. “Fuck you, mutha fucka!” I said again, and threw the bottle at him. He ducked it and I picked up two more, while looking for more in case I needed them. He cursed back and charged at me again, threatening to get me. “Suck my dick, you white bastard!” I hollered and threw both bottles at him before speeding away angry that I had to run from a white boy.
The fight with Skinnyboy was the first time me and Red had seen each other since that incident. We looked at each other, saying nothing. I waited just a moment for effect and turned and walked away. What happened a few days later was an amazingly perfect end to this affair. It was late at night and I was coming back to my projects after being on a stakeout for my next score. It was a stone silent night, about one or two o’clock in the morning. There wasn’t a soul on the street but me and someone about a half block away, across the street from my projects walking toward where the whites lived. I squinted to see better who it could be and thought, No way! It was Skinny Boy walking by my projects to go home, I guessed. I started jogging his way and when I got close I yelled, “Hey! Remember me?” He turned around and looked surprised but kept going. What else could he do? “You wanna fight me now, by yourself? It’s just you and me!,” I yelled, angry all over again as I thought about him trying to show off for his buddies. He kept walking, saying nothing so I ran at him and did a flying kick to his back and he went sprawling to the ground. He got up and kept walking, not even running. “Come on! there’s nobody here but you and me!” I said angrily, moving in to fight him but he just kept walking. I leapt in close and punched him on the side of his head, yelling, “Fight back you punk!” He wouldn’t fight back and I wondered why he didn’t just run.
A black woman opened a window from one of the buildings across from us and screamed to me, “Leave that boy alone!” I yelled back to her, “You don’t even know what happened. He tried to jump me in his neighborhood!” She closed the window and I watched as Skinnyboy had gotten further up the block. “You’re a fuckin’ punk!” I yelled at him. I looked around the whole projects and couldn’t believe it was so still and quiet. Maybe there had been some real bad violence or something. Like a big fight, or some gunfire. I walked home to my building feeling great that I’d shown Skinny Boy a thing or two – again.