saco-indonesia.com, Kebakaran di Fakultas Ilmu Sosial dan Ilmu Politik Universitas Indonesia (UI) telah menjadi tragedi kaum aka
saco-indonesia.com, Kebakaran di Fakultas Ilmu Sosial dan Ilmu Politik Universitas Indonesia (UI) telah menjadi tragedi kaum akademisi karena telah kehilangan banyak bahan penelitian yang sangat berguna, kata Dosen Ilmu Filsafat UI Taufik Basari.
"Apa gunanya universitas kalau tidak ada bahan dan hasil penelitian," ujar dia seperti diberitakan Antara, Kamis (9/1).
Ia juga mengatakan, kebakaran di UI pada Rabu (8/1) kemarin, tidak hanya menyangkut kerugian material saja , namun yang lebih utama adalah kehilangan bahan-bahan penelitian yang berguna.
Ia juga telah mengimbau universitas-universitas lain untuk dapat mengambil pelajaran dari tragedi di UI dan segera menelaah lagi sistem keamanannya. "Kita telah menemukan satu lubang, berangkat dari sini mari kita perbaiki semuanya," ujar Taufik.
Mantan Dekan FISIP UI Bambang Shergy yang juga Guru Besar Sosiologi FISIP UI juga mengaku sangat terpukul dengan kebakaran di gedung FISIP UI tersebut. Ia juga menyayangkan arsip, buku, dan semua rujukan ilmu sosiologi yang selama ini terdokumentasi akhirnya menjadi abu.
Terdapat sekitar 5.000 arsip yang telah disimpan sejak era 1950-an di dalam ruang yang terbakar itu.? Ia juga menyesalkan pembangunan fasilitas yang tidak diproteksi bencana kebakaran.
Pihak departemen juga sudah merancang bangunan secara fungsional, estetis, dan aman dari bahaya pencurian, karena itu banyak dipasang teralis di jendela ruangan.
"Kerugian gedung bisa diukur dan dikembalikan dengan mudah dengan asuransi, namun buku-buku yang telah menjadi warisan dan rujukan ilmu pengetahuan ini yang sulit diadakan kembali," katanya.
Menurut Komandan Pleton Dinas Pemadam Kebakaran Pasar Minggu Sugiyanto, kebakaran telah terjadi karena percikan arus pendek dari pendingin ruangan di ruang arsip Departemen Sosiologi.
Ia juga sangat menyayangkan gedung C yang telah menjadi gedung Departemen Sosiologi FISIP UI tersebut bukan gedung yang dipersiapkan untuk tahan bencana kebakaran.
Para pemadam juga mengalami kesulitan masuk dalam gedung karena hanya ada satu akses pintu utama di gedung tersebut, ditambah teralis yang terpasang di semua gedung.
Editor : Dian Sukmawati
DATUK KETUMANGGUNGAN DAN DATUK PERPATIH NAN SABATANG
Siapa tokoh ini?. Apakah mereka juga merupakan dua orang legendaris sejarah Minangkabau?. Atau apakah keduanya merupakan tokoh h
Siapa tokoh ini?. Apakah mereka juga merupakan dua orang legendaris sejarah Minangkabau?. Atau apakah keduanya merupakan tokoh historis sejarah Minangkabau yang benar-benar ada dan hidup dalam sejarah Minangkabau pada masa dahulu. Penjelasan berikut ini dapat menjawab beberapa pertanyaan itu.
Suku bangsa Minangkabau, dari dahulu hingga sekarang, mempercayai dengan penuh keyakinan, bahwa kedua orang tokoh itu merupakan pendiri Adat Koto Piliang dan Adat Bodi Caniago yang sampai sekarang masih hidup subur di dalam masyarakat Minangkabau, baik yang ada di Sumatera Barat sendiri maupun yang ada diperantauan.
Demikian kokohnya sendi-sendi kedua adat itu sehingga tidak dapat digoyahkan oleh bermacam-macam pengaruh dari luar, dengan pengertian akan segera mengadakan reaksi membalik apabila terjadi perbenturan terhadap unsur-unsur pokok adat itu. Hal ini telah dibuktikan oleh perputaran masa terhadap kedua adat itu.
Ada petunjuk bagi kita bahwa kedua tokoh itu memang merupakan tokoh sejarah Minangkabau. Pitono mengambil kesimpulan bahwa dari bait kedua prasasti pada bagian belakang arca Amogapasa, antara tokoh adat Datuk Perpatih Nan Sabatang dengan tokoh Dewa Tuhan Perpatih yang tertulis pada arca itu adalah satu tokoh yang sama.
Dijelaskan selanjutnya bahwa pada prasasti itu tokoh Dewa Tuhan Perpatih sebagai salah seorang terkemuka dari raja Adityawarman yaitu salah seorang menterinya. Jadi tokoh Dewa Tuhan yang ada pada prasasti yang terdapat di Padang Candi itu adalah sama dengan Datuk Perpatih Nan Sabatang. Demikian kesimpulannya.
Kalau pendapat ini memang benar, maka dapat pula dibenarkan bahwa tokoh Datuk Perpatih Nan Sabatang itu adalah merupakan salah seorang tokoh historis dalam sejarah Minangkabau, karena namanya juga tertulis pada salah satu prasasti sebagai peninggalan sejarah yang nyata-nyata ada.
Bukti lain mengenai kehadiran tokoh tersebut dalam sejarah Minangkabau adalah dengan adanya Batu Batikam di Dusun Tuo Lima Kaum, Batusangkar. Dikatakan dalam Tambo, bahwa sebagai tanda persetujuan antara Datuk Perpatih Nan Sabatang dengan Datuk Ketumanggungan, Datuk Perpatih Nan Sabatang menikamkan kerisnya kepada sebuah batu, hal ini sebagai peringatan bagi anak cucunya dikemudian hari. Sebelum peristiwa ini terjadi antara kedua tokoh adat itu terjadi sedikit kesalah pahaman. Adanya Batu Batikam itu yang sampai sekarang masih terawat dengan baik, dan ini membuktikan kepada kita bahwa kedua tokoh itu memang ada dalam sejarah Minangkabau, bukan sekedar sebagai tokoh dongeng saja sebagaimana banyak ahli-ahli barat mengatakannya.
Bukti lain dalam hikayat raja-raja Pasai. Dikatakan bahwa dalam salah satu perundingan dengan Gajah Mada yang berhadapan dari Minangkabau adalah Datuk Perpatih Nan Sabantang tersebut. Hal ini membuktikan pula akan kehadiran tokoh itu dalam sejarah Minangkabau.
Di Negeri Sembilan, sebagai bekas daerah rantau Minangkabau seperti dikatakan Tambo, sampai sekarang juga dikenal Adat Perpatih. Malahan peraturan adat yang berlaku di rantau sama dengan peraturan adat yang berlaku di daerah asalnya. Hal ini juga merupakan petunjuk tentang kehadiran Datuk Parpatih Nan Sabantang dalam sejarah Minangkabau. Menurut pendiri adat Koto Piliang oleh Datuk Ketumanggungan dan Adat Budi Caniago oleh Datuk Perpatih Nan Sabatang.
Sesudah ternyata terbukti bahwa kedua tokoh itu benar-benar hadir dalam sejarah Minangkabau, maka ada hal sedikit yang kurang benar yang dikemukakan oleh Pinoto. Dia mengatakan bahwa kedua tokoh itu merupakan pembesar dengan kedudukan menteri dalam kerajaan Adiyawarman. Tetapi pencantuman kedua tokoh itu dalam Prasasti Adityawarman tidaklah berarti bahwa menjadi menterinya, melainkan untuk menghormatinya, karena sebelum Adityawarman datang, kedua tokoh itu sudah ada di Minangkabau yang sangat dihormati oleh rakyatnya. Maka oleh Adityawarman untuk menghormati kedudukan kedua tokoh itu dicantumkan nama mereka pada prasastinya. Tidak sembarang orang yang dapat dicantumkan di dalam prasasti itu, kecuali tokoh yang betul-betul sangat terhormat.
Walaupun Datuk Parpatih Nan Sabatang dan Datuk Ketumanggungan sudah merupakan tokoh historis dalam sejarah Minangkabau sesuai dengan bukti-bukti yang dikemukakan, akan tetapi keduanya bukanlah merupakan raja Minangkabau, melainkan sebagai pemimpin masyarakat dan penyusun kedua adat yang hidup dalam masyarakat Minangkabau sekarang ini, yaitu adat Koto Piliang dan Adat Bodi Caniago, bagi masyarakat Minangkabau sendiri kedudukan yang sedemikian, jauh lebih tinggi martabatnya dari kedudukan seorang raja yang manapun.
Antara Datuk Parpatih Nan Sabatang dan Datuk Ketumanggungan adalah dua orang bersaudara satu Ibu berlainan Ayah. Karena ada sedikit perbedaan dari apa yang dikatakan Tambo mengenai siapa ayah dan ibu dari kedua orang itu, rasanya pada kesempatan ini tidak perlu dibicarakan perbedaan itu. Tetapi dari apa yang dikatakan itu dapat ditarik kesimpulan bahwa ayah Datuk Ketumanggungan adalah suami pertama ibunya (Indo Jati). Berasal dari yang berdarah luhur atau dari keturunan raja-raja. Sedangkan ayah dari Datuk Parpatih Nan Sabatang adalah Cati Bilang Pandai suami kedua ibunya yang berasal dari India Selatan juga. Perbedaan darah leluhur dari keduanya itu menyebabkan nantinya ada sedikit perbedaan dalam ajaran yang disusun mereka. Kesimpulannya adalah bahwa kedua orang itu yaitu Datuk Ketumanggungan dan Datuk Parpatih Nan Sabatang adalah dua tokoh historis dalam sejarah Minangkabau, bukan tokoh legendaris sebagaimana yang dianggap oleh kebanyakan penulis-penulis barat.
Tribute for a Roller Hockey Warrior
Hockey is not exactly known as a city game, but played on roller skates, it once held sway as the sport of choice in many New York neighborhoods.
“City kids had no rinks, no ice, but they would do anything to play hockey,” said Edward Moffett, former director of the Long Island City Y.M.C.A. Roller Hockey League, in Queens, whose games were played in city playgrounds going back to the 1940s.
One street legend from the heyday of New York roller hockey was Craig Allen, who lived in the Woodside Houses projects and became one of the city’s hardest hitters and top scorers.
“Craig was a warrior, one of the best roller hockey players in the city in the ’70s,” said Dave Garmendia, 60, a retired New York police officer who grew up playing with Mr. Allen. “His teammates loved him and his opponents feared him.”
Young Craig took up hockey on the streets of Queens in the 1960s, playing pickup games between sewer covers, wearing steel-wheeled skates clamped onto school shoes and using a roll of electrical tape as the puck.
His skill and ferocity drew attention, Mr. Garmendia said, but so did his skin color. He was black, in a sport made up almost entirely by white players.
“Roller hockey was a white kid’s game, plain and simple, but Craig broke the color barrier,” Mr. Garmendia said. “We used to say Craig did more for race relations than the N.A.A.C.P.”
Mr. Allen went on to coach and referee roller hockey in New York before moving several years ago to South Carolina. But he continued to organize an annual alumni game at Dutch Kills Playground in Long Island City, the same site that held the local championship games.
The reunion this year was on Saturday, but Mr. Allen never made it. On April 26, just before boarding the bus to New York, he died of an asthma attack at age 61.
Word of his death spread rapidly among hundreds of his old hockey colleagues who resolved to continue with the event, now renamed the Craig Allen Memorial Roller Hockey Reunion.
The turnout on Saturday was the largest ever, with players pulling on their old equipment, choosing sides and taking once again to the rink of cracked blacktop with faded lines and circles. They wore no helmets, although one player wore a fedora.
Another, Vinnie Juliano, 77, of Long Island City, wore his hearing aids, along with his 50-year-old taped-up quads, or four-wheeled skates with a leather boot. Many players here never converted to in-line skates, and neither did Mr. Allen, whose photograph appeared on a poster hanging behind the players’ bench.
“I’m seeing people walking by wondering why all these rusty, grizzly old guys are here playing hockey,” one player, Tommy Dominguez, said. “We’re here for Craig, and let me tell you, these old guys still play hard.”
Everyone seemed to have a Craig Allen story, from his earliest teams at Public School 151 to the Bryant Rangers, the Woodside Wings, the Woodside Blues and more.
Mr. Allen, who became a yellow-cab driver, was always recruiting new talent. He gained the nickname Cabby for his habit of stopping at playgrounds all over the city to scout players.
Teams were organized around neighborhoods and churches, and often sponsored by local bars. Mr. Allen, for one, played for bars, including Garry Owen’s and on the Fiddler’s Green Jokers team in Inwood, Manhattan.
Play was tough and fights were frequent.
“We were basically street gangs on skates,” said Steve Rogg, 56, a mail clerk who grew up in Jackson Heights, Queens, and who on Saturday wore his Riedell Classic quads from 1972. “If another team caught up with you the night before a game, they tossed you a beating so you couldn’t play the next day.”
Mr. Garmendia said Mr. Allen’s skin color provoked many fights.
“When we’d go to some ignorant neighborhoods, a lot of players would use slurs,” Mr. Garmendia said, recalling a game in Ozone Park, Queens, where local fans parked motorcycles in a lineup next to the blacktop and taunted Mr. Allen. Mr. Garmendia said he checked a player into the motorcycles, “and the bikes went down like dominoes, which started a serious brawl.”
A group of fans at a game in Brooklyn once stuck a pole through the rink fence as Mr. Allen skated by and broke his jaw, Mr. Garmendia said, adding that carloads of reinforcements soon arrived to defend Mr. Allen.
And at another racially incited brawl, the police responded with six patrol cars and a helicopter.
Before play began on Saturday, the players gathered at center rink to honor Mr. Allen. Billy Barnwell, 59, of Woodside, recalled once how an all-white, all-star squad snubbed Mr. Allen by playing him third string. He scored seven goals in the first game and made first string immediately.
“He’d always hear racial stuff before the game, and I’d ask him, ‘How do you put up with that?’” Mr. Barnwell recalled. “Craig would say, ‘We’ll take care of it,’ and by the end of the game, he’d win guys over. They’d say, ‘This guy’s good.’”
From T Magazine: Street Lits Power Couple
THE WRITERS ASHLEY AND JAQUAVIS COLEMAN know the value of a good curtain-raiser. The couple have co-authored dozens of novels, and they like to start them with a bang: a headlong action sequence, a blast of violence or sex that rocks readers back on their heels. But the Colemans concede they would be hard-pressed to dream up anything more gripping than their own real-life opening scene.
In the summer of 2001, JaQuavis Coleman was a 16-year-old foster child in Flint, Mich., the former auto-manufacturing mecca that had devolved, in the wake of General Motors’ plant closures, into one of the country’s most dangerous cities, with a decimated economy and a violent crime rate more than three times the national average. When JaQuavis was 8, social services had removed him from his mother’s home. He spent years bouncing between foster families. At 16, JaQuavis was also a businessman: a crack dealer with a network of street-corner peddlers in his employ.
One day that summer, JaQuavis met a fellow dealer in a parking lot on Flint’s west side. He was there to make a bulk sale of a quarter-brick, or “nine-piece” — a nine-ounce parcel of cocaine, with a street value of about $11,000. In the middle of the transaction, JaQuavis heard the telltale chirp of a walkie-talkie. His customer, he now realized, was an undercover policeman. JaQuavis jumped into his car and spun out onto the road, with two unmarked police cars in pursuit. He didn’t want to get into a high-speed chase, so he whipped his car into a church parking lot and made a run for it, darting into an alleyway behind a row of small houses, where he tossed the quarter-brick into some bushes. When JaQuavis reached the small residential street on the other side of the houses, he was greeted by the police, who handcuffed him and went to search behind the houses where, they told him, they were certain he had ditched the drugs. JaQuavis had been dealing since he was 12, had amassed more than $100,000 and had never been arrested. Now, he thought: It’s over.
But when the police looked in the bushes, they couldn’t find any cocaine. They interrogated JaQuavis, who denied having ever possessed or sold drugs. They combed the backyard alley some more. After an hour of fruitless efforts, the police were forced to unlock the handcuffs and release their suspect.
JaQuavis was baffled by the turn of events until the next day, when he received a phone call. The previous afternoon, a 15-year-old girl had been sitting in her home on the west side of Flint when she heard sirens. She looked out of the window of her bedroom, and watched a young man throw a package in the bushes behind her house. She recognized him. He was a high school classmate — a handsome, charismatic boy whom she had admired from afar. The girl crept outside and grabbed the bundle, which she hid in her basement. “I have something that belongs to you,” Ashley Snell told JaQuavis Coleman when she reached him by phone. “You wanna come over here and pick it up?”
In the Colemans’ first novel, “Dirty Money” (2005), they told a version of this story. The outline was the same: the drug deal gone bad, the dope chucked in the bushes, the fateful phone call. To the extent that the authors took poetic license, it was to tone down the meet-cute improbability of the true-life events. In “Dirty Money,” the girl, Anari, and the crack dealer, Maurice, circle each other warily for a year or so before coupling up. But the facts of Ashley and JaQuavis’s romance outstripped pulp fiction. They fell in love more or less at first sight, moved into their own apartment while still in high school and were married in 2008. “We were together from the day we met,” Ashley says. “I don’t think we’ve spent more than a week apart in total over the past 14 years.”
That partnership turned out to be creative and entrepreneurial as well as romantic. Over the past decade, the Colemans have published nearly 50 books, sometimes as solo writers, sometimes under pseudonyms, but usually as collaborators with a byline that has become a trusted brand: “Ashley & JaQuavis.” They are marquee stars of urban fiction, or street lit, a genre whose inner-city settings and lurid mix of crime, sex and sensationalism have earned it comparisons to gangsta rap. The emergence of street lit is one of the big stories in recent American publishing, a juggernaut that has generated huge sales by catering to a readership — young, black and, for the most part, female — that historically has been ill-served by the book business. But the genre is also widely maligned. Street lit is subject to a kind of triple snobbery: scorned by literati who look down on genre fiction generally, ignored by a white publishing establishment that remains largely indifferent to black books and disparaged by African-American intellectuals for poor writing, coarse values and trafficking in racial stereotypes.
But if a certain kind of cultural prestige is shut off to the Colemans, they have reaped other rewards. They’ve built a large and loyal fan base, which gobbles up the new Ashley & JaQuavis titles that arrive every few months. Many of those books are sold at street-corner stands and other off-the-grid venues in African-American neighborhoods, a literary gray market that doesn’t register a blip on best-seller tallies. Yet the Colemans’ most popular series now regularly crack the trade fiction best-seller lists of The New York Times and Publishers Weekly. For years, the pair had no literary agent; they sold hundreds of thousands of books without banking a penny in royalties. Still, they have earned millions of dollars, almost exclusively from cash-for-manuscript deals negotiated directly with independent publishing houses. In short, though little known outside of the world of urban fiction, the Colemans are one of America’s most successful literary couples, a distinction they’ve achieved, they insist, because of their work’s gritty authenticity and their devotion to a primal literary virtue: the power of the ripping yarn.
“When you read our books, you’re gonna realize: ‘Ashley & JaQuavis are storytellers,’ ” says Ashley. “Our tales will get your heart pounding.”
THE COLEMANS’ HOME BASE — the cottage from which they operate their cottage industry — is a spacious four-bedroom house in a genteel suburb about 35 miles north of downtown Detroit. The house is plush, but when I visited this past winter, it was sparsely appointed. The couple had just recently moved in, and had only had time to fully furnish the bedroom of their 4-year-old son, Quaye.
In conversation, Ashley and JaQuavis exude both modesty and bravado: gratitude for their good fortune and bootstrappers’ pride in having made their own luck. They talk a lot about their time in the trenches, the years they spent as a drug dealer and “ride-or-die girl” tandem. In Flint they learned to “grind hard.” Writing, they say, is merely a more elevated kind of grind.
“Instead of hitting the block like we used to, we hit the laptops,” says Ashley. “I know what every word is worth. So while I’m writing, I’m like: ‘Okay, there’s a hundred dollars. There’s a thousand dollars. There’s five thousand dollars.’ ”
They maintain a rigorous regimen. They each try to write 5,000 words per day, five days a week. The writers stagger their shifts: JaQuavis goes to bed at 7 p.m. and wakes up early, around 3 or 4 in the morning, to work while his wife and child sleep. Ashley writes during the day, often in libraries or at Starbucks.
They divide the labor in other ways. Chapters are divvied up more or less equally, with tasks assigned according to individual strengths. (JaQuavis typically handles character development. Ashley loves writing murder scenes.) The results are stitched together, with no editorial interference from one author in the other’s text. The real work, they contend, is the brainstorming. The Colemans spend weeks mapping out their plot-driven books — long conversations that turn into elaborate diagrams on dry-erase boards. “JaQuavis and I are so close, it makes the process real easy,” says Ashley. “Sometimes when I’m thinking of something, a plot point, he’ll say it out loud, and I’m like: ‘Wait — did I say that?’ ”
Their collaboration developed by accident, and on the fly. Both were bookish teenagers. Ashley read lots of Judy Blume and John Grisham; JaQuavis liked Shakespeare, Richard Wright and “Atlas Shrugged.” (Their first official date was at a Borders bookstore, where Ashley bought “The Coldest Winter Ever,” the Sister Souljah novel often credited with kick-starting the contemporary street-lit movement.) In 2003, Ashley, then 17, was forced to terminate an ectopic pregnancy. She was bedridden for three weeks, and to provide distraction and boost her spirits, JaQuavis challenged his girlfriend to a writing contest. “She just wasn’t talking. She was laying in bed. I said, ‘You know what? I bet you I could write a better book than you.’ My wife is real competitive. So I said, ‘Yo, all right, $500 bet.’ And I saw her eyes spark, like, ‘What?! You can’t write no better book than me!’ So I wrote about three chapters. She wrote about three chapters. Two days later, we switched.”
The result, hammered out in a few days, would become “Dirty Money.” Two years later, when Ashley and JaQuavis were students at Ferris State University in Western Michigan, they sold the manuscript to Urban Books, a street-lit imprint founded by the best-selling author Carl Weber. At the time, JaQuavis was still making his living selling drugs. When Ashley got the phone call informing her that their book had been bought, she assumed they’d hit it big, and flushed more than $10,000 worth of cocaine down the toilet. Their advance was a mere $4,000.
Those advances would soon increase, eventually reaching five and six figures. The Colemans built their career, JaQuavis says, in a manner that made sense to him as a veteran dope peddler: by flooding the street with product. From the start, they were prolific, churning out books at a rate of four or five a year. Their novels made their way into stores; the now-defunct chain Waldenbooks, which had stores in urban areas typically bypassed by booksellers, was a major engine of the street-lit market. But Ashley and JaQuavis took advantage of distribution channels established by pioneering urban fiction authors such as Teri Woods and Vickie Stringer, and a network of street-corner tables, magazine stands, corner shops and bodegas. Like rappers who establish their bona fides with gray-market mixtapes, street-lit authors use this system to circumnavigate industry gatekeepers, bringing their work straight to the genre’s core readership. But urban fiction has other aficionados, in less likely places. “Our books are so popular in the prison system,” JaQuavis says. “We’re banned in certain penitentiaries. Inmates fight over the books — there are incidents, you know? I have loved ones in jail, and they’re like: ‘Yo, your books can’t come in here. It’s against the rules.’ ”
The appeal of the Colemans’ work is not hard to fathom. The books are formulaic and taut; they deliver the expected goods efficiently and exuberantly. The titles telegraph the contents: “Diary of a Street Diva,” “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” “Murderville.” The novels serve up a stream of explicit sex and violence in a slangy, tangy, profane voice. In Ashley & JaQuavis’s books people don’t get killed: they get “popped,” “laid out,” get their “cap twisted back.” The smut is constant, with emphasis on the earthy, sticky, olfactory particulars. Romance novel clichés — shuddering orgasms, heroic carnal feats, superlative sexual skill sets — are rendered in the Colemans’ punchy patois.
Subtlety, in other words, isn’t Ashley & JaQuavis’s forte. But their books do have a grainy specificity. In “The Cartel” (2008), the first novel in the Colemans’ best-selling saga of a Miami drug syndicate, they catch the sights and smells of a crack workshop in a housing project: the nostril-stinging scent of cocaine and baking soda bubbling on stovetops; the teams of women, stripped naked except for hospital masks so they can’t pilfer the merchandise, “cutting up the cooked coke on the round wood table.” The subject matter is dark, but the Colemans’ tone is not quite noir. Even in the grimmest scenes, the mood is high-spirited, with the writers palpably relishing the lewd and gory details: the bodies writhing in boudoirs and crumpling under volleys of bullets, the geysers of blood and other bodily fluids.
The luridness of street lit has made it a flashpoint, inciting controversy reminiscent of the hip-hop culture wars of the 1980s and ’90s. But the street-lit debate touches deeper historical roots, reviving decades-old arguments in black literary circles about the mandate to uplift the race and present wholesome images of African-Americans. In 1928, W. E. B. Du Bois slammed the “licentiousness” of “Home to Harlem,” Claude McKay’s rollicking novel of Harlem nightlife. McKay’s book, Du Bois wrote, “for the most part nauseates me, and after the dirtier parts of its filth I feel distinctly like taking a bath.” Similar sentiments have greeted 21st-century street lit. In a 2006 New York Times Op-Ed essay, the journalist and author Nick Chiles decried “the sexualization and degradation of black fiction.” African-American bookstores, Chiles complained, are “overrun with novels that . . . appeal exclusively to our most prurient natures — as if these nasty books were pairing off back in the stockrooms like little paperback rabbits and churning out even more graphic offspring that make Ralph Ellison books cringe into a dusty corner.”
Copulating paperbacks aside, it’s clear that the street-lit debate is about more than literature, touching on questions of paternalism versus populism, and on middle-class anxieties about the black underclass. “It’s part and parcel of black elites’ efforts to define not only a literary tradition, but a racial politics,” said Kinohi Nishikawa, an assistant professor of English and African-American Studies at Princeton University. “There has always been a sense that because African-Americans’ opportunities to represent themselves are so limited in the first place, any hint of criminality or salaciousness would necessarily be a knock on the entire racial politics. One of the pressing debates about African-American literature today is: If we can’t include writers like Ashley & JaQuavis, to what extent is the foundation of our thinking about black literature faulty? Is it just a literature for elites? Or can it be inclusive, bringing urban fiction under the purview of our umbrella term ‘African-American literature’?”
Defenders of street lit note that the genre has a pedigree: a tradition of black pulp fiction that stretches from Chester Himes, the midcentury author of hardboiled Harlem detective stories, to the 1960s and ’70s “ghetto fiction” of Iceberg Slim and Donald Goines, to the current wave of urban fiction authors. Others argue for street lit as a social good, noting that it attracts a large audience that might otherwise never read at all. Scholars like Nishikawa link street lit to recent studies showing increased reading among African-Americans. A 2014 Pew Research Center report found that a greater percentage of black Americans are book readers than whites or Latinos.
For their part, the Colemans place their work in the broader black literary tradition. “You have Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, James Baldwin — all of these traditional black writers, who wrote about the struggles of racism, injustice, inequality,” says Ashley. “We’re writing about the struggle as it happens now. It’s just a different struggle. I’m telling my story. I’m telling the struggle of a black girl from Flint, Michigan, who grew up on welfare.”
Perhaps there is a high-minded case to be made for street lit. But the virtues of Ashley & JaQuavis’s work are more basic. Their novels do lack literary polish. The writing is not graceful; there are passages of clunky exposition and sex scenes that induce guffaws and eye rolls. But the pleasure quotient is high. The books flaunt a garish brand of feminism, with women characters cast not just as vixens, but also as gangsters — cold-blooded killers, “murder mamas.” The stories are exceptionally well-plotted. “The Cartel” opens by introducing its hero, the crime boss Carter Diamond; on page 9, a gunshot spatters Diamond’s brain across the interior of a police cruiser. The book then flashes back seven years and begins to hurtle forward again — a bullet train, whizzing readers through shifting alliances, romantic entanglements and betrayals, kidnappings, shootouts with Haitian and Dominican gangsters, and a cliffhanger closing scene that leaves the novel’s heroine tied to a chair in a basement, gruesomely tortured to the edge of death. Ashley & JaQuavis’s books are not Ralph Ellison, certainly, but they build up quite a head of steam. They move.
The Colemans are moving themselves these days. They recently signed a deal with St. Martin’s Press, which will bring out the next installment in the “Cartel” series as well as new solo series by both writers. The St. Martin’s deal is both lucrative and legitimizing — a validation of Ashley and JaQuavis’s work by one of publishing’s most venerable houses. The Colemans’ ambitions have grown, as well. A recent trilogy, “Murderville,” tackles human trafficking and the blood-diamond industry in West Africa, with storylines that sweep from Sierra Leone to Mexico to Los Angeles. Increasingly, Ashley & JaQuavis are leaning on research — traveling to far-flung settings and hitting the books in the libraries — and spending less time mining their own rough-and-tumble past.
But Flint remains a source of inspiration. One evening not long ago, JaQuavis led me on a tour of his hometown: a popular roadside bar; the parking lot where he met the undercover cop for the ill-fated drug deal; Ashley’s old house, the site of his almost-arrest. He took me to a ramshackle vehicle repair shop on Flint’s west side, where he worked as a kid, washing cars. He showed me a bathroom at the rear of the garage, where, at age 12, he sneaked away to inspect the first “boulder” of crack that he ever sold. A spray-painted sign on the garage wall, which JaQuavis remembered from his time at the car wash, offered words of warning:
WHAT EVERY YOUNG MAN SHOULD KNOW
ABOUT USING A GUN:
MURDER . . . 30 Years
ARMED ROBBERY . . . 15 Years
ASSAULT . . . 15 Years
RAPE . . . 20 Years
POSSESSION . . . 5 Years
JACKING . . . 20 YEARS
“We still love Flint, Michigan,” JaQuavis says. “It’s so seedy, so treacherous. But there’s some heart in this city. This is where it all started, selling books out the box. In the days when we would get those little $40,000 advances, they’d send us a couple boxes of books for free. We would hit the streets to sell our books, right out of the car trunk. It was a hustle. It still is.”
One old neighborhood asset that the Colemans have not shaken off is swagger. “My wife is the best female writer in the game,” JaQuavis told me. “I believe I’m the best male writer in the game. I’m sleeping next to the best writer in the world. And she’s doing the same.”