Julian Curry started writing poetry in 1999. Besides receiving the 2003 crown at the Nuyorican, he was also the 2003 Bowery Poetry Club Co-Grand Slam Champion. His poetry is a glimpse into the inner city, Wall Street, family, and a regular guy’s everyday life. Originally from the Bahamas, Julian now calls Harlem his home. He has been featured in "Forbes" Magazine & on BET’s Lyric Cafe. He was also featured on HBO’s Def Poetry Jam. Julian has also written this entire bio in the third person.
(Presently, all we know about Julian is that he is living in the midwest where he has an impressive job at ING Bank. This bio is from the 2004 Grand Slam Finale program, when he was the Spotlight Poet).
And its nice to see that the tricky ones haven’t tricked most of you all into the answer/ you see nigger’s been passed through our families, generation to generation like a cancer./ It used to be said by slave masters who weren’t in the business of breeding no dancing Niggers/ they only wanted good old field Niggers./ But I wonder how the field Nigger would feel/ if he was seated next to you on the A train at approximately 3 O’ clock any day of the week/ and he heard his little great great grandson speak dozens if not hundreds of times from 59th street to West forth/ The word that made black families pack up in the South and move North./ Would he slam a couple of these boys against the doors and ask, what’s the deal Nigger? Do you think you keeping it real Nigger?/ Do you know how I was killed Nigger? They murdered me, with hot rods of steel Nigger./ Now how do you think this makes me feel Nigger./ Or would he just sit there and listen/ silently like white people do /silently like I do/ silently like we all do. So what do I do?/ I go down to Wall Street./ Do you know why they call it Wall Street?/ Because centuries ago there were these huge high walls and down on the street slaves with shackles on their feet/ were there to be bought and sold by the fleet./ Like shares of intel/ phrases shouted daily like/ where’s my niggers?/ There’s my niggers. Whose niggers are those?/ Now here we are centuries after slavery/ insulting our Ancestors bravery by shouting phrases daily like./ Where’s my Nigger? Wodap Nigger, you know you my Nigger right?/ So don’t blame the boys on the A-Train./ Blame who put the myth it was ok to say it in their brain./ Blame the kings of comedy, the all time Nigger record holders./ Put the blame on Quentin Tarantino’s shoulders. And hopefully this Nigger, Nigga, Nigga poem is making you uncomfortable./ To the point where you’re cracking your neck and staring down at the ground./ Looking to your left and your right, staring at the few white people around./ Helping you realize that you’ve been bamboozled if you think you have to wear blackface to be a clown./ But I gotta go now, I gotta go now, I gotta go now./ I gotta get this poem in the hands of the artist formerly known as Prince now/ because when it comes to talent, ain’t nobody’s bigger./ And maybe this poem can be the gun and his voice could be the trigger./ We could collaborate and figure a way to convince Jigga/ to help us write a new dream song or a new theme song and call it/ the people formerly known as Niggers.