West Baltimore native Tariq Touré grew up in awe of the businesses in his community—from streetwear designers to eateries like Shareef’s Grill, a takeout restaurant that serves Halal meats and now has multiple locations in Baltimore. “We would come out from Juma [Friday prayer] and everybody would buy his wraps religiously,” recalls Touré, a Muslim husband, father, and award-winning writer.

So when he wrote a poem nearly four years ago describing the story of how the dollar flows through a community, he was drawing from a personal desire to explain that process. Years later, he realized the poem was something he wished he’d had growing up, so he turned it into a children’s book.

David’s Dollar follows the story of David Kareem, a Muslim kid who expresses curiosity about what happens to a dollar after it’s spent. “He’s happy to have his candy, but he’s sad to see his dollar be spent,” says Touré, who has three children himself. “So his father says, ‘Well, let me show you,’ and then takes him around the neighborhood and shows him all the different businesses, and the dollar happens to keep popping up.”

Slated for a September release (pre-orders are currently sold out), David’s Dollar follows Touré’s two other self-published poetry books. After struggles with publishers who wanted to make fundamental changes, Touré took matters into his own hands. In May, he launched a fundraiser for the illustration costs, which far surpassed its $7,000 goal. The crowdfunding campaign followed his philosophy of “do it for self,” a concept he learned more about through his community, which also happens to be a recurring message in the book.

Despite all of the research, Touré doesn’t plan to sit his kids down and talk about the meaning of the dollar until the book is out. He wants to let them read it and have their curiosity guide a discussion.

“Right now, they know nothing about it,” he says. “I just want them to walk into a room full of books and be like, ‘What’s this?’”

Here’s what the author had to say about his upcoming book, the value of the Black dollar, and Baltimore’s tight-knit Muslim community:

What was your inspiration for David’s Dollar?
Maybe three or four years ago, I wrote a poem that described how a young boy would ask his father how money passes through a community in the realm of [I guess you would say] futurism, because it doesn’t really happen like that right now. [Laughs] Basically, if this was a community where people spent money with each other, how would a young child be able to see that?

So, what prompted you to turn it into a book?
When I was done with it, I thought it’d be something cool to share with my kids at some point in time when they were ready to digest that information. Then I realized, well, I already wrote two poetry books, what would it look like if I were to write a children’s poetry book that tells a really dynamic story that I think people would rally behind?

On the cover, you have David and his father dressed in Muslim garb. Is it important for you that you remain as authentic as possible in your writing?
Building it out autobiographically, it’s important for me to make the way it feels and looks there authentic. [For] Black Muslims, a lot of us dress this way on the regular. A lot of our parents make sure we shop Black on the regular anyway. We get so caught up into representation that we forget we have a dope story that carries with it anyway.

Growing up, were you aware of the disparities in the Black community in Baltimore?

I grew up around a lot of hustlers, some entrepreneurs, but very little actual business owners. Sometimes as writers we write for wishful thinking, and it’s like, this is what could possibly be if we spend more money with each other.

When you were younger, do you remember having an understanding of financial literacy?
Not really. The one thing that I feel like was preached in my community was, you know, different income and stuff like that. But as far as walking somebody through it? No, that wasn’t a thing. So it will be good to have literal depictions of how these things work.

What do you think are some of the reasons behind the failure to keep the Black dollar in some communities?
Well, number one, we lack patience sometimes. Papa John’s pizza probably wasn’t fire when he first made it. [Laughs]. We have to believe in the seed that people are planting and understand that it goes through stages, and that people don’t reach perfection off the jump. For whatever reason, we’ve been indoctrinated to believe that, if there are two lemonade stands and one is a white-owned lemonade stand, business there is going to be at a heightened level and [they] therefore deserve that money

What do you think about the timing of the release of this children’s book aligning with everything that’s going on in the world with the youth-led Black Lives Matter movement?
Well, since it’s something that I wrote three or four years ago, it was going to get written regardless—there was a need regardless. It isn’t a “strike while the iron’s hot” decision or something like that. If anybody knows me, they know that I write religiously, so I don’t need a specific moment to spur me to write what I feel is necessary. David’s Dollar was going to be David’s Dollar with or without any sort of a climax of injustice because I believe this is something that is going to need to be revisited constantly by the community. And if it adds to what people are trying to fight for, then, you know, that’s a blessing, too. But I don’t want to get pigeonholed into a “Hey, I’m writing this for this exact thing.” I wrote David’s Dollar because I felt like this story would be useful in the hands of kids like myself who needed it spelled out for them in interesting ways.

What do you hope that people take away from this book?
My goal is for Black children to walk into a store with their parents, see them spend their money, and maybe they don’t even ask the question. In the back of their head, they just say to themselves, “Where did my dollar go? Where did mommy’s dollar go? Where did daddy’s dollar go?”

The Master Plan: My Journey from Life in Prison to a Life of Purpose

Chris Wilson with Bret Witter (G.P. Putnam’s Sons)

After reading Chris Wilson’s memoir, one word stands out: endgame. He shares his account of growing up in a violent D.C. neighborhood, receiving a life sentence for murder at 18, and the creation of his “Master Plan.” As he grows from boy to man, we see him check off each item on that list—get a high school diploma, get an AA degree—while continuing to add bigger dreams. Beating all odds, his sentence is reduced, and he ends up in Baltimore as a free man. We see him go from sleeping on a friend’s couch and mowing lawns for a living, to starting his own business (Barclay Investment Corporation), sharing his story with people all over the country, and becoming a positive member of his community. It’s a story of perseverance, hope, and redemption. And he also sets forth a challenge for readers: What is our endgame? And how are we going to get there?

Chris Wilson will be reading on February 9 at 7 p.m.at The Church of the Redeemer, 5603 N. Charles St. He will be joined by Wes Moore for a discussion on the path that led him to be an entrepreneur who employs returning citizens.

2 Parts Oxygen: How I Learned to Breathe

Tariq Touré (self-published)

This collection sometimes feels like a self-help book in the guise of poetry, complete with affirmations and messages of self-love, healing, and transcendence over collective wounds. Touré, who grew up in West Baltimore and now lives with his family in Northern Virginia, writes of stray bullets and the ancestral oppression of the black community, but also how his Islamic faith helped him overcome obstacles, with frequent references to the Holy Quran. Some poems read like ecstatic, 21st-century prayers with a call to action. He looks at racial injustices through a micro and macro lens, exploring its personal and cultural repercussions. The new father wrestles with identity, not just his own but the generations to come, and his—and their—connection to the past. What’s most striking about Touré’s collection of about 100 poems is its ability to contain so much gravity and yet allow so much light to pierce through, sometimes in the same breath.

See our full interview with writer Tariq Touré.

What was your early exposure to poetry? Who are some of your early literary influencers?
My mom introduced me to poetry and fiction when I was around 7. She treated the library like Disneyland. Maya Angelou, Shel Silverstein, DMX, KRS-One, Styles P, Nas—they’re all poets that birthed me.

When and why did you begin writing poetry?
I was about 7. Initially it was for school, but I would then start to write my own work that I would keep to myself mostly.

Can you talk a little about how you “learned to breathe”? What keeps you grounded and centered in your daily life?
I think a lot of times people who have the privilege of describing a side of their life that isn’t traumatic don’t because trauma sells. People enjoy seeing black people suffer. I couldn’t be removed from my city, walking through nature every weekend, and spending time to nurture my family and still have 100 percent of my writings reflect a context that I’m not completely living in. It’s just respect for people who have to endure the reality of certain things. Have I experienced the gamut of oppression in many ways? Yes. But I’ve been blessed, too.

I learned to breathe by accepting that today was going to be “today” and that there was nothing I could so about that. So with that said, I’ve been giving energy to the smaller parts of life that I took for granted. My family has made that easier.

I read private affirmations every day. I don’t think they’ll end oppression, but I need to remind myself often that I’m worthy and capable of walking this path laid before me.

Islam, more than anything, provides the regimen to stay grounded. The state of mind and soul it requires leave little room for second-guessing my purpose.

You write a lot about our wounds and the monsters we feed but also nourishment through love and faith. How intentional was it to strike this balance, as you were writing and compiling pieces for this book?
This was important because I felt like I was growing into a space where I could only draw inspiration from pain. For me, I was intentional about this project being a source of light.

You earned a master’s degree in social work and write about societal issues, like Hurricane Katrina and 9/11. Do you see your poetry as a form of civic engagement or activism? Do you see it as another source for healing?
I believe art, when set to the right intention, can capture the emotions of the people it connects with. In a world that is constantly pushing to become numb and indifferent, poetry is one of our last vanguards against soullessness.

On that note, what do you get from reading poetry that you don’t get from reading other genres?
I’ve always been intrigued with language. In particular, I’ve always been amazed with the efficiency and depth in great writers’ work. Poetry is heat seeking missiles drafted for the heart. The fact that you are only given a small space to make a world come alive will always be significant for me.

Three years after the death of 25-year-old Freddie Gray, who died while in Baltimore police custody, Baltimore’s artists, activists, and community members continue to grapple with the underlying causes of his death, the multi-day uprising that followed, and how the events continue to impact every corner of the city. On the anniversary of Gray’s death, April 19, more than 150 people gathered at Union Baptist Church in Druid Hill for the third annual Rise Bmore, a free evening of words and music, of and for Baltimore, in honor of Gray.

“We gather here every year in memory of one of Baltimore’s murder victims. We gather here in memory of Freddie Gray,” said Judah Adashi, founder and artistic director of Rise Bmore. “We are here because he’s not here—we’re here because he should be here.”

Community storytellers and artists Malaika Aminata Clements, Julian Hamer, and Shannon Wallace started the evening with a discussion titled “Seeing Baltimore.” Moderated by local musician and writer Brittani McNeil, the discussion centered around using artistic mediums to challenge the narratives presented by local and national media about the uprising and how the panelists use art to push the conversation about life in Baltimore forward.

Wallace, an award-winning photographer from East Baltimore, said it’s important for her to share stories of otherwise unseen members of the African-American community through her photography. She told the audience about how she photographed a young kid, who lived in Rutland, and put him on the cover of her zine, BLVKBLUE (What Does It Mean to Be Black?). When Wallace gave the boy’s mother a copy, she burst into tears at the picture of her son.

“For the first time, I felt like what I do matters to someone,” said Wallace. “It was the first time I felt like someone was visible because of me.”

For Hamer, who worked for WBFF Fox 45 during the uprising and has since become a documentary filmmaker, the unrest influenced her decision to stay in Baltimore because she felt determined to see the city grow and thrive again.

“There’s no reason that [Baltimore] can’t be great if we continue to do individual arts and make each person’s day a little better,” said Hamer. “I want to see this city be the place that I know it can be, that we’ve all seen it be. And you don’t have to do that anywhere else. We can do that right here.”

At 8 p.m., the event shifted as the voice of Erricka Bridgeford, one of the organizers of Baltimore Ceasefire and The Sun’s 2017 Marylander of The Year, filled the room with a pre-recorded reading of “Invocation: Dear Baltimore.” The performances that followed—from artists that represented a true cross-section of the city’s music and arts scene—provided a window into each performer’s pre- and post-uprising reality.

At the top of the concert, soulful singer-songwriter Joy Postell delivered unflinching performances of her songs “Hands Up Don’t Shoot,” which is dedicated to Gray, and “Consciousness,” that uses her signature rhythms and sharp lyrics to address issues faced by the African-American community. Then, Abdu Ali, who has become a local underground music and cultural figure, shared four of his recent poems about experiencing life in Baltimore as a black man. Voices Rise, a community choir lead by brothers Douglas and Benjamin Buchanan, performed classic uplifting songs “Let It Be” and “Lean on Me.”

Before performing her original song “Sundown Town,” Baltimore folk singer-songwriter Letitia VanSant told the audience she wrote the song in reaction to an experience she had while canvassing for Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign in a suburb outside Detroit. One of her fellow canvassers, an African-American man in his 60s, was visibly shaken about being in this quiet, orderly neighborhood after dark because he grew up in a “sundown town” where black people were not welcome at night. VanSant said that when she returned to Baltimore, she questioned how her sense of safety as a white person compared to others in her community.

“I think that if we want peace in Baltimore we have to work for justice for everybody,” she said. “Nobody’s going to be safe until everybody’s safe.”

Three musicians, Akua Allrich on vocals, Japheth Clark on flugelhorn, and Mark G. Meadows on vocals and piano, performed Meadows’ original “Stay Woke,” Nina Simone’s “Come Ye,” and “Baltimore” by Randy Newman to “pay homage to the great city of Baltimore.”

To round out the show, renowned local poet Tariq Touré performed his piece “No Refuge: For the Love of The Game” that addresses his views on the disposability of black athletes and the dilemmas they face when choosing whether to speak out about social injustices.

His final stanza, “I assure you they love me! / surely they’ll understand today / So when I take this knee / as that anthem starts to play. / You think they could look at me / with this passion in my face / And truly be able to say / this is the land of the free / and the home of the brave?” was immediately followed by a passionate interpretation of “The Star-Spangled Banner” by Adashi on piano.

Jonestown resident Ashley Day, who attended Rise Bmore for the first time since 2016, said she’s glad Adashi has been able to maintain the event as a platform to address the changes or lack thereof since Gray’s death.

“It reminds people that it happened,” she says. “It also creates the memory and the life of a presence that’s no longer here, and it motivates and inspires the community again to get more involved and spark change.”