"Black Confederate" travels the country in Confederate uniform, waving rebel flag: Pride or self-deprecation?

Noted playwright August Wilson asserts that the South constitutes the true ancestral and cultural homeland of Black Americans. And whether this is true or not, I love living in the South. Even though I have and have had opportunities, perhaps even better opportunities, if I were to move elsewhere, I remain here [see my previous post on the subject]. Having lived in various places throughout the United States as well as the world, the South is where I am most comfortable; the pace of life, the traditions and customs, the familiar accents all comfort me.

But in this short clip of a gentleman, who according to him is the immediate past president of his local chapter of the NAACP and who has decided to embrace all facets of his Southern heritage and has taken to traveling the country in a Confederate uniform, waving a Confederate flag, it seems has taken his love for the South a bit too far.

Now I don’t believe Black Americans are a monolithic people, and I do respect the attitudes and beliefs of African Americans who do not think exactly like me; diversity of thought, in fact, I believe to be a good thing. But in the same instance, I believe this gentleman is a bit off his rocker. It seems self-deprecation has hit a new low. What’s your opinion?

A Solution Was Always Easier when the Questions Were Posed in Terms of Black and White

It seemed so much easier when I had absolutely nothing and race was the only issue I had to deal with. Then the choices seemed much clearer. Then I knew exactly which side of the line I stood on, what I fought for and against.

But then enters the specter of class and suddenly the clarity of my vision becomes obfuscated by questions of practicality, of good judgment, of the actual meaning of progress. Theory holds that in order for change to take place, something must necessarily be lost; to build or improve a structure, the old must be destroyed in part or in whole to make way for the new.

Some time ago I composed a post about my two children. Their path through life has been much different than mine. I grew up in the black community, surrounded by black folk, immersed in black culture. They, however, have spent the whole of their lives in a mostly white environment, surrounded by white people, immersed in the mainstream culture.

This has not been a problem for my son. He is confident in himself and his abilities, perhaps overly confident, even to the point of being arrogant. He moves fluidly and easily between cultures. And as he does so, he wears his blackness like a badge, daring anyone to challenge him, to impugn his authenticity.

However, my daughter is much more timid, much shier, more taciturn. She is fragile and breaks easy. Her contact with African American culture has been fraught with peril, with pain. She has been made fun of for being different. She has been ridiculed for being intelligent, for enjoying reading, for “talking proper,” for not liking rap music.

And for a while she withdrew into a shell. She began to avoid contact with other little black girls her own age, and before long every poster of the many glaring down from her wall contained a white face. Naturally I began to worry about her; I became confused.

But then she started to gather her strength. She began to gain confidence. She began to assert herself. And just in time because next year she enters high school.

Recently we began to receive pamphlets from various high schools around the city, all competing for her. Three of the schools are the top college prep high schools in the city, one being judged as one of the top ten in the nation. One pamphlet came from the city arts school, again one that has been judged one of the best of its kind in the region.

And then one pamphlet came from an all-black high school on the other side of the city. For the past decade or so this school has been in a steady state of decline and has been deemed a failing institution. In fact, recently the state threatened to close the doors of the school if student achievement did not improve.

So to prevent this from occurring, about a year or so ago, school and community leaders were able to secure a grant which allowed the school to start its own college prep program. In this way, school and community leaders hoped to attract some of the better students who were being siphoned off to other, higher achieving institutions. This nascent program sent the pamphlet to my daughter with hopes that she would choose to attend.

But anyway, I gathered all the pamphlets together and called my daughter into the room. Proudly I presented all the pamphlets to her and instructed her to take them with her, read through them, and when she was ready to make a decision, come back and we would talk about it.

However, she didn’t go anywhere. With confidence and conviction, she plucked the pamphlet from the black school from my hand and held it out toward me.

“This one. This is the school I want to go to she said.” She didn’t even blink.

“Wait a minute. This one?,” I said. “Why don’t you go ahead, take them all, and think about it for a few days.”

I tried to muster my most persuasive style to cover the shock. But she would not be moved.

“I already thought about it. And I choose this one.” She still held the pamphlet up for me to see.

I tried to search for a credible argument. “But that school… That school is… Um… Why?”

“Why not?”

My son chimed in with his own flippant comment. “Because it’s a black school. Right Uncle Ruckus?”

Before I knew it I had yelled at my son, and he slinked from the room hurt. But he could not have been as hurt as I; I don’t think I deserved to be called Uncle Ruckus. I didn’t oppose the school because it was a black school, but I opposed the school because of a plethora of other practical reasons. Or did I?

But there are a lot of things about the school my daughter does not know, could not have know from that pamphlet. She has never been to the school so she could not know that the school is surrounded by a fence complete with razor wire at the top and to even enter the school’s parking lot, you must first be cleared by a city police officer situated at the entrance.

She could not know that to enter the school you must first walk through a metal detector and then have your bags searched by yet another police officer. She could not know about the high violence rate at the school, the number of weapons confiscated from students within the past year, the shootings right across the street from the campus.

And I have it from a reliable source that the school’s college prep program is all but failing. The program could not attract enough qualified students, so in desperation, they just accepted anyone. Not only that, of the twenty-eight instructors selected and trained for the program, only eight remain. Most classes are now being taught by long-term subs. But she could not know this.

These are the reasons I oppose her attending the school, aren’t they? After all, I spent five years in grad school studying African American literature and culture, getting to know my people intimately, so there is no way I could harbor prejudices against my own people, is it?

And do you know how much time I spend volunteering in the African American community? How much I contribute each year to various causes? I do that out of the goodness of my heart. Or is it guilt?

Anyway, the shouting and slamming of doors and stamping about has all ended now. I am a few days removed from the incident, but the rift between me and my daughter has yet to heal. I was hoping she would change her mind but she hasn’t.

However, my son and I have made up. He’s sitting in a chair in the corner of my home office. I am sitting at my desk. The form I must sign indicating which school she will attend is on the desk in front of me. I must sign it and get it in the mail before Friday.

Finally, I sign the form, but I don’t check the necessary box. Instead, I just sit and stare for a moment. Sensing my continued indecisiveness, my son asks me, “Well?”.

I push the paperwork aside and put off the decision for another day. Maybe I can talk her out of it tomorrow. Or should I?

For Martin Luther King, Jr. Day: Reclaiming/Redefining Our Symbols

Yesterday afternoon I was driving south on I-95 through downtown Jacksonville, and my two children pointed out a billboard to my left that read simply, “Martin Luther King was a Republican.” Underneath that statement, the billboard listed the sponsor as an association for black Republicans.

Of course my children had questions. To them the Republican Party is antithetical to all that Martin Luther King, Jr. stood for, fought for, and represented. In a word, the Republican Party seems to fly in the face of all that they believed Dr. King symbolized.

And symbols are powerful things indeed. As human beings often we often reduce the broad sentiments, the ethos, the purpose of a group of people to a symbol. And each time we confront this symbol, the group’s narrative necessarily comes to mind.

Think of the Statue of Liberty standing in New York harbor. Think of the American flag or the United States Constitution. Both have become symbols of this nation. Alternately, think of the peace sign or the upraised, clenched black fist. Both have become symbols of a movement.

But the complicated truth about symbols is that symbols are imbued with a certain meaning that can and often does change over time. And further, the meaning of symbols can and does change from person to person, group to group; what one person, one group sees in a symbol, another person or group may see something else. For one person or group, a symbol could be inspirational, while in another person or group, that symbol might evoke absolute terror or wrath.

Additionally, symbols may be appropriated by opposing groups to meet their ends.

Martin Luther King, Jr. has largely become a symbol. However, the meaning of that symbol differs according to race, according to generation, according to political affiliation. And over forty years after his death, the narrative of his life and the meaning thereof has been revisited and revised innumerable times.

Disparate groups have poured over that narrative, extracting this detail and that, all toward the end of whatever purpose they have in mind. And disparate groups have claimed ownership of that symbol. African Americans have jealously and tenaciously attempted to claim the narrative of Martin Luther King, Jr. as uniquely our own. The nation has claimed MLK as a symbol of the possibility this nation has to offer. And the world has claimed MLK in the main as a symbol of the possibilities of peace.

But of course the question then becomes, “What does MLK mean to you?”

The billboard alluded to earlier prompted questions from my children that I was forced to answer. As to MLK’s political affiliation, I honestly do not know. From some of his writings, it becomes clear that King may certainly have been a Republican. In fact, his father was a registered Republican, so it would perhaps be unusual if his son did not follow suit.

However, because of the Democratic Party’s reluctant embrace of the Civil Rights platform, you could perhaps rightly conjecture that King made the migration to the Democratic Party along with the majority of African Americans.

But according to the King Research Institute at Stanford and King years Pulitzer Prize winning chronicler Taylor Branch, King was nonpartisan.

I think the Republican party has attempted to co-opt and appropriate King-as-a-symbol in an effort to appeal to Blacks. Furthermore, ultimately it matters little if King was a Democrat or Republican. But it does matter that King-as-narrative and King-as-symbol be reconciled so as to retain the true meaning of King’s life and work.

Above all, King was an humanitarian; he believed in lending a helping hand to the downtrodden, the destitute, the exploited, to those most bereft of hope. And his message was not one of passive participation and engagement, but of direct and active confrontation of those forces who would seek to grind those perceived lesser members of society underfoot. His method was to challenge the consciousness, to assail the practices of oppression and degradation.

As we take part in this yearly ritual, this yearly celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s life and works, it becomes incumbent that we protect the meaning thereof. And, additionally, it becomes incumbent that amid the replay of his speeches, amid the parades and public celebration, we allow this meaning to guide us in our everyday lives and praxis. Let us become living billboards, living symbols of the principles he lived and died for.

Do we act differently when we think white folks are watching?: Toward a Definition of Coonery

So, this past Sunday a good friend sent over the above photo and a link to several photos like it with Republican National Committee chairman Michael Steele clowning around with some of his interns. The text of the email read, “Have you ever seen such coonery in your life!?”.

I was preparing to type back my assent when my wife came into the room, so I decided to share the photo with her. “Hey, look at this, baby. Have you ever seen such coonery in your life!?”

So, she takes a peek of my shoulder, and then she reminds me that I have many similar pictures that I have taken throughout the years with students and/or assistants. But she doesn’t stop there; she throws in a clincher just before she walks off: “Were you cooning when you did it?”

Darn her for throwing in truth and reality where it does not belong. But I had to admit that she had a point. I have taken similar photos with students and/or assistants throughout the years, and coonery was never my aim; I meant only to have a little fun and/or bond with those young people under my tutelage. Perhaps my judgment of Chairman Steele was colored by my assessment of him which is right there along with foot fungus.

However, just to be sure, I shared the photo and link to my Facebook page with the question, “Is this coonery or a man simply having a light moment with his interns?”, and several people commented. The vast majority labeled his actions outright and abject coonery. However, more than one person just saw a nerdy black man having fun with his interns.

But the comment that caught my attention asked the question, “Why it is always labeled coonery every time a black man acts a little silly or smiles a bit too broadly?” I had to take a step back and figure this one out.

If it were a high-ranking African American Democrat, would we still have come to the same conclusion? Would we have called it coonery if it was President Obama in the photo clowning around with his White House interns? Would we have called it coonery if it was anyone but Chairman Steele in this photo clowning around?

Or do we simply seem embarrassed for ourselves and for Chairman Steele because we believe he is showing his black behind, and white folk might be watching?

I remember when I was growing up, and I could judge the race of the person on the other end of the phone by the manner in which my mother spoke. My mother was an English teacher, so her grammar was always impeccable; however, when she spoke to white people, she added a special tone and timbre to her voice. She seemed to believe that her already pristine speaking voice was not good enough for white people.

And recently during a discussion of culture and stereotypes with one of my classes, a young white male who works as a waiter admitted that he favored serving African Americans because we tend to grossly over tip in an effort to overcompensate for the stereotype that blacks don’t tip. But we don't want to risk being uncouth do we, especially when white people are around.

While I am at it, let me admit my own complicity in this matter. When I am with my own, I gets buck from time to time; however, when I find myself surrounded by those of a certain hue, I tone it way down. I am careful that I am not too loud or too intimidating; big, loud, bald black guys scare white people sometimes.

I remember when in high school the gospel choir advisors took us to a chorale competition at which we were the only all black choir. Before they would even let us off the bus, they gave us the long speech on how to conduct ourselves. They concluded this speech with the admonishment, Don’t you dare get in there and act black on us!”.

And as we waited to perform, we watched the other choirs laughing and joking and being teenagers while we set as straight as possible, quietly and demurely in a corner. Any attempt to smile or laugh or even talk to our neighbor was meet with a stern look of rebuke. And though we were considered one of the best choirs in the region, we performed poorly on that day; it was though our spirit was crushed. But everyone complimented us on how well-behaved we were.

However, I do know and concede to the notion that there are standards of public conduct that should and must be followed, and I am not talking about these. I am talking about those moments when we seem afraid to be ourselves, when we cannot laugh out loud or even smile, when we alter our conduct to the detriment of our selves simply because we believe white folk is watching. Perhaps, we will only be free when we can get past the notion that we must conduct ourselves a certain way simply because certain eyes are upon us.

Do we act differently when we think white people are watching? Can someone give me a definition of coonery?

Brown People

Recently while looking through a series of family photo albums, I ran across a photograph that I had all but forgotten about. It is a photo of my youngest daughter posed against a palimpsest of black people of varying hues. Her eyes are wide open as if she is surprised, and the biggest smile she could possibly muster is spread across her face. In front of her, her hands are clasped together in utter glee.

When I showed this old photograph to my wife, the two of us almost laughed until crying while remembering that moment and the events that lead up to it.

When my son and daughter were still very young and forming their view of the world, they perceived and spoke of everything around them literally. For instance, they divided their world to the extent of their knowledge into two groups of people—brown people and white people. And when a white classmate asked my daughter why she was black and how she got that way, my daughter promptly corrected her and informed her that she was not black; she was indeed brown.

But that incident sparked a journey of discovery on my daughter’s behalf to somehow learn all she could about brown and white peoples and the differences thereof. She became a keen observer of people. Often either my wife or I would catch her just staring at people, until one day she finally declared that she really could not tell the difference between brown people and white people except for their skin color.

Then one weekend, my wife and I took our children along with us to Tallahassee, Florida, as we went to celebrate Florida Agricultural & Mechanical University’s (FAMU) homecoming. And if you have ever been to Tallahassee, Florida, during FAMU’s homecoming week, you know that the locals pretty much vacate the city, leaving it to the family, friends, and alumni of the predominantly black university.

So, for a period of about a week, we were virtually surrounded by “brown people.” We dined with them and worshiped with them in attending an ecumenical service. We went to an old-school concert with them. We went to pep-rallies and tailgate parties with them. We even managed to catch a step-show, my children's first, the battle of the bands, and finally the game.

And this whole time my children’s eyes, especially my daughter’s, were big as saucers as my grandmother was found of saying. I don’t know if it was all the excitement and festivities; I don’t know if she was surprised by seeing so many “brown people” she did not know in one place. Nevertheless, she soaked it all in.

Then there was that one particular moment that occurred just as we were leaving the stadium. I’m not certain what happened, but as the crowd surged out of the stadium entrance, a bottle neck occurred preventing anyone from moving forward. And I expected the worse. I expected people to begin pushing and shoving and cursing one another, but that did not happened. Instead, the crowd, that huge throng of “brown people” broke into an impromptu rendition of the Negro National Anthem “Lift Every Voice and Sing” as they swayed back and forth in time to the melody.

As a warm wave of emotion, well-bring, and community spread through the crowd, my daughter must have gotten caught up in the fervor of the moment because she suddenly threw her arms up in absolute delight and exhilaration, brought them down and in clasping them in front of herself exclaimed, “I JUST LOVE BROWN PEOPLE! I LOVE BEING A BROWN PERSON!” Those within earshot of her proclamation laughed at her temerity. It was at that moment that my wife snapped the picture.

Since then my daughter has learned a little more about the world. Since then the realities of race have become a bit clearer and a bit more complicated to her. Since then she has witnessed “brown people” at our very best as well as at our very worst. She often admits in frustration and utter disbelief that she cannot understand for the life of her why we act the way we do sometimes. But in the same instance, I watched her swell with pride on election night in 2008.

She had gone along with us as we canvassed neighborhoods and attended rallies and other campaign functions. She felt as if she was a part of and had helped contribute to the moment she was witnessing.

After her mother and I had finished laughing and reminiscing, we called her in, showed her the photograph and asked if she still remembered that moment. She just smiled, chuckled a little, and nodded her head yes. So, I went a step further. I asked her that in knowing all she knew about “brown people” now, did she still love them? Did she still love being a “brown person.”

She fingered the photograph for a moment, and she ran her finger across the backdrop of “brown people,” and she told me unequivocally, “Yes, I still do. And perhaps now more than ever. I love ‘brown people,’ and I really love being a ‘brown person.’”

It was really a moment for all of us which my son promptly ruined by only half playfully spouting some nonsensical stream of black power rhetoric in the background. I know that he loves "brown people" too. He just expresses it differently.

And by all means, love yourself and be a blessing to somebody today!

A brief but thoughtful exegesis of the most current African American dances, or at least those I witnessed on last evening, by Max Reddick

I didn’t get to post yesterday because I was helping prepare for a reception and celebration for my niece and nephew. My niece graduated from Cornell University School of Law and just recently passed the Florida Bar exam on her very first try. Go get’em girl! I almost can’t wait to go get into some trouble so I can test out her skills.

And in the spring my nephew graduated from the Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University (FAMU) with a doctorate in physical therapy and, and that ain’t easy when you have women literally hanging all over you. Also, he just passed his state board exams, so he is a certified practitioner now.

Big ups to the next generation!

But this post is about dancing. Last night, after the obligatory slide show and all the speeches and toasts, the party really got started. Some colorful character with the moniker Chilly Chill of the Playtime DJ’s did a remarkable job getting the crowd all hyped up and on the dance floor. However, there are some questions I must ask.

Now, I don’t get out to parties much. I would much rather prefer to sit at home and read and write. But I can’t believe how much I seem to have missed. I really wanted to get out there and dance and kick my heels up, but I didn’t know any of the dances. So, I was relegated to sitting there in my seat like Sir Nose Devoidofunk—I will not dance!—while others enjoyed themselves.
But the first question I must ask is how does everyone know every step to every line dance but me? Is there some kind of Negro National Newsletter that goes out outlining the steps to the Cupid Shuffle?

And next, when did people stop dancing together? When I was young we danced in pairs, but now everyone seems to just charge the dance floor and dance by themselves or one person dances while everyone watches. Can’t quite figure out how that works now.

However, while I sat on the sidelines sipping scotch and looking on, I had time to analyze the most current African American dance moves or at least those I witnessed on last night.

1. Wu-Tang wit’ It

I was sitting there when all the young people suddenly ran toward the dance floor. Once there they immediately began to thrash about as their heads bobbed vigorously up and down in a whiplash inducing manner. Immediately I thought, “I knew that prime rib tasted funny. It must have affected the children first because of their weak immune systems!” But then my daughter informed me that they were simply “Wu-Tanging wit it.”

So, of course, I had to ask her what “it” was. Were they Wu-Tanging wit food poisoning? Epilepsy? The palsy? She then informed me that “it” was just “it.” I will be better able to deconstruct this dance once I find out just what “it” is; however, I believe “it” to be very bad indeed if it causes one to move in the manner I witnessed.

And just a word to the youth: Wu-Tanging wit’ It in a cocktail dress ain’t classy.

2. The Stanky Leg

Okay, I get the central premise of this dance. One leg is so vilely malodorous that it must be extended away from the body so as not to offend the other leg. But what I don’t get is why, once the leg is extended, one would then move it about so vigorously. Would not all that moving of the leg cause the leg to sweat thereby causing the offending odor to intensify? And by moving it about, would that not cause the offending odor to be diffused over a wider area?

In short, by increasing the very intensity of the odor and then diffusing it over a even wider area, you defeat the purpose of ever having set the leg apart in the first place. I tend to believe that whoever conceived of this dance did not think the requisite time and effort to reason the whole thing through.

3. The Booty Hop

I apologize, but I cannot even find a video of this dance being performed that is tame enough to display on this blog. The animated GIF I found is bad enough, but it appears that in order to do the booty hop correctly, one must fully expose their booty.

But anyway, last night I was sitting at a table speaking with three professional women who are very well respected in their fields. Suddenly in the middle of the conversation, one of them loudly announced, “I’m going to go do the booty hop!”, and ran to the dance floor. And then the other two looked at each other, and they too fled to the dance floor. This morning two of the three women are complaining of lower back pain, so I will endeavor to diagnose their problem.

The mass of one’s behind usually increases in direct proportion to the increase in age. And then when one squats, extends that massive behind out, and then makes it move rapidly and unnaturally in an up and down motion, especially when that massive behind is accustomed to sitting behind a desk all day, it results in the muscles of the lower back stretching and the spinal vertebrae being forced out of line.

Not only does one who is not professionally trained and supervised risk injury by attempting this dance, but if all that behind begins to move in one direction, you risk the forces of inertia taking over thereby causing a loss of control, and who could even imagine the potential danger of a massive, out of control behind plowing into a crowd of people.

4. Look Back at It

Again, I apologize, but I could not find a suitable video to demonstrate this dance. Is there a YouTube rating system for videos? I cannot even count the number of bare bottoms in thong panty drawers and too short shorts I had to view in searching for a video.

Anyway, when the crowd began doing this dance, it kind of caught me unawares. I was standing on the edge of the dance floor, and one minute everyone’s back was to me, and then suddenly it appeared that they were all looking over their shoulders at me. So, alarmed, I looked over my shoulder to see if someone was standing behind me. And when I turned around everyone was now looking behind them and moving their behinds in a suggestive manner.

This really threw me off. However, my son explained to me that it was not about me at all, but it was just the “Look Back at It” dance. And this time I fully understand what it really is.

The dance seems to be simply “The Booty Hop” except now the dancer looks back over his or her shoulder at their behind as it moves rapidly in an up and down manner. However, I have yet to determine why.

But for the purposes of this brief exegesis, I attempted the “Look Back at It” dance and found that by adding the element of looking back and making and maintaining eye contact with your backside, the complexity of this dance increases exponentially.

Again, if you are of a certain age and your behind is of a certain volume and mass, it is recommended that you not attempt this dance.

5. Cupid Shuffle, Obama Shuffle, ChaCha Slide, Electric Slide, and the various species of other shuffles and/or slides

Is it just me, or are all of these the same dance but with different names and music. And I do not mention this out of bitterness at being asked to leave the dance floor after bumping into several people and stepping on several feet because I did not know the steps and ended up going in the wrong direction. I am perhaps a little embarrassed, but I am not bitter.

And to that little old lady with all the mouth, I can follow directions, thank you, but the directions were not all that clear. “To the left, to the left, to the left…,” shouted several times in rapid succession could mean anything. To the left what?

But I do believe it is time that we as a people quit allowing ourselves to be fooled in this manner. The powers that be simply change the name and publish new music to correspond with that new name, and we then rush out to spend money on the twelve inch single to play at our next party, bar-b-q, or family reunion. They keep us spending money just to keep up with the latest dance trend. When are we going to wake up and shake off the chains of our economic oppression?

How Comfortable Are You with Yourself when No One Else Is Around? (A Lesson for My Daughter)

This weekend my children and I took on the project of collecting and sorting the many pictures that can be found in numerous locations throughout our home. Over the years, we seem to have amassed an absolutely massive quantity of pictures. They are stuffed in drawers, hidden away in shoeboxes in the back of closets, stacked neatly in stuffed manila folders and big envelops in file cabinets; they threaten to overwhelm us, so we sought to remedy this problem.

Of course, it was a tedious process, but looking at the old pictures allowed us to reminisce just a bit and even have a good laugh or two. But there was one set of pictures that caught the interest of my children.

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my closet was a shoebox filled with a number of pre-wife and kids photos. And as they sorted through the photos, they had a lot of questions about my life then. In fact, they even found a group of photos of a young Max in an Amsterdam café. This one took a considerable amount of explaining.

Anyway, at one point my daughter paused to comment on how happy I seemed then. She observed that I always seemed to be at a party or I always seemed to be surrounded by a large group of people. And as I took a look through the photos, I realized that she was right. I guess I had never really noticed before.

I had no individual shots; all the pictures were group shots featuring me at the center, broadly smiling, my arms around the shoulders of this person or that person. The narrative these pictures told made it appear that I was having the time of my life.

However, the funny thing about pictures is that they can only capture the superficial. They can only capture the outward appearance, the façade of a person, in that fraction of a second it takes for the shutter to open and close. They can tell the supposed narrative the person being photographed would like for you to believe at the time, but this narrative is always in question.

So, in case my daughter got the tacit message that spending an afternoon in an Amsterdam café constitutes real fun, or that one needs to be surrounded by crowds of people to be happy, I had to sit down and tell her the truth.

Yes, I seemed to be having the time of my life. Yes, I seemed to be always surrounded by crowds of people. But the truth is I desperately needed those crowds. The truth is I could not stand to be alone with myself. That is why I spent so much time with others. That is why I was always the last to leave the party. I dreaded being alone with myself because then I would have to face the real me replete with too many fears and insecurities to even mention.

Now I know a great many people, but very few do I count as friends. We speak and talk about issues and common interests, and we come together over the various projects I am involved in, but when it is all over, I wave goodbye and find my way home.

My wife and children and my brothers and sisters are those whose company I most welcome. I do have one or two good friends I spend time with every now and then, but otherwise, I prefer to be alone.

Not that I am a misanthrope or anything; however, I like who I am now. I am comfortable with myself. And every now and then, just like this very moment, I just like to sit and think and explore my thoughts and get to know myself a little better.

Back then, I played at happiness. And I acted the part very well as long as there was a supporting cast around. But now I truly am happy. People and friends and crowds have their place, but they do not necessary correlate to true happiness. What really matters is how comfortable you are with yourself when no one else is around.

Love yourself and be a blessing to somebody.

Back Down South

For some time now, my wife and I have struggled to make a crucial decision. For some time now, we have been contemplating a move. We have been contemplating leaving the South and moving to the Northeast.

Not that we do not find our quality of life satisfying here; we do. We have been blessed and lead very good lives. And not that we are fleeing some virulent racism or discrimination here; we are not. I think that racism and discrimination exist in equal measures throughout the country, so in that regards, I would much rather deal with the devil I know as opposed to the devil I don’t know.

However, the dearth of cultural opportunities in our area prompts us to consider the move. Culturally, Northeast Florida most resembles Southeast Georgia. Many of the major shows, concerts, and exhibits pass us by altogether. We often find ourselves having to drive north to Atlanta or southwest to Orlando or in some cases, even as far south as Miami to take part in these cultural events. And needless to say, that gets very expensive and time consuming, so we must carefully and judiciously pick and choose the events we attend.

And for the past few years, we have endeavored to spend time in the Northeast during the summer so that we might take part in the range of cultural offerings. Each and every time we are there, it is like a whirlwind tour with us running from this place and that place, trying to get it all in before it’s time to return home. But this too gets expensive and tiring, plus there are other places we would like to go and explore during our extended summer vacations.

Now our relatives and Facebook friends around the country taunt us daily by bragging about the events that have attended. Just last week someone posted a status update about attending a play I have been wanting to see for years. And I have a Facebook friend who lives in the New York area who is forever boasting about the free concerts he attends on almost a weekly basis.

Needless to say, we are now growing impatient. Our children are getting older, and if we are going to make that move, the time is now. Plus, we have solid job opportunities in the area that will not be there forever. So, what are we waiting for? My wife is more than ready, but I can’t make up my mind.

Playwright August Wilson once wrote that the South is the cultural homeland for African Americans. It is in the South within that dreadful, horrific crucible of slavery where our culture was born. It is here where those sustaining values and traditions were formed. It is here where deprived of a meaningful existence, we improvised. Given the offal of animals, we created our own unique foods. Out of the daily anguish and heartbreak of bondage, we created the only musical form to originate in this country.

And I have been blessed to have traveled all over the world. I have lived in many places outside the South; New Jersey, Seattle, and California are just a few that come readily to mind. But where ever I have traveled to and where ever I have lived, I have found myself longing for the South.

I found myself longing for those almost endless rural roads lined with kudzu. I missed the familiar sounds and smells, the familiar accents, the familiar foods. I missed my family and friends, and most of all, I missed the slow, laid back pace of life in the South. And each and every time, I found some reason, some excuse, to escape back down South.

So, I guess I have written myself to a decision this morning. There is no need for me to go anywhere. Any move would simply be a waste of time. I would be happy for a short while. I would probably busy myself going to museums and shows and plays and monuments. But that would probably grow old really quick. My mind would begin to wonder and invisible strings would begin to tug at my heart, and before long I would find myself with my family in tow headed south on I-95, headed back down South.

Upcoming Documentary: The Cotton Pickin' Truth...Still on the Plantation

I found this trailer via Facebook where it was first posted by Benjamin Woods of the blog freetheland. The trailer for the upcoming documentary The Cotton Pickin’ Truth…Still on the Plantation seeks to expose the present day system of slavery and peonage still in existence in many parts of the United States.

I must admit that when I watched the opening segment of this trailer, I was a bit incredulous at first. I am somewhat leery of conspiracy theories whether they come from the right or the left, and the story of the lady speaking seemed a bit outlandish when taken out of context. The notion that she was held in perpetual servitude as a slave up until 1960 is a bit hard to take even if it is in the state of Mississippi.

But as the trailer progressed, it gained a bit more credibility in my eyes. I have been through Mississippi, and I have witnessed firsthand many of the intolerable conditions some African Americans and whites continue to live under. I have witnessed the shotgun shacks and dilapidated trailers often housing successive generations under one roof, permeated by the overwhelming smell of urine and feces emanating from nonexistent or insufficient human waste disposal systems.

And I have witnessed the dearth of educational opportunities which might lead to meaningful employment among those still living a rural agrarian existence devoid of technological advances and advantages even as the nation and the world moves forward. Needless to say, some of the conditions I have witnessed firsthand in the state of Mississippi and in forgotten communities throughout the nation are abominable in a nation boasting of plenty.

I look forward to being able to see the completed product which is due to be available right around January 10^th, 2010. After you have watched the trailer, let me know what you think, and if you have any questions for the filmmaker, she can be reached by email at afrigenah@yahoo.com.

Offering an Alternative Paradigm: Young American American Men and the Prison System

I scheduled this post to run later in the week; however, I thought it would be a logical follow-up to the conversation on yesterday. And thank you to those who happened by and thank you to those who contributed to the conversation.

On Friday, November 27, 1989, the day after Thanksgiving, a police officer from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office came to my home, and in front of my children and wife, he arrested me in a case of mistaken identity.

Ironically, the white arresting officer recognized it to be a case of mistaken identity, but the African American sergeant who arrived on the scene shortly after simply looked at me, looked at my family, looked at my home and neighborhood, and then with an unmistaken look of contempt on his face, told the white officer to take me in anyway. The white officer protested, but the African American sergeant just sneered and told him we would work it out at the station.

So, I was taken down to the city jail. I was booked. I was fingerprinted. I was photographed. And for the next twelve hours, I sat in a cell awaiting bail to be set.

When my wife picked me up from the station, she was hoarse from having yelled and screamed for twelve hours straight in the face of anyone and everyone at the city jail. But I was calm, too calm for her. So, she demanded to know why I was not angrier, why I was not absolutely infuriated at my treatment. I tried to explain it to her; I tried to articulate my emotions, but she could not be made to understand.

In a word, I felt relieved. Not relieved to have finally made it out of jail, but finally relieved to have made it into jail. You see, by the time I was arrested, I had witnessed so many young black men go to jail, and I had worked with so many young black men who, despite my and others’ greatest efforts, ended up in jail, that I actually began wondering why I was yet to go to jail.

The more I achieved, the more I realized some measure of success, the more apprehensive I got. The more frightened I became. And it all didn’t make sense because when I was growing up, prison, or as my grandmother called it—the pen, was frowned on. It was shameful. If a family member happened to go to “the pen,” then the family lied and said he was in East St. Louis or something. If he was from East St. Louis, then the family lied and said he was down South.

But my point is this: Despite my upbringing, despite my education, despite my achievements, if all that was going on around me, if all I witnessed could work to convince me that going to jail was inevitable as a young black man, what must those young African American men still stuck in inner-city, crime infested neighborhoods, those still under the thumb of poverty, feel. What do they believe their life prospects to be?

It appears to me that incarceration or having family members incarcerated has become an all too familiar part of African American lives. I read somewhere that for young African American males, going to jail has become almost a rite of passage. And remnants of prison culture are creeping into the mainstream culture, for instance the sagging pants and tattoos.

But we all know how ruinous a prison record can be, what an absolutely devastating effect a prison record can have on a young person’s future.

But the challenge then becomes to counter this normalization of deviancy with another paradigm. For all those images of deviancy we must counter with images of success and acheivement. I believe that those of us who have managed to make it out, those of us who have managed to achieve some measure of success, have an unequivocal responsibility to return and serve as role models, as mentors, for those still looking for a way out.

Have you had an experience similar to mine? What do you think can be done to reduce the number of young African American men entering the prison system?

Additional web resource: Genpop.org

Enslaved by Language: A Brief Archaeology of the Word Nigger

I have watched the arguments surrounding the usage of the word “nigger” from a distance and said nothing. But now I have been shaken from my place of passivity.

This weekend I accompanied my children to the theater for a movie, and I heard the word bandied about by the throngs of African American teens with such fervor that I had to pause for a brief second to collect myself. And then on yesterday, I visited an inner city middle school to watch President Obama’s address with a friend’s class, and as I walked down the hallway, I heard the vulgar staccato of the word in almost every conversation I overheard—nigga’ this, nigga’ that, that nigga’, those niggas.

But the final straw came on last evening. As I waited for my last class to begin, two of my young African American male college students sat in a corner having a loud, animated conversation and making liberal use of the word. It became such that I finally pulled them aside and gave them a choice. Discontinue using the word in my presence or leave. They chose the latter.

I don’t know who will read this. I don’t know what good it will do if any. But I have to say it if only to assuage my conscious.

Soon after Europeans began exploring the New World and discovering the vast amounts of potential wealth to be had there, they realized they would have to have an extraordinary workforce if they were to exploit that potential for wealth with any efficiency. Of course, the enslavement of the many indigenous people Europeans encountered as they branched out throughout the world came to mind, but the Church forbade the enslavement of other human beings, and they were forced to step back and regroup.

So, over time, those holding power colluded with those creating knowledge in an effort to prove that these darker peoples were indeed not human, and would benefit from enslavement. Enslavement was sold as a means of bringing civilization and religion to uncivilized pagan peoples.

As an aside, believe in the objectivity of science and knowledge only to your detriment.

But anyway, doing this period, the various pseudo sciences aimed at dehumanizing these darker people proliferated and were promulgated throughout the scientific community. Volumes and volumes of studies all testifying to their subhuman existence were written and circulated.

And keep in mind, before this period, race was not a function of skin color or ethnicity in most of Europe. Race was expressed as a matter of birth and only two categories existed, nobility and commoner; either you were born of blue blood or you were simply a peasant, a common man. The category of race was created simply to organize human beings into a hierarchy of being for the purposes of debasement, dehumanization, and ultimately enslavement.

And before long, the Church acquiesced, and the slave trade began in earnest.

So, long before literal chains were placed about our wrists, about our ankles, about our persons, we were enslaved figuratively through language which bore false witness against our humanity, which sought to place us into a category of living beings right above animals. And the word nigger was an integral centerpiece of the lexicon of the language of enslavement.

I have heard the arguments claiming a “re-appropriation” of the word. I have heard the arguments claiming that the repeated use of the word strips the word of its original meaning. I have heard the arguments claiming that using “nigga’” instead of nigger is a term of endearment, a sign of solidarity. But all these arguments ring hollow.

Some things cannot, and should not, be reclaimed and recycled for extended use. Some things cannot be rehabilitated. And whether you are directing the word nigger towards me in the pejorative sense, or nigga’ in a sense of brotherhood and shared struggle, the history of the word cannot be elided; between the mere two syllables of the word is written the language and a history of centuries of debasement, dehumanization, discrimination and destruction. And the continued use of the word only recapitulates the very terms of our original enslavement.

Young brothers and sisters, stop for a second to think.

Recommended reading:

Michel Foucault, Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Writings, 1972-1977.

Frederick Douglas, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave.

Within the Cauldron of Tradition: The Price of Progress

So, the other day I am spending time chatting on Twitter with a friend, @rainwriterjones, who blogs at more chitlins, i presume, but she abruptly breaks off the conversation because she is canning and must tend to her pots. We were engaged in a good conversation, so I hated to see her go, but the very mention of canning brought a smile to my face and caused me to think back on those communal traditions from my youth that somehow fell to the wayside in the name of progress.

You know, fall is my favorite time of the year. And the images I most associate with fall are those from my early youth. At the time, my mother taught at Lane College, a small HBCU in Jackson, Tennessee, run by the CME church. We lived a short distance from the college on Hayes Avenue, and I spent a great deal of time on that campus. And my time spent on that campus contributes greatly to my images of fall.

When I think of fall, I think of the crisp autumn breeze in the air. I think of ancient red brick buildings festooned with plaques commemorating this person or that person and a campus covered with fallen leaves of every color. I think of raucous crowds at football games and dancing bands and fraternity and sorority pledges running fitfully and fearfully from one place to another and undergraduate students walking about cheerfully chatting while wearing letterman and fraternity and sorority sweaters and jackets, confident in the opportunities for progress implied by higher education.

But mostly my mind wanders down the road a few miles to the rural, bucolic community of Bemis, Tennessee, where my mother grew up and where I spent a great deal of my youth. In my early youth, a rural, bucolic, farming community would have been a more apt description.

And right now would have been the beginning of the of the harvest season. During the harvest season, the whole community came together to gather the crops in from the field. Everybody contributed labor, whether man, woman, or child. And once the crops were in, the women retreated indoors and began canning the surfeit, putting something aside for the lean months ahead. The men began the process of slaughtering the animals and curing and storing the meat in smokehouses for later consumption.

This harvest tradition brought the whole community together in a spirit of cooperation and underlined the interdependence inherent in community. In stark juxtaposition, just a few miles up the road, the college seemed to prepare students for a lifetime of competition amongst each other as it pitted one college against another on the gridiron, one band against another, one fraternity or sorority against another, one student against another, all in the name of progress.

And perhaps I should not look a gift horse in the mouth because I benefited greatly from both traditions; the values and work ethic taught me in that rural, bucolic, farming community informed my worldview and propelled me forward when finally my turn came to enter the academy. And I realize that we must progress, we must move forward; any entity, any system to include social systems, that does not progress, that does not evolve, quickly begins to entropy before finally disappearing altogether.

I just only wish, I only desire, that as we progress, as we move forward as we must do, we can again realize the spirit of cooperation, the interdependence inherent in community, in family, and move forward together and not as individuals. I only wish, I only desire, that once again we can return to and nourish ourselves from that great cauldron of tradition.

Do you remember any traditions from your youth that have fallen by the wayside? What traditions would you like to bring back? What traditions would you have liked to maintain?

Flukie, call your aunt!: The Fine Art of the Nickname

So, yesterday I arrive home after a long day, and my children are walking around grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Well, I knew something was up, but I wasn’t going to bite so quickly. Finally, I just had to ask them what was so funny. Then in their best down home southern accent, they begin to say,

“Flukie! Fluuuuukie! It’s your auntie, baby. Call your auntie!”

Then they would erupt in laughter.

Then I realized what had happened. It seems like my aunt from back home that I have not talked to in quite some time had called and left a voice mail message. And for some reason, she thinks that for a voice mail message to be heard, she has to shout at the top of her lungs. It sounded as if she was calling me out of the yard or something.

But they were not laughing at my auntie. They were laughing at my nickname, Flukie. It just cracks them up when they hear someone refer to me by my nickname. But I am proud of my nickname. That nickname was given to me so long ago by my grandmother.

For the first few years of my life, I wore corrective orthopedic braces. Consequently, I was a very clumsy child, always falling. So my grandmother began to call me Flukie. Over the years, some people have remarked that it seemed awfully cruel, but coming from my grandmother, I knew it was all in love.

But back then, everyone seemed to have a nickname. I have known people for years without knowing their real name. When I was growing up, there seemed to be a fine art in nicknaming, and nicknames told so much about a person. They gave them personality.

Of course you had your common nicknames. For instance, James was shortened to Jim. John became Jack, and Henry became Hank, and so on. That was pretty straight forward. But I never could figure out how they derived Dick from Richard. I had a frat brother named Richard who I insisted on calling Dick, and his response was not so fraternal.

And then there were those nicknames which, like mine, were derived from physical attributes or character traits. My cousin Anthony was always small for his age, so he was called Lil’ Bit. Smiley smiled incessantly for no apparent reason. And Happy was interminably happy. A distant cousin out of East St. Louis had three inexplicable lumps on the crown of his head, so we just called him Lump-Lump.

But sometimes those physical characteristics change over time, and the nickname becomes a gross misnomer. I had a cousin who was a rather portly, round child, so everyone referred to her simply as Fat. It didn’t bother her self-esteem any I don’t think. But in her mid teens she began to grow up and not out, and finally became a rather shapely, beautiful woman. But everyone still referred to her as Fat.

And there is the tragic case of my cousin Slim. Growing up, he was always thin as a rail. But at some point he developed a glandular problem which resulted in him being almost as wide as he is tall. It seems like a cruel joke to continue to refer to him as Slim.

Then there were those names that told of your place in the family. My mother is the oldest sister, so she is referred to as Big Sister. My aunt, the youngest, is referred to as Baby Sister. See how that works? My Aunt Lucille’s oldest boy is named after his father, so he is Junebug.

But perhaps the funniest nicknames are those produced by regional accents or just gross mispronunciations. For instance, I had a childhood playmate who everyone called We-mare. Only after we started school did I recognize that We-mare was just a bastardization of William Errol.

And then there is the curious case of my Aunt At-lay. Up until my early thirties, I referred to my aunt as Aunt At-lay. Then at a family reunion, my wife pointed out a name on the program which she didn’t recognize, Adelaide Snipes, so she asked me to point her out. But I didn’t recognize the name either.

But when my Aunt At-lay approached the mike at the time allotted for Adelaide Snipes, my wife had a ephiphany:

“At-lay? Adelaide? You men you have been mispronouncing your aunt’s name all this time?”

Who knew? She had to leave the service so as not to disturb it with her laughter.

For now, yes I am Flukie and very proud of it. It harkens back to a time and place long forgotten. And when the day comes that no one still calls me Flukie, when my grandmother’s name for me is forgotten, it will be a sad day indeed.

I think I will call my aunt back now.

Do you have a nickname from your youth that you are proud of or maybe ashamed of?

Black Children/White World: How Do I Make the Journey Easier?

“For not only must the black man be black; he must be black in relation to the white man.” --Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks

Please forgive me if this runs long. I composed it months ago, and have since revised it to the bare bones. But I really need your help on this one. Please stay with me until the end.

The questions began very early, even before I was prepared to deal with them.

At the time, my son was one of only a few African American children in his school and the only African American child in his kindergarten class. I accompanied his school on a trip to the zoo during a week set aside for the local schools.

His school, with its long line of white children with only a few specks of color here and there, stood in line next to an all black school. My son looked down the long line of white children in front of him and behind him, and then looked over at the long line of African American children.

Then he turned to me and asked me, “Why are all the white kids over here and all the little brown kids over there? And why am I not over there with the little brown kids?”

I was not prepared to deal with that question, and can’t recall exactly what I said. However, I do remember rattling off some abstruse, recondite theory that he would have never been able to understand at the time and then trying to redirect his attention elsewhere. But for the rest of the day, he was uncharacteristically reticent, and often I found him gazing wistfully and curiously at the little brown kids whenever a group of them came near.

Now, both he and my daughter have grown accustomed to either being the only African American child or one of only a few African American children in almost every setting they find themselves. But as they grow older and the relationships and social situations become more complex, I find myself having to revisit the racial question with them all over again.

In a World Surrounded by Whiteness

In their world surrounded by whiteness, I am more worried for my daughter than I am my son. My son is more than secure in his blackness. He is almost arrogant in his blackness even. He wields his blackness like a club, beating those who underestimate his ability, his mental acumen, about the head and shoulders with it.

His friends represent numerous races and ethnic groups. In fact, his current crew is made up of a Jew, a mixed race black/Hispanic, and a mixed race white/Hispanic. However, it is important to note that his crew occupies the middle and upper middle class economic stratum.

But my daughter is not so confident. Often she downplays her abilities. And all of her friends are white. She has had black friends, but they have never been long term friends. She says that the young black girls that she comes into contact with are simply too loud and boisterous, their behavior too outrageous. They are, in a word, too ghetto.

Her last friendship with a young black girl ended abruptly when that friend got into a rift of some kind, and she expected my daughter to assist her in fighting. When my daughter refused, she turned on my daughter and ridiculed her for some time. My daughter was heartbroken.

And I am just being honest when I tell you I am troubled every time I enter her room and practically all the faces staring back at me from the many posters on her wall are white. At this point, she seems to have immersed herself in whiteness. And from my own experience, it may come back to bite her.

I, too, grew up surrounded by whiteness. Most of my friends were white. And it was all fine until we grew older and began to compete for educational opportunities and jobs. Then they grew resentful of my blackness. Then they felt my blackness gave me some unfair advantage.

The first time I was ever directly called a nigger was by my white best friend at the time. Not only did he call me nigger, he moved to attack me in a violent, drunken rage. While he was being restrained, I promptly hit him in the head with a desk lamp.

I learned a lesson that day. I responded by adjusting my world view accordingly. But I was always aware of my blackness and my precarious footing in the white world, and I was confident, almost arrogant in my abilities. However, my daughter seems to be not so aware, not so confident. How will she react if she is ever confronted by a similar situation?

Coming to Terms with So-Called Black Culture

My children and I were out about town recently, when we witnessed a group of black teenagers acting a complete fool. They were loud. They were boisterous. They were profane. So much so that a security guard backed up by the local police had to escort them from the premises.

My son and daughter looked on mildly amused, and when the ruckus had subsided, I heard them joking to one another about the scene that they had just witnessed. I became very upset, however, when I heard them referring to the group of black teenagers as coons and spooks and “ignant knee-grows”.

I was perhaps more upset with myself than with them. I immediately recognized where the pejoratives coons and spooks and “ignant knee-grows” came from. That came straight out of my mouth. If you are ever curious about the faults in your children, examine yourself first.

But at that moment it became plain that my children have created a dichotomy between themselves and their social circle of acceptable African Americans and African Americans of questionable mental acumen, social graces, and moral and ethical standards. They have divided African America into good negroes and bad negroes.

But in all fairness to them, the so-called “bad negroes” have rejected them as well. So many times and for so long they have been ridiculed, sometimes by close family members, for being “too white.” They have been ridiculed for “talking white.” They have been ridiculed for “acting white.” They have been ridiculed for “having white tastes.” They have even been ridiculed for getting good grades and loving to read which incidentally falls under “acting white.”

How do they then reconcile themselves with a culture that rejects them? How do they respect a culture with values that seem to run so contrary to their own?

The Summation

I have attempted to teach my children who they are, what they. I have attempted to instill in them pride in who they are, what they are. But often I cannot find the right words. Often I am faltering in my speech. And too often I contradict myself in words and deeds.

But in the meantime, I fear they and other African American children like them are sinking gradually into the frigid depths of a cold naked abyss, and I am unable to find a rope long enough or strong enough to throw down to them and pull them to a place of safety.

What advice to you have for me?