Some stuff I saw this week but can’t tell anyone because they wouldn’t believe me anyway: The Good Greens Edition

Sometimes I feel like Cassandra. Remember Cassandra? She was that character in Greek mythology who was granted the gift of incredible insight by the gods, but in the same instance, the gods cursed her so that no one would even believe her.

As I travel about, I see all kinds of fantastical, unbelievable things, but when I tell others about what I have seen, no one will even believe me. So, I just drop them off here, and you have the option of believing them are not; I just want to get them off my chest.

Since our last episode, these are just a few of the crazy things that I have seen or that have happened to me.

Penguins in My Bed

If you have been following this blog for any length of time, you know that when I eat pork or fried or spicy food before I go to sleep, I have these crazy, fantastical nightmares. Yep, I have had another crazy dream.

So, a few days ago I just happened to be in the vicinity of my daughter’s school, so I decided to stop and pick her up and take her to lunch so that we could spend a little quality time together. I asked her where she wanted to go, and she recommended this little rib joint that we have not been to in quite some time.

We went to the rib joint, and we both ordered a rib sandwich and fries absolutely drenched in the spicy sauce. She is her father’s daughter. But before I even got up from the table, “the ‘itis” was all over me. I could barely make the drive home.

When I got home, I lay down to take a nap and fell into a deep, deep sleep. And while sleeping I began to have this all too vivid, all too lifelike dream. I dreamed that about a half dozen or so penguins jumped up into the bed with me and began squawking uncontrollably. I kept trying to shoo them out of the bed so I could return to sleep, but they kept squawking louder and louder.

Finally, I raised my head up to look at them and found that their feathers seemed awfully dry and dusty. So, I began to appeal to them to just quit squawking, and I would find someone to take them to water. But they just got louder and louder…

…and then my wife shook me awake. When I awoke, there stood my wife with my two children standing behind her with their eyes as big as saucers. My wife told me that I had been calling my children to come get the penguins out of the bed and get them to water for a while.

I immediately called my partner RiPPa to tell him about this foolishness. RiPPa told me that he was busy with his new baby daughter and didn’t have time to play games with me. I called OneChele and she was even less congenial.

You believe me don’t you?


Black Santa Drops His Weed

So I attended a charity Christmas party during the break which featured a black Santa. During the party as the organizers lined the children up to speak to Santa and receive their gift, I excused myself to the restroom.

I entered the restroom to find Black Santa putting the finishing touches on his whole Santa Claus getup. We exchanged greetings, and he departed. But just as he left, I saw a suspicious looking rolled up baggie on the floor. I took a closer look, and my suspicions were confirmed. I thought to myself, “Did Black Santa drop this?”

And then I got my answer. Black Santa stuck his head back inside the door and asked, “Brother, did you happen to see a bag of weed somewhere in here?”

I pointed to it. He retrieved it and thanked me.

I immediately fled the restroom to tell my wife so that she could help me figure out how to handle this. Did I tell the organizers that Black Santa was really a big pothead? Did I keep it to myself? But my wife just looked at me incredulously: “So you’re saying you just saw Santa smoking weed in the bathroom?”

“No, he wasn’t smoking it. He just has it with him! He put it in the inside pocket of his Santa jacket”

“So he just showed you his stash out of the blue?”

“No, he didn’t ‘just show it to me.’ He dropped it and picked it up and left.”

She just wouldn’t believe me. In fact, she suggested that I pour out my eggnog, surrender the car keys to her, and just blog about it when I got home. I just dropped it. But I can but only admit that Black Santa was the merriest, jolliest old elf that I have ever witnessed.

The Secret Ingredient to Good Greens

One Saturday during the winter break, I stopped by one of my fraternity brother’s house just to wish him and his family a happy holiday. When I arrived, his wife and mother-in-law had just returned from a marathon shopping expedition, and his mother-in-law sat in the family room with her feet soaking inside this big, huge, blue-speckled cooking pot.

We had a wonderfully uproarious conversation. His mother-in-law was pretty funny. We finally got around to talking about the cooking pot she was soaking her feet in. I commented that on one side of the pot, the speckles came together to form a frowning face because the pot was not being used for its expressed purpose.

Anyway, we enjoyed each other’s company so much that she invited me to return the following evening with my family for dinner. Of course the very next evening I returned with my family in tow. And let me tell you one thing—this woman put on a spread! But as I looked around the kitchen at all the delectable dishes she had prepared, my eyes fell upon a particularly pot on the stove, a big, huge, blue-speckled cooking pot with a distinctive pattern which looked as if the pot was frowning.

I went over to take a peek in the pot. Greens! And just then from behind me I heard my wife say, “Miss May Francis, I cannot wait to taste your greens. They smell absolutely delicious!”

Immediately, I ran into the family room like Will Smith running to save the world in any of his movies to warn my family about the greens. I got to my children first.

“Listen, don’t eat the greens. That woman had her feet in that pot that she cooked them in.”

My daughter looked at me curiously. “What are you talking about, Dad? She just went in there and put her foot in the pot?”

My son was even less credulous. He told my daughter, “I think Dad has a little too much time on his hands lately. He seems to be just making up stuff. The other night I heard him telling something to Mother about smoking weed in the bathroom with Santa at that party. Mother was not amused. We need to find him a creative outlet.”

Undaunted, I went to warn my wife. “Don’t eat those greens! That woman had her feet in the pot”

My wife questioned me, “Well, when did that happen? Since I’ve been here she hasn’t moved from that spot on the sofa. Did they bring the pot of greens in here?”

“No, see yesterday when I was over here…”

She cut me off and would not allow me to finish. She instead suggested that I put down the scotch, surrender the car keys to her, and blog about it when I got home.

And as we were eating dinner, everyone complimented the cook on what a delicious dinner it was, especially the greens. Then my fraternity brother intoned, “Mother May Francis, these greens are good. You must have used your secret ingredient because you really put your foot in this batch!” I began to choke on a lima bean.

After the whole choking episode ended, I loaded up my plate with greens. If you can’t beat them, join them. And everyone was right. The greens were absolutely delicious

I Saw You Yesterday (A miscellaneous scribbling from my writer's notebook)

Hey, you! It’s me. Surprised?

I saw you yesterday. I mean I am not so delusional to believe that it was actually you. But it was someone, some absolutely beautiful lady, who looked just as I guess you would look right now after all these years. At first my heart leapt and its pace quickened; I am not sure if what I felt was fear or surprise.

But the pretend you, the stand-in, just stood there seemingly oblivious to my presence, chatting with two small children, two beautiful and lively little girls, who so very much resembled the lady who looked so much like you.

And don’t laugh. Don’t believe that I have finally gone completely crazy. Perhaps it was just a flight of fancy. Or maybe I turned and you seemed to be standing there because for some reason you have been on my mind so frequently lately.

I guess your prediction finally came true. Or was it not a prediction but a curse? You said the day would come when I would find out what a horrible, egotistical little man I really was. That someone would come along and treat me exactly as I treated you. That someone would take me for granted just as I took you for granted. That someone would return my good with bad, my love with antipathy, my virtue with contempt.

And it happened just as you said, and it happened sooner not later. Does that make you happy? How does that make you feel?

I went through a long period when everything I touched seemed to turn to pure shit in my hands. Every relationship went bad even before it got started good. I was used. I was lied to. I was taken for granted. And in every instance when the truth finally came out—the truth always does—it was your face that came to mind. It was your voice that I heard in my ear.

And several times when I was at my lowest, I imagined that it was your arms thrown around my shoulders comforting me, quieting me, telling me that it would all work out in the end, that soon my lesson would be over.

And it finally did. The lesson finally ended. I met someone. And she is beautiful. Just like you. And she is gracious. Just like you. And she is wise. Just like you. And she is strong. Just like you.

And I am trying to do the right thing this time. I am trying to be the man you thought I was when you met me; I am trying to be the man you spent so much time and energy extolling me to be. Isn’t it almost ironic that you should invest so much time and energy in someone like me, and then I end up with someone else? Or should I even mention that?

But I’ll end now. I don’t want you to think that I have lost my mind or make you feel uncomfortable in any way. I just wanted you to know that I get it now. I really do. And, also, every now and then you cross my mind and I smile. And I saw you yesterday, and I wonder if when you are out and about around town, do you ever see me too?

Why Do We Do What We Do?: A Question for the Black Blogger

So, on yesterday I wrote that there were two occurrences over the winter break which caused me to sit down and seriously assess and reassess the motivations and reasons behind some of my actions and activities. I presented you with one then. I shall present you with another now.

The weekend before Christmas I attended a birthday party for a member of my wife’s family. During a discussion with some of the attendees, the conversation turned to my blog. I was pretty much surprised that this particular group even had knowledge of it. However, it seemed that they had actually read a post here and there, and they were supportive of my efforts.

But then came the question. It didn’t surprise me because I could see the conversation heading in that direction. How much money do you make from blogging?

Of course I had to answer nothing, not one red cent, which seemed to surprise them because for some reason they seemed to have believed me to be raking in money hand over foot. And then came the inevitable question: “Then why do you do it? You seem to invest a considerable amount of time and energy in blogging, but it makes no sense to put that much time in something that pays you nothing.”

As I set at home during the winter break, this question returned to my mind again and again.

However, during the winter break I began a special project. Wayne Hicks of The Electronic Village and the AfroSpear blog think tank and network had been keeping the Black Blog Rankings (BBR) which ranked blogs owned and operated by African Americans. However, because of changes in the rating system at Technorati, he decided to discontinue the BBR. I asked could I pick up where he left off, and he graciously gave me permission.

During the break, I speak quite a few hours combing through about 1,700 blogs as I verified their URLs, and transferred them to a new rating system. From time to time, I came across the original AfroSpear blogs, some of which dated back to as early as 2006 [see The History of the AfroSpear].

What I found was a group of intrepid of men and women from various backgrounds representing various schools of thought and political affiliations who had nothing in common but the melanin in their skins and a unique voice and perspective that would not be denied, that could and would not be silenced or marginalized.

And from their earliest beginnings, the group sometimes spoke softly and individually; at other times they combined their voices until the pitch reached a cacophonic roar. Through their blogs, they argued and debated the various issues affecting the people of the African Diaspora, always with an eye toward definite and pronounced progress.

These voices gradually built to a crescendo which peaked around the election of President Barack Obama. Then gradually many of these original voices began to exit the stage as they pursued other endeavors and followed other avenues.

Now, as I check the black blogosphere, the number of black owned and operated blogs has grown by leaps and bounds. The number of African American owned and operated blogs grows each day. Additionally, many black owned and operated sites are moving upward into the rarified air of the upper reaches of the blogosphere with unprecedented reach and influence.

Also, at this time I find the gossip, hip-hop, and pop culture sites dominating the rankings. But that doesn’t mean that I do not believe there is a place in the black blogosphere for these sites; all voices are important and have a place.

However, I do look forward to a resurgence of those booming voices, new and old, that are willing to reach across the imaginary lines of color, class, gender, political affiliation, and whatever else divides as, in constructive and productive conversation and debate as we work toward uplifting brown and black peoples.

So, maybe I have managed to answer my own question. Maybe I have sat here and written and revised long enough until I have answered my own query. I blog because I feel I have something to say. I feel that I have a voice that is like none other. And with that voice I can sometimes speak in dulcet tones of compassion, forgiveness, and empathy, and at other times, I can speak in loud, bellowing tones of rage and disbelief.

And some days many others drop by to hear which voice I use while other days those that pass through are few. And some days many compliment me on my voice for that day and even stop to engage me in conversation while other days I get no feedback at all.

But nonetheless, this is my voice. This is my platform. This is why I do it. But the question then becomes, why do you do it?

Why Do We Do What We Do?: Collective Black Uplift or Individual Black Privilege?

This past holiday season I got a rare but needed chance to just rest, relax, and reflect. And I guess that because I am an intrinsically introspective person, one or two occurrences gave me occasion to seriously ponder and assess why I do some things that I invest a considerable amount of time in doing. I will present one today and one tomorrow with the hope that I might learn from your collective wisdom and experience.

The first caused my wife and I to have a short but intense quarrel; however, upon returning to the instance again and again in my mind, I suspect that she might be correct in her assessment. I will give you the details as I remember them. I will endeavor not to leave anything out.

We attended a nighttime charity Christmas function at an inner-city institution. As we were leaving, I found that I needed to stop for fuel. However, at the first station we came to I found the fuel cost two or three cents a gallon above what I usually pay. So, I kept driving, but at every station I came to, fuel cost roughly the same.

I muttered about a “poverty tax” for a minute before my wife pointed out that the further we drove out of the way, by the time we found a station with an acceptable price I would have effectively negated whatever savings I hoped to achieve. So, reluctantly I pulled into the next station I came to.

I got out. I tried to use my credit card at the pump. It did not work. I got into my car and drove to the next pump. I tried to use my credit card at the pump. Again, it did not work. I got into the car. I drove around the island. I tried once again to use my credit card at the pump. And again it did not work.

Just then my wife leaned out of the car and suggested that perhaps the pay-at-the-pump option had been disabled, and I should go inside and pay and not waste anymore time. Just then I noticed a disheveled, unkempt black man of about fifty sweeping the lot and emptying the trash. He confirmed what my wife said and directed me inside to pay. My wife decided she wanted some mints, so she accompanied me into the store.

Upon entering the store, I noticed the clerk who seemed to be of Eastern Indian origin thoroughly ensconced in a booth surrounded by about two inches of glass separating him from the customers. Now, I really, really dislike going into an establishment like this; that two inches of glass always seems to say to me that the person behind the glass does not trust me, fears me even.

I pushed my card through the slot in the glass and informed the clerk of the amount of fuel I would like to purchase. He picked up the card. He looked at it. Then he looked at me for a second. Then he asked for ID. I was somewhat taken aback because I was not used to being asked for my ID to use a credit card. But I acquiesced.

Then I remembered the mints, so I asked for a pack of mints since all the gum and mints seemed to be locked in the glass booth with the clerk. But he seemed not to understand. “Mints,” I repeated and pointed through the glass at the mints behind him.

He grabbed a package of small plastic bags from the shelf and held them up. Shocked, I repeated myself, and pointed emphatically at the shelf. “No, mints!” He turned, picked up a little glass tube with a rose in it and held it up.

Now, I was insulted. I tried to maintain my cool; I had no desire to quarrel with another person of color. I thought it might just be a language problem, but that theory was disproved when the disheveled, unkempt black gentleman from outside came into the door, and the clerk launched into a profane tirade against him because of something he had neglected to do. The black man simply looked down at his feet like a child.

At that point, I had had enough. I loudly and emphatically chastised the clerk for talking to the black gentleman in that manner. After all, he was a man? He was a human, right?

And I chastised him for using foul language in front of my wife. And then I chastised him for overcharging the people in the neighborhood and separating himself from them behind two inches of glass like they were all highway robbers and crooks.

Just then a little black lady who had come in after us and waited behind us in line urged me to just pay and go. She said she was in a hurry to get home. She said that no one had asked me to stand up for them and that the black man who still stood in the door staring at his feet was nothing but a crackhead anyway. But what she said next stung me—“You are not from around here anyway. Go on back to where you came from with that old bougie bullshit.”

On the way home my wife was uncharacteristically quiet, so I knew she was not pleased.

“You embarrassed me,” she told me.

“But,” I sarcastically argued, “I was just attempting to stand up for you and the rest of the black folk, but y’all seem less than pleased with my efforts. Maybe y’all like being talked to like a dog.”

Then she explained to me, “It was never about black folks. I was never about that black man. It was never even about me. That was all about you. You were inconvenienced, and that frustrated you.

She went on, “You expected, and you expect, deferential treatment because of what and who you perceive yourself to be, and when you do not achieve deferential treatment, you fall back on your blackness. You get extra black, and you pull all black folks into your fight with you. Most of the time, you are sincere in your efforts, but not this time. If everything had gone your way, if you had not felt as if you had been insulted and demeaned, you would not have said a word. Even when he cursed that man, you would not have said a word. You wish to claim the very privilege you decry.”

And I did protest. I did attempt to defend myself. But the longer the quarrel went, the more evidence she offered up to defend her position, and finally I could only fall silent and ponder within myself if there was any such thing as black privilege.

The Stories that Are Told about Us: Seizing Control of Our Narratives

Human beings are essentially beings made of words, created through language. From the cradle to the grave, from our birth certificate to our death certificate, a narrative account testifying to our very existence is constructed; without these documents, without some narrative account of our being, then we do not and cannot exist and never did.

And who possesses the knowledge and ability to tell my own narrative other than me? Who is better able to describe my experience, my thoughts, my emotions, my being in relation to the world than I?

And we can extend this to groups of people as well. Who is better able to describe the experience of being black than blacks? Who is better able to describe the experience of being a woman than women? Who is better able to describe the experience of being gay and lesbian than gays and lesbians? Who is better able to describe that experience of being persecuted, of being mistreated, of being maligned, than those who have been persecuted, mistreated, and maligned?

Those who are able to seize control of their narrative, those who are able to communicate their narrative unfettered and uncompromised are empowered; all others are, well, simply pitiable.

I bring this up now because lately I have engaged with a number of narratives representing various mediums—literature, movies, television, music—that purport to be black, that purport to be authentic representations of the black experience; however, once you dig below the surface, once you look further than the text, or the screen, or the CD, once you look past the black faces and the black dialect, you find a narrative that is black in conception only. Those varied cultural artifacts should come with the disclaimer, “Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and any depiction of actual persons or events is purely coincidental.”

Take for instance the recent release of the movie Precious based on Sapphire’s novel Push. It received perhaps just as much praise as it did criticism. However, a movie of this type, confronting the subject matter that it does, is bound to engender such passionate and heartfelt reactions from either side.

And I did see the movie, and thought it to be a very well-told narrative. In fact, as a person who works with young inner city children, I found most of the movie to be unsettling. In the case files and cumulative folders of many of the young women within my purview, I have found similar narratives; watching these narratives come alive on screen tugged at my heartstrings a bit. The faces of many of the young women I know and have known periodically replaced that of the main character, Clareece “Precious” Jones.

Precious is an important and timely narrative despite its gross dependence on stereotypes. So, the actual film itself does not incite my ire; however, the process through which the film came to the big screen does. Novelist and essayist Ishmael Reed penned a very informative critique of the film for counterpunch magazine entitled “The Selling of ‘Precious’” which details that process. I do not subscribe to everything Reed writes in this article, but the article is a worthwhile read nonetheless.

But before most movies deemed “black films” or “black-themed films” come to the screen, they must pass the crucial test of how will mainstream audiences receive them. Will mainstream audiences see the film as an authentic depiction of black life and the black experience? Will mainstream audiences be able to relate to the film?

In other words, the mainstream audience becomes the final arbiter as to the authenticity of the work, and you can probably guess who makes up the mainstream audience. And of course, the bottom line is the deciding line. To receive the green light and backing from the major studios, the film must evince the ability to make money.

This means that someone other than the subject defines that experience. Thus the narrative you see on the screen cannot be thought of as the actual narrative, but someone's interpretation of that narrative. But it sometimes seems as if we are so anxious to see a black face on the screen, we are so excited about the "progress" we are making in the various arts that we except that interpretation without protest.

This extends to other mediums as well. I recently spoke with a friend of mine who is in the process of publishing another book. However, on the day I spoke with her, she was distraught because her editor wanted her make changes to the book to make it more marketable, more “believable.” The editor wanted to change one of the lead characters, a love interest, from a black doctor to a corn-rowed night janitor at the hospital replete with a record and a string of illegitimate children.

Certainly, there is nothing wrong with being a night janitor. However, there is something wrong with the notion that a wider mainstream audience would not find a black chief of surgery believable. Though I sometimes believe that mainstream America has not gotten the message, but we can be found in all career fields and at all points within the socio-economic spectrum.

But there is a need and a place for narratives like Precious. We cannot confront rid ourselves of the problems and pathologies within our community unless we are willing to acknowledge these problems and pathologies and confront them head on.

However, pathology is not inherent in the black experience; we have not cornered the market on pathology. Our narrative is much broader and deeper. It is much more varied and multi-faceted. And this should be reflected in the range of our narratives; the profane should be able to exist alongside the secular, and the powerful alongside the pitiful, and the beautiful alongside the grotesque.

But until we seize control of our narratives, until we are able to speak honestly to ourselves and the world about ourselves, about our experience, our thoughts, our emotions, our being in relation to the world without that experience and those thoughts, emotions, and our being in relation to the world, without our utterances and artifacts being filtered through and judged by a third party with only the bottom line in mind, our narrative will continue to be told from the point of view of slaves.

Freedom through Speech Radio: The New Year's Resolution Show

Do me a favor. Take a good look at the video above. You don’t need to watch all of it, but just enough to get the gist of what the brother is attempting to articulate. The brother Paul Brunson, who bills himself as The Modern Matchmaker and a certified life coach, made the video in response to the Washington Post article Bitch Is the New Black which had the black blogosphere all abuzz a few weeks ago.

We began a discussion of the article and the issues it raises on our BlogTalkRadio show, Freedom through Speech Radio, about two Sundays ago, but because of time constraints, we were never able to bring closure to the issue.

But this is the thing with me. I am almost apt to agree with the brother, but in the same instance, I believe that his explanation is only part of the truth; the reasons why successful black women cannot find suitable life mates are so numerous and at once so personal and individual that no singular explanation can suffice. What are your thoughts on this issue?

Also, we will be discussing the events and issues of this past year as well as the events and issues which stand out in the upcoming year. And my co-host and blog sister, OneChele, has a new book which hit bookstore shelves on January 1st, Heard It All Before, so we will definitely have to discuss this.

Our special guests tonight are the gentleman mentioned earlier, Mr. Paul Brunson of onedegreefrom.me, and every man’s dream, Tracy Renee Jones of mebeinganonymous and tracyreneejones.com.

So, come on over and join us at 8 PM EST on Freedom through Speech Radio on Blog Talk Radio.

From Behind the Mask: My New Year's Resolution

We wear the mask that grins and lies,/It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes —Paul Laurence Dunbar, “We Wear the Mask”

I want to be an honest man and a good writer. –James Baldwin

Okay, I guess it is time for me to end my vacation from blogging or any other meaningful and constructive pursuits. This holiday season I simply did nothing but rest and relax, enjoy the company of my wife and children, and get my mental together.

Though I am usually annoyed by inactivity and idleness, this season of unproductiveness seemed so much different; it allowed me to step back from the usually relentless fast pace of my life and put engage in a bit of self-examination and put a number of things in perspective.

A week or so ago I wrote a post highlighting President Obama’s propensity toward compromise. However, in thinking things through this week, I realized, or was finally willing to admit, that I share that same propensity.

Perhaps, it is all those years being the only or one of a few African Americans in majority white institutions. Perhaps, somewhere along the way, I found the path of least resistance to be the most desirable path. Perhaps, I learned that to move forward, I must necessarily present myself as none-threatening and subdue my voice in such a way that it does not offend.

But perhaps my acquiescent attitude arises out of past privation. I have tasted the metallic emptiness of hunger and want before, and I do not wish to go back. I cling tenaciously to my precarious station in life.

Nevertheless, over the years I have developed a repertoire of masks that I skillfully and seamlessly slip in and out of given the situation. There have been some days that I have changed masks so frequently that I have to stop and remind myself just what mask I was wearing. And with each change of masks, I can only question whether or not I leave a bit of myself clinging to the innermost surface of the mask.

During this holiday season, I happened to find myself at a little impromptu get together with a number of friends and colleagues, some of whom I have known since grad school or as far back as undergrad. We were having a good time, and I let my guard down and really cut loose.

However, on the periphery there was one young lady who I don’t know very well but who I have met and spoken to on occasion. But this whole time she is staring at me with this perplexed look on her face. Finally, I just had to give in and ask her just why she was staring at me in this manner.

She shook herself out of her trance and told me that she had never seen me like this before. She had never seen me so animated. She had never seen me so full of life. Then someone else spoke up and said, “Well, this is the real Max. This is the one we all got to know back in the day but who rarely comes out anymore.”

And someone else chimed in: "Yeah, just during holidays and when we are by ourselves."

Then everyone fell silent for a minute and looked around as if some accusation had just been made.

The real Max? This hurt me, threw me for a loop. Then all those other Max-es are fake? If this is so, then I spend most of my time being something I am not simply to appease others, to appear less threatening, to go along just to get along? The real Max, huh?

But this is my one New Year’s resolution: I will drop the masks, and I will begin to take risks. I will not continue to abdicate my strength because this abdication has become my weakness. I will endeavor to push onward, ever upward toward my goal of becoming, just as Baldwin wished, an honest man and a good writer.

And just what do you propose to do differently in the up-coming year?