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?

What is Your Story?: The How I Got Over BlogTalkRadio Broadcast

Everyone has a story, a narrative. And everyone has had to overcome something in their lives, has had a bridge to cross in getting where they are now. If you haven’t, trust me on this, you will, and some of us may be going through something, crossing that bridge, at this very moment.

You know history, most specifically African American history, is a broad palimpsest of these stories, these narratives. If we comb through the annals of African American history, many of these narratives stand out. The narrative of Cinque and the slave ship Amistad is one. The narrative of Nat Turner is another.

Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglas, Booker T. Washington, W.E.B. Dubois, Malcom X, Martin Luther King, Jr. and the list of triumphant, inspirational narratives of people who refused to be slaves, who refused to be second class citizens, who insisted that their humanity and the humanity of all African American men and women be recognized goes on and on.

But these are the most popular, most well-known narratives. However, there are millions of other lesser known individuals whose names you will perhaps never see on the front page or in history books whose narratives are no less fascinating or uplifting.

These are the narratives that I find to be the most beautiful, the most compelling, those narratives of common people, people just like you and me, facing sickness, facing poverty, facing drug abuse, facing the daily vicissitudes of life, who emerge from the experience better and stronger.

And these are the narratives we will explore tonight on the Freedom thru Speech blog talk radio broadcast. We will feature the narratives of Nicole McLean of My Fabulous Boobies, Nina Brewton of Be Inspired, and Michael Stagg of My II Sense who all have beautiful narratives to share.

And we will perhaps feature your narrative, too, if you are willing to just tune in and call in. Nevertheless, this is a broadcast that you do not want to miss. You can listen or comment by dialing the show’s call-in number at 914-803-4881 or by simply going to our BlogTalkRadio page by just clicking here.

The New Max Reddick Theme Song: I Wanna Read All the Books in the World by Two Cents

Just had to drop this off before I started my day. I loved this. This might possibly become my new theme song.

Out of Our Minds—Trauma, Depression, and the Black Women: A Short Review

For some time now I have been planning and researching a series on African Americans and mental illness. I am not a psychologist or psychiatrist, nor do I have any background in counseling, but for a while now, I have been coming in contact with African Americans from disparate backgrounds who seem to exhibit symptoms of mental illness, or who, at the very least, seem to be under such enormous pressure to succeed or to fit in within both their own community as well as the mainstream community that some form of counseling would be of great benefit to them.

However, many African Americans, for whatever reason, seem reluctant to seek counseling or pursue mental health services. In fact, the subject of mental illness seems almost taboo in the African American community. But this is a conversation that I really feel needs to had sooner rather than later.

Stacey Muhammad of Wildseed Films/Intelligent Media sent over this short clip from her most recent short documentary Out of Our Minds—Trauma, Depression, and the Black Women. [Click here to view clip.] Ms. Muhammad explains her film thusly:

This film explores Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome and the experience of trauma, and how the lives of Black women have been affected by these experiences.

Black women from all walks of life, speak openly and candidly about depression, mental illness, anxiety, stress, [and] why these discussions are considered taboo in the African American community, and ways in which we begin to—and continue to—heal the wounds.

The film is produced by Wildside Films/Intelligent Media in conjunction with Block Exchange Films and is scheduled to premiere at the 7th Annual PATOIS International Human Rightst Film Festival in New Orleans on March 13th.

As Women’s History Month progresses, I believe that this is an important and worthwhile beginning to a very necessary conversation. Take a look at the video, and let me know what you think.

And if you would like to enter into a dialogue with Ms. Muhammad, she can be reached through Intelligent Media at 484-472-3745. Click [here] to check out other Wildseed Films/Intelligent Media projects such as I Am Sean Bell: Black Boys Speak.

Love Is the Root Politik: Letter to a Faithful Reader

First of all, allow me, please, to apologize to you. I should have gotten back to you sooner. I should have responded when I first saw the notice. But I assure you I am not as rude as I seem. I assure you that I am not arrogant or that I do not appreciate the emails and other correspondence of those who think enough of me to take time out to communicate with me; I am simply a man who is sometimes overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the tasks I have before me.

And yes, to answer your first question, I do have a number of other white readers, but the funny thing is that most of them, well all except you and another, choose to comment by email instead of leaving comments on the page. I think that they feel as if they will be verbally accosted or something. In fact, for a good while now, I have been carrying on a running dialogue with a Jewish man somewhere in New England. But let’s deal with those issues you have raised.

At this point in my life, I have grown bored of talking about race. I have grown tired of the subject. Yet I feel that I cannot get away from it because it somehow in someway always seems to rear its ugly head. I have friends and colleagues who say that I am fixated on race, that I overanalyze and overreach, that I am perhaps overly sensitive and feel things just a bit too deeply. But how does one feel too deeply?

My graduate school mentor, a black man, followed my blog for a while, then he just abruptly quit, sending me a message that my blog had descended into just another race blog. That’s the exact term he used, “descended.” And he stated further that I had the talent and the intelligence to do so much better and voiced his disappointment in me.

I wish that I could say that he did not hurt my feelings, that I was unaffected by the whole thing, but if I am honest, and that is what I try always to do—be honest, I can only admit that it did hurt. It hurt greatly, and it took me a while to recuperate.

I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to admit my fragility; I break easily. However, I have mastered the art of the stoic dispassionate edifice which is commonly mistaken as strength.
But just to think, I never set out to write about race. I never set out to write about racial issues. You know what I always wanted to do? Don’t laugh, but I always wanted to write love stories. I always wanted to write beautiful stories about black people meeting and falling in love against all odds. I called these my “brown love stories.” But the omnipresence of race and its accompanying issues kept presenting itself, inserting itself, as the main antagonist of any “brown love story” I endeavored to compose; black people loving other black people is truly a revolutionary act.

However, this is what I know to be true about race and its place in American politics and culture. Race is that great divider. All the political rhetoric you hear has nothing to do with politics at all. All those ideals you hear being espoused by both the left and the right in the political arena are not about ideals at all. It is all about money. It is all about power.

And as long as those in power, those with money, can keep the masses divided and resentful of one another because of something so absolutely and utterly inane as race, the longer they remain in power, the longer they control the purse strings of the nation.

Religion works much the same way. You have a select few who claim the moral high ground for themselves while castigating and encouraging discrimination against others. In doing so, they project their own perverted proclivities and repressed desires onto other bodies deemed by a cynical, hypocritical society to be aberrant.

There are many purporting to follow Christ; however, there are very few who conduct themselves as Christ conducted himself.

However, I feel I should stop now; I’ve prattled on much too long. In fact, I may just use this missive as a post since I have spent the time I carved out to write this morning composing it. It’s just that other events of the past week have caused me to be introspective, more so than usual. And writing has always been my means of working through dilemmas.

But I only wanted to thank you for taking the time out to write me and visiting and commenting on the blog. And there is no need for you to feel guilty; both you and I are products of the society to which we were born. Just as I have learned that walking around in a constant and unyielding state of rage is unconstructive and noxious, so too is possessing any measure of guilt for those things you did not contribute to or have no control over.

And what can you do? Perhaps my answer will reveal my naïveté, or better still, my idealism or romanticism, but I do believe that most important thing you can do, the most revolutionary thing you can do, is simply love and acknowledge the humanity of every man. In any and all things, love is always the root politik.

Sincerely,
Max

The Politics of Loneliness

People tease me about my office, especially my desk. Both are an absolute mess. In fact, my desk has almost ceased to function as a desk; it has, instead, become simply a place where I stack my stuff. Then the stacks eventually fall over, and I just seek out a new surface on which to start a new stack.

But there is one corner of my office and my desk that is clean and absence of the ubiquitous clutter. That corner is reserved for my friend, my colleague, who has an office just next to mine. When I am here, she is usually here too there in her corner, reading, checking papers, on her laptop.

Sometimes we chat. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we discuss books we’ve read. Sometimes we get all deep in discussing the problems and questions that have vexed mankind since the beginning of time. But mostly we just sit, each oblivious to the presence of the other, as we work on our respective tasks.

She is sitting there now, composing some document on her laptop. She looks up. She sees me looking over the top of my glasses in her general direction. And she smiles. I smile back. And we go back to work. I try to decide rather or not to let her read this once I finish, or should I just let her wait until morning when she will surely read it on the blog. I decide on the former. Some people don’t like surprises.

But she is always here because she says she hates to be alone; she hates to be lonely. She says her office is so small that the walls sometimes seem to close in around her. However, my office is no bigger. And with the clutter, with the books and the papers stacked everywhere, it is even smaller.

Nevertheless, this is where she spends her day when she is not in class. Or across the hall in some else’s office. Or down the hall in yet another person’s office. But mostly in here because the others get annoyed by her constant presence. They whisper that she is clingy. They whisper that she is a bit kooky. But I don’t mind; I actually enjoy her company.

Usually we eat lunch together too, and most of the time she pays. I don’t have the disposal income a single person without kids does, so I can’t afford to eat out every day. However, she says she doesn’t mind paying because the one thing she hates most in the world is to eat alone. She calls it her lonely tax. Yet, I still feel just a tad bit guilty for allowing her to spend so much feeding me day in and day out. But she insists.

Also, since I have known her she has had a succession of live-in boyfriends and girlfriends. The relationships never seem to work out. But such hastily entered arrangements usually do, and I gently chide her, scold her, about this even though it probably isn’t my business, but I think someone should say something. She rebuts by saying that I don’t know what being alone feels like; I don’t know how it feels to be lonely.

But I remind her that I have not always been married, that I have not always had children. I attempt to sell her on the virtues of being all by oneself. I tell her about the pleasure I get from sitting in the dark, in the silence, communicating with my muse. I tell her about the time I spend with myself, those introspective moments when I attempt to know myself better. I tell her how empowering it feels to communicate completely and honestly with oneself.

I tell her about the day I sat alone in the dark, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof, and listening to my heartbeat, and listening to the sound of the rain on the roof, and listening to my heartbeat, and back to the rain on the roof, and back to my heartbeat, until at some point I thought the two—the steady staccato of the rain and the thump-thump, thump-thump of my heart—actually synched up, and I imagined myself to be one with the universe, and I spent the evening writing and writing and writing as fast as the words could come, as fast as the metaphors and similes and images could form.

She laughs out loud and says that for a black man I sometimes say some corny shit. There is a silence. I ask her if she loves herself. Of course, she says of course, but she hesitates just a bit too long, so I don’t believe her.

And then I get to the end of the post, and debate whether to show it to her now or wait until later. She has always enjoyed what I have written; she has always insisted that I am a gifted writer and just as she is afraid to be alone, I am afraid to be successful because if I was not, I would not spend so much time doing it only to hide it away.

But I have never written anything about her, so I don’t know how she will react. Not only that she may be mad, or she may be upset, or she may be hurt, and she might just get up and leave. And I glance around at the clutter and her in her spot, and realize that at this very moment, I really don’t want to be alone.

Yesterday, for the first time in my career, a student called me a nigger

A student called me a nigger yesterday. And he just didn’t call me nigger all quick and simple like, but he drew the words out as he said them, snarled them at me—neee-grrr—in such a vindictive, baleful manner that I knew he did so with seemingly the deepest hatred, the most malicious intent.

I sat with the dean on one side of me, and this lady from some administrative office (I don’t quite remember her function) on the other, and as the last syllable of the word reverberated throughout the room, it seemed that something else entered. It seemed as some awful miasma filled the room. It caused the dean to turn beat red. It caused the lady to gasp and clutch at some imaginary pearls. And it caused my mind to suddenly pitch backward to another incident.

This is the very first time that some student called me a nigger, though I feel as if I have almost been called a nigger, or I have at least been called a nigger in so many words, many times since I began teaching.But my mind went back to the first year I taught.

I taught high school English then. I wanted to teach at an inner city school, an urban school, but because of integration mandates, the district assigned me to a suburban school filed with spoiled, snotty rich kids.

And every time I stood up before them, it seemed as if they were accusing me with their eyes; every smile seemed to be a smirk; in my imagination, every chuckle turned into uproarious laughter at my expense.

But there was this one student in particular. Every day he arrived in class with glassy bloodshot eyes without books, without pencil, without paper—with nothing—and promptly put his head on the desk and went to sleep. And at the end of the semester I graded him accordingly.

Then his mother arrived at the school in a fit of pique. And when the two of us finally came face to face, she looked me up and down, and suddenly her lip curled into a sneer, and suddenly this look of triumph crossed her face as if she had already won some contest that I didn’t even realize we were engaged in. And she began to berate me. And insult me. And threaten me.

She questioned my mental acumen. My credentials. My reason for being there and not at some other school, one of those schools. She used her head to indicate the direction, due east, right back toward the center city.

But I did not relent. I would not change his grade. Besides, what did I have to grade him on? He had done nothing to receive any grade other than the one he received. So, with her closing remark, she declared her husband would be back to deal with me.

She didn’t call me a nigger, but she might as well had. She hurt me. She cut me to the quick.

And in anticipation of her husband’s visit, I drug out my diplomas. I drug out every award I had ever gotten. I drug out my Honor Society shingle. I even drug out a fraternity paddle. And I hung these all on the wall behind my desk like talismans to ward off any accusations or charges against my ability, my qualifications, my being.

And when his father arrived, he surveyed my wall of accomplishments, eyed me up and down, and then his lip curled into a sneer, and the same look of triumph crossed his face, and he launched into a similar diatribe against me.

But again I did not relent. And the principal said I had his full support. However, he asked if I would just compromise, if I would just work out some deal with the parents. Wasn’t I taking this whole thing just a little personal? He said he understood if I was, but surely they would take this matter before the school board, and ultimately they would win.

And the parents did threaten to take the matter to the school board, but before they could, their child was arrested for something, a drug charge I heard, and I never saw him again. However, I have always been haunted by this incident. I wondered if I defended myself, my actions, vigorously enough. But then I wonder if should have given any credence to their accusations by evening trying to defend myself and my actions at all.

And I chastise myself for dragging all those things out just to impress people who though they thought they hated me, though they convinced themselves that I was their antagonist, really despised themselves for their own impotence in dealing with the problems and challenges of the next generation.

But back to the moment in question. I could feel the dean’s eyes on one side of me, wondering, anticipating the action I would take. And I could feel the woman’s eyes on me on the other. But my gaze did not leave the eyes of the young man who sat directly in front of me. And momentarily his facial expression softened, and he suddenly looked defeated.

Surprisingly and perhaps inexplicably, I did not feel angry. I did not feel hurt. And I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I think I might have smiled just slightly. I may have even chuckled just a bit. Yes, I think I chuckled. I don’t remember. I do know I shook my head, gathered my paperwork, and dismissed the student who skulked ruefully out.

The lady told me how sorry she was, but her attempt at condolement only irritated me. The dean asked me how I thought he should handle it, but I left it to his discretion. I think the whole incident had more of a negative effect on the two of them than it had on me.

Yesterday, for the first time in my career, a student called me a nigger. But as I looked upon this scion of privilege, born with every advantage in the world, I could only feel pity. Because in her hatred born of anger and frustration because that privilege, those advantages, seem to be slowly becoming meaningless, he took his best shot, and that best shot was predicated and subtended only by worn-out, impotent rhetoric.

And I didn’t need a wall of sheepskin, plaques, and awards to remind me of who I was, to buoy my confidence; I was suddenly buttressed from a strength and assuredness that came from within.