"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?

Writing (and Praying): A Letter to a Reader

Anna Renee,

It seems that these days I always begin my letters with an apology. And this one will be no different. I apologize for taking so long to get back to you. I will not use the excuse that I was so busy because aren’t we all so busy? And besides, even in the hubbub of your own life, even given the many responsibilities you have, you gave up your time to write me in an attempt to encourage me, and for that I truly am thankful.

You know the other day a good friend of mine just out of the blue asked me if I were happy. And I smiled, and told her that, yes, I was really and truly happy. But then she said that even though I was always cheerful, even though I usually had a smile on my face, she sensed that many times my mind was elsewhere. Many times I would be going through something, but only I was too prideful to admit it, to seek out someone to talk to.

She said that she sensed that I was one of those smiling on the outside, crying on the inside type persons. I don’t know where she ever got that from.

But I guess she was partially right. There are times that I am going through something. At those times, I withdraw. I become reticent. But aren’t we all going through something at some time or another? But I have learned to deal with, to cope with those times.

Let me give you some background. Every since I was a child, I have not been able to sleep most nights. When I was a child, after my mother and father were asleep, after my siblings were asleep, I would wake up and not be able to go back to sleep.

Sometimes I read. But mostly I paced the floor. Night after night after night, I would pace the floor in the darkness waiting for sleep to come. Waiting for peace to come.

Then my mother told me that when these bouts of insomnia hit, that was a sign that I needed to pray. So, I tried praying, but the peace still would not come. But at some time or another, for some reason or another, I began to write my prayers down.

And slowly these prayers began to take the appearance of stories. Sometimes these prayers would be about something that happened at school that day. Or something that happened around the neighborhood. Or simply something that was weighing heavily on my mind.

But mostly these stories would be about love. Love between men and women. The love of a mother for her child, a father for his child. The seeming absence of love from the world we live in. Just love.

And in praying, in writing, peace would finally come.

When I first got married to my wife, after the honeymoon phase passed and we actually attempted to sleep at night, I began my old routine anew. She didn’t complain all that much, but it must have been hard for her in the beginning. She must have been nervous, wondering what she had gotten into.

In the silent darkness of our small apartment, I would get up in the middle of the night, and I would pace the floor. And I would write. I would pace the floor. And I would write. I would pace the floor. And I would write. Sometimes until sweat ran down my face like drops of blood.

And in praying, in writing, peace would finally come.

Just the other night when I was up, after my wife and children had long gone to bed—my children, too, have now become inured to my nocturnal habits—the phone rang. It was my mother. She sometimes calls late at night, early in the morning, when she feels that I am restless, that I am up. She seems to be able to sense this. She seems to be able to gauge my moods even from far away.

“Are you up,” she asks me.

“Mother, you know I am,” I reply.

And we engage in small talk until I can hear the sleepiness creep into her voice. And when she no longer can hide her fatigue, when conversation becomes almost impossible because of her frequent yawning, she finally moves to end the call.

“Well, I have to go,” she says. “I can hardly keep my eyes open. Are you going to be alright?”

“I always have been,” I answer.

“Well, are you praying?,” she asks.

“Yes, mother. I am writing,” I answer.

And I resume pacing. And writing. Pacing. And writing. Pacing. And writing. Until sweat runs down my face like drops of blood and peace finally comes.

Thank you for thinking of me.

With only the greatest affection,

Maxwell Rene Reddick

Late winter, 2010

3:30 AM

My name is Max Reddick. I am an adult African American male. And I’m afraid of becoming a racist.

For anyone who cares, I need to make a statement. My name is Maxwell Rene Reddick. And I’m afraid of becoming a racist. But perhaps racist is not the correct word to describe how I feel; however, in the same instance, perhaps it’s the only word.

You see, I am gradually experiencing an erosion of trust, a waning of faith. Suddenly, I am beginning to see my fellow Americans in a new light.

It began sometime during the last presidential election. And I am not so naïve as to believe that racism and racial resentment did not exist before that time, but I guess that the ease and the unabashed manner with which they dragged out the ghosts of the past caught me by surprise.

But then I reasoned that they had just given in to the emotions of the moment. That when President Obama took office, all the racist rhetoric would die down. That the Republican leadership would come forward as a united body and denounce the campaign’s racism and allay the imagined fears of some Negro take over.

However, they did not. Instead, they increased the rhetoric. They upped the ante. They even rolled out their own Gestapo like force skilled in the use of racist rhetoric and general mayhem. They called them the “Tea Party.” But soon the “Tea Party,” drunk off their new found sense of power, spurred on by their success, spun out of their control, out of their grasp, and they found themselves, too, at its capricious whims.

So, Saturday I’m watching the whole lead-up to the historic vote on health care reform unfold. I am seeing the crowds gather in protest on the street. I am watching the talking heads get in their talking points on the cable news networks. Then I get a text message. Someone has been called a nigger. Someone has been called a faggot. Someone has been spit on. And almost coincidently the cable network news people confirm these reports.

And I feel my ire rise. I feel a level of indignance that I have not felt in quite some time. And there is something else there too that causes me to clench my fist and bite down on my lower lip. Is that hate or just anger? And then the devil pours me another drink as he laughs at my vulnerability.

But then later I’m in my yard, and a pick-up truck passes with a “NOBAMA” sticker and a “Is it 2012 yet” sticker displayed prominently in the back window of the cab. And then a late model Mercedes-Benz passes going in the other direction. The driver has affixed a sticker with the word “SOCIALISM” with a big red circle with a slash through it.

Then I mentally count the distance between my home and the next home containing a black family. I note my neighbor out working in his yard with his shirt off—he’s really too big to be outside with his shirt off—and I think to myself, “Is he one of them?”. He certainly looks like one of them or what I believe one of them would look like.

And when I am in the grocery, I am looking in white faces, thinking to myself, “Is he one of them? Is she one of them?”. The lady at the gas station smiles at me as she swipes my card. I do not smile back. Is she one of them?

And I tell myself that I cannot be racist. Haven’t I got a plethora of white friends. But that’s the first thing racists say, isn’t it? I remember that from my first year of grammar school until my last year of grad school, I have been surrounded by white people; usually I have been the only, or one of a very few, Blacks in the class. In the military, I lived with white people, slept with white people, ate with white people. I remind myself that my aunt, my mother’s brother’s wife, is white though I have never thought of her as being white before this moment.

But I don’t think that it’s racism; I think it is a lack of trust, a lack of faith in my fellow Americans and their motives. This is, perhaps, how my grandfather felt when he was a young man. Which of you are for me? Which of you are against me? Because I have no way of knowing until you are standing in front of me, spitting on me and calling me a nigger.

However, I refuse to give in to hate. To calm my nerves, to clear my mind, I pick up a book to read, and I come across a quote by James Baldwin: “The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”

And then I realize that I cannot hate. That it is perhaps not in my best interest, our best interests. That it is perhaps not even in me to hold grudges. But I must work on this whole trust thing; I must work to rebuild my faith. But trust and faith are hard found when all around you hate and acrimony seems to be the order of the day.

Blog Talk Radio: The We Count Episode: What Would Black Jesus Do?

Did you happen to catch the We Count!: The Black Agenda Is the American Agenda Summit hosted by Tavis Smiley yesterday? If you did not, then you can catch it here. And this summit will be our topic for discussion on tonight.

Let me repeat a question that I’ve posed many times before: What is the Black Agenda? I keep hearing about this “Black Agenda,” but as of yet, no one has been able to articulate a cohesive, coherent Black Agenda for me. And on yesterday Tavis Smiley convened a panel of august African American community leaders, religious leaders, and scholars to discuss just that—The Black Agenda.

However, at the end of four hours, I still had not gotten a better grasp of this agenda though one of the panelists did suggest that those in attendance and those looking on could purchase a copy of this agenda in the form of Tavis Smiley’s book, but no real consensus seemed to be reached.

But this show is our attempt to make sense of the proceedings of that summit. Did that summit meet your expectations? What do you think was accomplished by that summit? What are you feelings toward the proceedings of that conference? Did that summit inspire you, spur you to act?

Come and join our own august panel of guests as we attempt to get to the bottom of this Black Agenda yet again. iluvblackwomen will be in the house, as will the dynamic Brother Jesse, and California community activist Alvin Herring.

And we look forward to you being in the house as well. Remember, the show starts at 9 PM EST. You can join us on our show platform page by clicking here, or you can dial in to listen to the show at 914-803-4881.

College Was a Different World Indeed: My College Memories

So, the other day I’m sitting at my desk in my classroom as the students began arriving for class. Because they seemed particularly animated about something on this afternoon, I paused for just a minute so that I might determine what had them all stirred up, and before long it occurred to me that they were simply getting their plans together for the upcoming spring break.

And, amused, I just had to smile for a second or two as I remembered spring breaks past and the whole undergraduate college experience. Do you remember those? Or, if you did not attend college, do you remember just being young with no real responsibilities and just living life to the fullest?

I studied hard, and I studied long, but I did get in my foolishness. In fact, there are some days I remember this episode or that episode, and it suddenly dawns on me just how horribly things could have turned out. When you are young, you are often under the impression that you are somehow invincible, but only later and in hindsight do you realize that though you thought you knew it all, you really knew very little.

But after listening to my students, I took stock of my plans for spring break, and oh, how things have changed. Instead of Freaknik or Daytona Beach, my spring break plans consist of catching up on all those household chores that I have fallen behind on. Plus, I have a doctor’s appointment for a colonoscopy and a prostate exam. I just hope that for my prostate exam, I get that doctor with the little tiny hands as opposed of the one who played basketball in college.

But anyway, here are those memories of college life that stand out for me:

The Church Lady Well, the Church Lady was not this lady’s given name; it was the name that I and some of my close friends gave her in our freshman year. It seemed for the first two years of school, we had practically every class together. And she would show up every day, for each class, dressed like it was Easter, big hat and all. I just couldn’t figure it out. It all seemed like overkill to me.

One semester we took an 8 AM class together. I would drag in to class in flip-flops, a tank top, gym shorts, and crusty to be damned, and there she would be sitting right up front, frustrating everyone with that big hat blocking the board.

Over the years, we became friends though. In fact, she is my colleague at the college where I now teach. And guess what? She’s still showing up everyday dressed like it’s Easter morning.

Ramen Noodles A week or so ago I came across this article about a chef selling a bowl of ramen noodles for $100 dollars. You know I had to do a double take. One hundred dollars for a cup of ramen noodles? The chef stated that the many years of tradition and experience that went into each bowl justified that price.

Well, doing college I ate many, many bowls of ramen noodles. I bought Ramen noodles by the case. In fact, I ate so many ramen noodles during college that the very sight of ramen noodles makes me gag now.

And it has been my observation then and now that ramen noodles are an integral part of the college experience for many students. So, along with that college tradition and experience, cheap, cut-up hot dogs went into my ramen noodles. I wonder how much I could have charged.

Financial Aid Dispersal Day on the Yard You could always tell when the financial aid, student loan, and scholarship checks arrived because suddenly everything on the yard would seem brand new. Everyone on the yard would show up in new clothes and shoes. Some even showed up to school driving new cars or cars with new rims and booming systems. And for a week or so, ramen noodle sales dropped precipitously.

For a brief minute, everyone on the yard was some sort of tycoon. But of course the money soon ran out, and everything returned back to normal. Speaking of return, I had a friend who took her financial aid money and purchased a $600 Gucci purse that she had had her eyes on for quite some time. And she strutted around with that purse like she owned the world for a while. But then one day she asked me to take her to the mall to return the purse. It seems she had run short of cash and really needed that $600 dollars she spent on the purse.

My Oldsmobile Cutlass Brougham I was intent on buying me a car. Suddenly, the Mercury Comet my dad bought for me just didn’t suffice. My dad recommended that I wait until he could go with me to purchase my car so I didn’t end up with a lemon. Instead, I decided not to wait for him and go at it alone.

I ended up buying a 1981 Oldsmobile Cutlass Brougham for $700. The advertisement in the paper said low miles and one owner, but low miles really meant the low 100,000s and the one owner must have driven that car to hell and back, but I bought it anyway.

Six months later the car developed a problem. I don’t know if it was the engine or the transmission, but you could push the pedal all the way to the floor, and the car wouldn’t go over forty miles an hour. Then came the unexplained fumes. From some undetermined location, these noxious fumes would fill the car whenever you drove it. But did that stop me from driving it? Not at all.

I, along with my frat brothers, would drive along at forty miles an hour for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time until we got light-headed. Then we would pull over and step outside the car for a while so that we could clear our heads. We might have shown up a little late and light-headed, but we did not miss one party in town.

Impromptu Road Trips Some of the best times I had as a college student were on those impromptu road trips we took all over the Southeastern United States with no planning and very little money. Somebody would just show up and excitedly inform us about a party or a Greek show in this city or that city, and we would just look at each other, shrug our shoulders and hit the road.

Sometimes I marvel that we ever made it there and back in one piece and without incident. But the old saying goes that God gives special attention to fools and babies, so perhaps that figured into the equation.

I remember one such trip from Jacksonville, Florida, to Virginia Beach, Virginia, for a Greek show and party. Seven of us stuffed ourselves into my line brother’s ancient Toyota Celica hatchback/deathtrap with a suspect braking system and tires so bald that you could see the air in them. There was an eighth but we had to leave him behind to make room for the case of oil and transmission fluid we had to take with us; every time we stopped for gas or to get something to eat, we had to replenish the car’s fluid levels.

We drove there, partied until the wee hours of the morning and had breakfast, took a quick, uncomfortable nap in the car, and then drove back. One the way back, we had just enough money for gas. In fact, we must have rode for about an hour or so on pins and needles as the gas light glowed ominously red.

Was it irresponsible? Were we a bunch of fools? Yes, but when you are young, you sometimes simply don’t think of such things. And not only that I had more fun than I have ever had in my life. I just hope my kids have a bit more sense than I did.

What are your fondest memories of college or of just being young?

Negar-Nigger-Niggra-Colored-Negro-Black-African American-Negro?: The 2010 U.S. Census and the Evolution of an Appellation

So the big day finally arrived! For some reason, my children have been anticipating the arrival of the 2010 census form like Christmas. They found out that the census is only taken every ten years, and their schools and television commercials have been hyping it up so much that they saw it as a big cultural and societal event.

So, my wife filled out our part, person one and person two. She put herself first on the form, but it’s all good. Then she passed the form to my son so he could fill in the information for person three. And it went well until he got to the choices for race.

He read off the choices: “African American, Black, Negro. Negro? Wait a minute. Which block do I check?”

I informed him that he should just check that box and move on so his sister could fill out her section, but he refused to move on. Indignantly he said, “I’m African American. I’ll accept Black. But I’m not a Negro. If I check this box, I’m agreeing that I am indeed a Negro.”

Now, I’ve been looking on from the periphery at the whole controversy about “Negro” being included on the census. I haven’t paid very much attention to it, though, because it didn’t seem that much of a big deal. Keep in mind, two weeks or so ago I was called a nigger by a student, so Negro pales in comparison.

But can someone tell me what’s so wrong about the term Negro? And I am aware of the negative connotations surrounding the word; however, that does not mean I understand even after my son explained to me that when he hears the word, his mind automatically conjures up images of a servile, obsequious figure, debasing themselves so that they might receive favor. He says this is not what he seeks to be, and this is not what I’ve taught him up, so he does not understand why I do not understand why he objects so strongly to the word.

But at one time, even within my lifetime, Negro was the acceptable term used for African Americans. Is it generational?

I wonder what those “twenty or something odd Negars” dropped off by the Dutch slaver at Jamestown, Virginia, in 1619, and who were counted as part of the census the following year, thought of being referred to as Negars?

Perhaps because they were Africans, and as such, still held a memory of a homeland, a village, a place, a history—an identity, they resented being referred to as Negars. But then again, the term Negar simply meant black, so they might have accepted it without thought. Nevertheless, they did not possess the power or influence—the agency--to determine the term by which they would be referred.

And only within the crucible of slavery would the term Negar be bastardized to nigger, and because meaning is not inherent in language, the first blacks to be referred to as nigger probably did not think nothing of it at all, but after hundreds of years of degradation and dehumanization, black folk began to attach their treatment and their condition to the word, and the word began to gather the power and negativity still associated with it even until the current day.

I imagine, though, at some time somebody protested against the use of the word because in those old newsreel films and film footage taken of whites in the 1950’s and 1960’s, those “proper” whites who considered themselves more well-bred and genteel began to use “niggra” in place of “nigger” although I’m not quite sure of the actual difference it made; the semantics remained constant.

But as African Americans gained power and influence, where we could we began to define ourselves and part and parcel of defining ourselves was insisting that neither of those terms, nigger or niggra, be used in referring to us. I’m not certain which came first, colored or negro, or if they were even used simultaneously; I do, however, remember be referred to as both. In fact, until my eighty-five year grandmother died last year, she preferred the term colored.

However, now even colored appears to be deemed derogatory. Take a look at the following clip. The reporter inadvertently uses the term “colored” in discussing the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People with NAACP chairman Ben Jealous. A few minutes later he feels the need, or maybe he was coerced, to come back and apologize:


I do remember the Black Power Movement of the late 1960’s and 1970’s rejecting the term Negro for the same reasons my son mentions in favor of the term Black, and that was what we were referred to most often when I was a child—Blacks. However, in the same instance, I remember reading or hearing a speech by Malcom X which pre-dates the Black Power Movement in which he stated that the proper term was Afro-American which, of course, became African American at some time or another.

But I don’t even recall being referred to as African American with any frequency or consistency or seeing it show up as a choice on paperwork until about the late 1980’s. Maybe I will pull out some of my old army paperwork from that time and check there.

But anyway, over the course of my lifetime, I have watched as we have gained the agency to determine who we are and what we should be called. But of course, African America is not a monolith. Every African American does not think the same way or share the same principles and/or convictions, so it is natural that we should differ in the meaning and import of the term Negro showing up on the census.

However, just as I explained to my son, what is most important is who and what you think you are and who and what you know yourself to be and what actions you take toward that ideal; your definition and determination of self is more important than the definition and determination of those outside forces.

So, perhaps in the spirit of self-definition and becoming and the memory of those who came previous, it would be best to simply check the box other and write in “Negar,” and then with our actions and deeds, show the world who we really are.

Welcome to Texas, Land of Make Believe

Do you remember when over the summer, Texas governor Rick Perry threatened state secession? I don’t think anyone thought anything of it then; at the time, the right seemed particularly occupied with yelling out anything that seemed to express their extreme displeasure in the “Washington establishment” and the new socialist direction in which the country was heading, no matter how ridiculous it was or how ridiculous it made them seem.

Perhaps it was just coincidental that the face of the “Washington establishment” and the man leading that headlong charge into socialism just happened to be a black face, the first of its kind.

So by the time the secession talk came up, I wasn’t all that surprised; by that time I had seen and heard it all. But what really caused me to raise an eyebrow was when the secessionist movement actually began to catch on. A sizable portion of Texans actually supported secession or either could not make up their mind, and some fools even began to campaign on the secessionist platform.

And whatever reasons Texans might give for supporting secession, the first few lines from the Texas Secede! Website seems to imply that the president at least figures in the desire to leave the union:

“Texas is a free and independent State, subject only to the Constitution of the United States…” (note that it does not state…subject to the President of the United States…”…)

Now, I cannot insinuate race is a factor here because nowhere on this site can I find racist language, so I’ll resist making that charge. Let’s just say that Texans are somewhat intimidated by the change in American society and culture, no matter how minute, that is suggested by President Obama’s election.

However, if the secessionist movement does not gain ground, Texans have found an alternate means of affecting the historical trajectory of the nation; they’ll just rewrite history. Last week the conservative heavy Texas State Board of Education voted to transform the Texas social studies and economics textbooks into purveyors of conservative ideals and principals.

Among other things, among many questionable decisions, in doing so they downplayed the role of founding father and deist Thomas Jefferson in favor religious right icon John Calvin, opted to allow the Judeo-Christian influences of the nation’s founding fathers while ignoring the philosophical rationale for the separation of church and state, describes the United States as a constitutional republic as opposed to democratic, and removed mentions of capitalism in favor of the American free enterprise system.

The really shameful part is that these distortions of history will be used for a number of years going forward and will influence millions of young Texans. Perhaps, then, Texas is hedging its bets against change by attempting to influence the young minds that flow through its school system by teaching a skewed, one-dimensional version of history. But allow me to give the state of Texas a tip.

Yes, you might be able to change the textbooks. You may be able to distort the truth and downplay the roles and contributions of minorities to this great country of ours and the state of Texas. But keep in mind that racial demographics are quickly changing. Keep in mind that soon minorities will be the majority, with Hispanics leading the charge and African Americans coming in a close second.

So how long do you think you can go on suppressing the knowledge that Tejanos were among the fallen heroes of the Alamo? How long can do you think you can go on suppressing the knowledge of liberal and minority rights group?

All those new minorities coming down the pike will undoubtedly not be conservatives despite the Texas State Board of Education’s greatest efforts. A number of these minorities will be able to think for themselves and seek knowledge of themselves and see through the many liberties you have taken with the retelling of history.

Whatever the Texas State Board of Education may have been trying to achieve, they have managed to engender their own revolution; they have given the many disparate minority rights groups impetus to unite under a common banner. Many groups have already begun to fight back. Many groups have already begun to push back and challenge the distortions.

What the state of Texas has succeeded in doing is creating a text filled with conservative fairy tales positing the state of Texas as a utopia. So in reality, Texas has managed to secede and form its own country after all--the land of make believe.