Obama's Speech: Are Our Kids Better?

Last night I had a remarkable conversation with my mother.  And although I am ashamed to admit the rarity in which we talk, I am even more ashamed that we rarely get passed small talk and family updates.  During our discussion two interesting topics came up.  The first was a recent concert she attended where the popular 1960-70's band Sly and the Family Stone performed.  The other topic was Barack Obama’s recent speech concerning race and the Trayvon Martin verdict.  

While we discussed Sly my mother confessed that although she had an excellent time at the event, she didn’t possess the stamina to wait for Sly and his band to finally enter the stage.   And when she confessed this point I had remembered from old pictures from an old photo album that she didn’t need to.  She was fortunate enough to have witnessed him in his hay day.  And in my envy of such an historic moment I started thinking about any moments in my life that could compare.  I came up with two, the time I saw Prince at Madison Square Garden and the time I saw David Bowie at Jones Beach.  My mother marveled at the latter confessing that in all of her 62 years she had never paid to see a white performer.  In my attempt to explain the appeal of Bowie the best I could come up with was that he was cool and composed kind of like a white Marvin Gaye who plays rock music. And from that description we both agreed that there is something very special about people who command the attention of large amounts of people without all of the drama and jumping around like many of today’s artists.  While we discussed all of these things I started to realize that although we are both very capable conversationalists rarely did we ever at least knowingly devote so much time to discussing music, politics and race at the same time. 

My mother’s statement about never witnessing a white performer started me thinking about the president’s request for the country to have more personal conversations in their homes, churches, etc. about the topic of race.  I also thought about Obama’s optimistic statements about the future and how he believes that based on his observations of his own children, they are better than us.  This statement evoked many thoughts and questions in my mind.  For example, it is only now in my adult life that I can even mention without shame that I attended a Bowie concert.  If I had asked my parents for money to see him when he was in his hay day, I don’t think that my request would have been met with much enthusiasm.  It would be safe to say that seeing Sly would have been much more acceptable.  And although some of the blame can be placed on them for this attitude, I can’t deny that the times were also a major factor.  In those times our education about race began at birth.  We had to be conscious of both our identities and the ‘enemy’s’.  And although I attended a school that was 50% white and 50% black and I studied and played on the same sports teams as this so-called enemy, their was still a voice in my head that kept me constantly aware that getting too close to him would be frowned upon by my family and my black peers.  The blatant economic and legal inequities that my parents experienced of course were the reason for this distrust.  So when they reached adulthood they were content living their lives in a community where everyone looked like them.  In this regard they were no different than any other working class Americans in any other homogeneous community.  My parents knew that the melting pot that many politicians had spoken about was an illusion and our conversations about race although rare reflected these feelings.  Any discussions about this topic with them or other black mentors were to protect us from the realities that affected their lives when they were young.  They intended to give us tools of awareness to deal with those realities.  Their preparation I believe has yielded varied affects. 

In the communities where I have taught the African-Americans who reside there have inherited their parents’ sensibilities about race. Distrust of “the man” is still an acceptable way of life because their education about him and the threat he represents is especially apropos when these same individuals arrest their fathers or kill their peers on a regular basis.  The president to his credit did touch on this, but the question that remains is how do the tools from the past apply when the discussion reaches outside of the community where the enemy could be a professor who grades them unfairly or boss who doesn’t give a much deserved promotion?  As a teacher how do I show my students that the purpose of the endless discussions, homework and essays is to prepare them for the larger world where individuals that have zero regard for them have the power to manipulate their destinies?  This is hard to achieve when the very individuals you want to prepare regard you as the enemy because of your pattern of speech or because you wear a tie to work. 

Many of these kids attend schools where they are 99% of the population. In many of their minds the enemy that exists outside of their communities is still invisible even though he casts a long shadow called the NYPD. I have often wondered if they even care about this apparition that so many have warned them about.  And why would they even consider having a discussion about him if in their immediate realities he doesn’t even exist?   The president said that the younger generation is better.  I have personally witnessed this in the advanced English class I taught.  But I still wonder if discussions are being held when we, possibly the last generation to be so preoccupied with the subject is not in the room?   Are the discussions the president witnessed happening because of his status as president?  Does class play a role in these discussions? Are the youth better because they are better equipped to discuss these matters or have they just decided that the subject is just not that interesting? I decided to ask my own children.  Both of their responses were quite telling.  The first was from my son CJ age 3. 

Me- CJ what color are you? 

CJ- I don’t know.  Can I have some apple juice?

I asked my daughter Autumn, age 10 a different question.  This was her response.

Me:  When you are around your friends and family your age, do you ever talk about race?

Autumn:  What do you mean race? 

Me:  You know black people; white people; how we relate to one another?

Autumn: No, we never talk about race.

I noticed that in both of these conversations neither of my children had any concept of race, which may prove one thing.  All of these concepts like race, politics, etc. are preoccupations of older generations that have possibly been using too much jumping around and drama to get their point across.  Maybe we have done so much talking about these issues amongst ourselves and when given the opportunity dictating them to our children that maybe they are unifying under the common goal of escaping the drama. Maybe all they want is a little peace and quiet and some damn juice.  Maybe our kids are better.  We’ll just have to wait and see.

Two Responses to the Verdict via Q-Tip

1.  "What are laws if they ain't fair and equal?"
- Q-Tip

2.  "Chill for a minute Doug E. Fresh said silence"
- Q-Tip

 "

A Moment of Silence

4/17/13

I was listening to my favorite podcast this afternoon and during the introduction the host +Aisha Tyler made some brief but heartfelt remarks about the Boston Marathon tragedy.  She basically encouraged her listeners to not let this tragedy get us down and that a few evildoers in the world should not destroy life for the rest of us.  I agree of course and I also feel like kind of an asshole since the only thing that I have been writing about for the last two days is a trivial issue with work.  It is unfortunate that it takes major tragedies like this to remind us that our troubles are not really that bad.  Lives were lost and limbs were separated from bodies.  My life is really not that bad.  I am also grappling with the idea that since things like this are a part of our history, I should find a way to rip myself away from my occasional self-absorption and recognize what I should be putting in print.  Is this what separates the good writers from the bad?  Since I have been bold enough to take on the mantle of writer is it now my responsibility to be aware of every cataclysmic event that happens around the world? I’m not sure if that is even possible, but I guess I should try.  It is possible that my insights on things like Boston would probably matter to more people, because in tragic times like these people want someone to articulate what they cannot.  The only problem is I’m not sure if anyone would want me to speak for them.   I realize that it takes a tremendous amount of confidence bordering on arrogance to put myself in the position to represent what a mass of people might be thinking, which is why I mostly speak for myself.  But what I have found is that this habit has left me with a very short list of readers.  

There is one thing that I’m sure of though.  This was a horrific event and the citizens of Boston showed tremendous courage in finding their way through the maze of emotions that have resulted from it. And before I go into another self-absorbed rant about my writing process, I’ve decided that not much can be said except that my prayers go out to those people and the most prolific thing that I can offer at this moment is silence…

A Portrait of the Artist as a 42 year-old man in Brooklyn

3/29/13

My journey began with a dream about an apple.  I’m not sure if I was eating the apple or if it was simply half eaten on the floor somewhere in a room where more significant events occurred, but for some reason it was the first thing that I remembered when I woke.  Nevertheless, my first thoughts as I jumped out of bed had something to do with technology being a metaphor for life, creating this artificial narrative that continues to develop out of the ether causing needs where none existed before.   The rest I admit is a bit murky.  I’m finding it hard to recall all of it. But such is the nature of dreams. 

One thing that I do remember is the urgency I felt immediately after I awoke to get it all down.  I’m pretty sure that the details of the dream do not concern me.  I’m more concerned with the epiphany that I received from the experience.  It seems to be gone now but something else lies remaining in its wake.  Along my journey I notice some things. I guess I could call them obstacles, but as my periphery reveals a half full glass of water next to my laptop I’ve decided to instead call them guideposts.  I remember back pain, a smelly garbage bin, a piece of misplaced mail, a crazy singing lady and a long overdue trip to the bathroom. To give these obscure items context, I have to reference the movie The Matrix.  There is a scene when Morpheus informs Neo that all inhabitants of the matrix were programmed to be his enemy and would do any thing to protect the program.  The primary protectors of this artificial reality were the agents who would kill anyone who did not belong.  My writing process is kind of like this; a process filled with obstacles both internal and external, which threaten my ability to put thoughts on paper.  I assume that every writer has his or her own unique version of this; today mine started with a pain in my back. 

It was only one of a series of aches that I have been experiencing since the beginning of the week when I discovered I was sick…again.  For some reason, my immune system has been compromised this winter and I have been getting sick quite frequently.  The frustrating thing about it all is that of all the times that my body could have shut down it chose to do so during my week’s vacation from my very stressful teaching job.  The same job that I have constantly complained is the number one distraction to my writing process.  So, my first waking moment after my apple dream was a reminder that even though I am feeling much better than I did in the beginning of the week, I’m still not quite over this bug.   That realization was kind of like a moment in a video game when the hero takes some enemy fire and his energy level gets reduced from a hundred percent down to ninety.  But even with ninety percent inspiration left I was still determined to sit at my computer and write about my dream and the fading epiphany it left me. 

Guidepost number two revealed itself in the form of a full garbage bin.  On my way to my laptop, which will serve as the Holy Grail in this Knight’s tale, I smelled the foul stench of garbage coming from my kitchen.  And since I am the only male in the house capable of taking out the garbage and since garbage day is today, it is of course my responsibility to gather and bag all of the garbage and recycling in the house and make sure that it is promptly placed on the corner before the garbage men come to collect it.  The alternative of course would be waiting until Monday, which of course is unacceptable.  This seemingly minor distraction might not be a big deal to most, but to a guy like me who sometimes lives in his head it is a major shift in the delicate balance of the universe.  I sometimes resort to silly self-absorbed practices like thinking back to the days when I had nothing but time to sit and contemplate both my navel and my next great literary work.  Household responsibilities in my mind become nothing more than obstacles created by the ongoing conspiracy to suppress free thought and dampen creativity.  Damn that infernal garbage!  Energy level now at eighty percent. 

Once I decided to man up and take out the trash I noticed another looming responsibility in my periphery.  It was a piece of misplaced mail.  We have recently been assigned a new mailman who has acquired the remarkable skill of dropping off a piece of misplaced mail in our box every single day since we became a part of his route.  The package in question had been sitting by the door for about a week and it looked important.  And since the inner boy scout in me could not bare to look at this important looking package any longer, I dropped off the garbage and did the mail man’s job.  This particular guidepost has to do with my O.C.D. tendency tie up loose ends and reset the universe when it seems to be going off balance. The only down side is that this obsession sometimes distracts me from balancing my own universe.  I realize this and the effect is almost paralyzing.  Energy level: sixty-five percent. 

At this point of my journey, writing began to feel pointless.  The Advil I took had not yet taken effect, and as I trudged forward to the stranger’s apartment to deliver her mail I was tempted with thoughts of going back to bed and sleeping until noon until my thoughts were abruptly interrupted by some peculiar singing. Normally I wouldn’t have paid it any attention especially since Brooklyn is filled with atonal crooners who I’m sure sound good in their own minds. But the strange thing about this woman’s song was that it was a single word repeated over and over, a word that sounded oddly like my wife’s name Devasha.  “Vasha Vashaaaa…Vasha Vashaaaaa” Coincidence? Probably. But I could also attribute it to my subconscious and the little matrix agents at work creating more barriers to my creative process.  One of the hardest things that any struggling writer or artist can admit is that the ones we love can sometimes unwittingly distract us the most.  It is not their fault of course.  They just want our attention. They also remind us that we play a major role in handling the daily minutia of taking out garbage and making sure that the neighbors a block away receive their mail. The constant awareness of this paradox that suggests that in order to be a responsible man I must give up what makes me a person is constantly looming.  Even since I have started writing these observations my wife has already interrupted me three times with news about mechanic estimates on her car and other house and family related things, some of which do not fall under the category of minutia.  Soon, my children will be awake and the last of my energy will be spent getting cereal for my son as he asks me repeatedly to turn on The Power Rangers and my daughter asks for my help on her English homework.  And there is a fifty/fifty chance whether or not I will do any writing for the remainder of the day.  But again, they’re my children and it’s not their fault.  Energy level: twenty-five percent.

I finally reached my epiphany during the last slightly vulgar but much needed interruption of my journey to the grail.  Let’s just say that before I took my seat at my desk I required some place else to sit.  I mention this inappropriate subject because many parents are aware that the bathroom is often the only place of refuge to momentarily escape the pressures of this sacred duty.  I wouldn’t be surprised if many of our greatest conundrums of parenting and life in general were solved there.  It is also the place that marks the end of illnesses like colds and flu.  On this day it was the last destination that I visited before I realized that the epiphany I was looking for from my apple dream was that I was just full of shit. All of the obstacles that seemed to be getting in the way of my process were just constipated thought. Ironically, it was the one place on my road to the page where I became focused enough and healthy enough to write this narrative created out of the ether on m Apple laptop.  Thanks to Steve Jobs for giving the expression "an apple a day" a whole new meaning. 

Whose Afraid of Post Blackness?: Has the Fat Lady Finally Sang on Old Definitions of Blackness?

Recently I began reading Toure's book, Whose Afraid of Post Blackness. In this book the term post-blackness is kicked around by a host of black artists and scholars.  I haven't completed the book yet, but so far it identifies post-blackness  as the ability to view blackness as a significant part of who we are but not as the whole of what we are.  I realize that a definition such as this is a slippery slope because there is always the risk of being placed under the same scrutiny as  Tiger Woods and even Clarence Thomas for that matter. Despite its dangers however, I must still confess that the definition of post-blackness has forced its way into my line of sight.  It's probably because I have always found myself being the oddball, doing oddball things like, snowboarding, listening to rock music and jumping out of airplanes.  People like +Aisha Tyler with her podcast "Girl on Guy" where I learned of Toure's book have given me the perspective that it might indeed be possible that all of the fighting that blacks have done throughout history to gain freedom may have given us a freedom that we did not expect; self-expression.

In 2007 I attended an event produced and hosted by my wife called Opera Noire.  As the name suggests, it was an event that featured an all black ensemble of classically trained, professional opera singers. In hindsight, this concert was a vivid example of the clash between post-blackness as defined by the artists and scholars in Toure's book and the blackness defined by the civil rights era.  A room full of black people of various economic and class statuses assembled together for various reasons this night.  Some were obvious opera enthusiasts identified by their postures, seating and overall proud-ish demeanor during the performances and even during intermission in the way the mingled, chatted and sipped glasses of wine.  Others were of a different ilk, possibly sharing the same economic status, but aggressively leaning toward a more ethnic influenced standard of music such as jazz, R&B via Motown and gospel via Mahalia Jackson.  And then there were those who were not really interested but maybe a little curious and proud to be among a group of black people that appreciated a tradition of music that demanded that that they look their best.  I found out shortly enough though, that no matter how much our  diverse groups seem to blend together, we can always find a way to distinguish ourselves from one another in the end.

It started with the first diva among divas.  She was a buxom dark-skinned woman with a voice as soft and as full as mink.  Since I'm not into opera so much, I will not confess to knowing her name. But I do remember her voice, which added theatrics without the need of physical gestures. She brought a drama to the stage that astounded those who did not know what to expect and pleasure to those that were expecting that which made them love opera in the first place.  She gave a stirring performance that caused a standing ovation, which splintered off into a black fork in the road of Hammerstein Ballroom, divided by the pleasantly surprised and the appreciatively awed.  Many of the former stood because it seemed the right thing to do.  This group seemed to be the novice opera goers who in spite of rarely if ever witnessing this art form could not deny its power.  But I would dare to say that it was the instrument of this power, a black goddess that made it real to them.  The other prong of the utensil that fed this artist's ego was the high cultured black folks who needed for this performance to be exactly what it was; astounding, to reconcile what their presence at this event demanded; bona fide proof that the opera diva could definitely be found in Brooklyn, Chicago, Newark or Atlanta. This part of the crowd showed off their approval with loud Bravos! And other Italian praises that only high cultured folks at an opera would yell.  And even though the respectful crowd silently frowned at this, both sides seemed united for the duration of this rousing round of applause.

Then something interesting happened.  There was a last minute change on the playbill.  One the headliners whose name again escapes me, could not make it.  A woman whom I had not heard of came to the stage who certain members of the non-opera crowd seemed to know. The moment she opened her mouth to sing this was confirmed because they began as if in a collective sigh of relief to smile and cheer.  She sang a traditional gospel song that was equally as theatrical and proceeded to redefine the word diva for those of the opera persuasion. Her voice was an aggressive roar in comparison the subtle one that preceded it, but the power that each of these feminine voices held should not have been compared because this woman showed everyone who witnessed that comparisons were irrelevant.  All that mattered were the ghosts she released that whispered history into the souls of the listeners that night and reminded them why they had come to this event in the first place.  They might not have known it but they were in search of answers. They were in search of some sort of perspective on our enigmatic existence on this planet.  What they got was answers in both French and southern fried English.  She ended in gospel music's dramatic fashion with a loud yet controlled soulful wail and the crowd leapt out of its seats again.  This time the roles of the prongs in this fork in the road were changed.  The proud, high cultured folk became reserved, forced into a place that did not allow them to forget their roots and smile while they clapped enthusiastically enough to show their pride and not wrinkle their clothing, while the once respectful crowd suddenly unleashed a passionate gushing of gratitude for their singer for bringing them back home again from far away France to North Carolina and Georgia.  They clapped until their hands burned, mockingly yelling Bravo! Bravo! 

My first thought although I might not have been aware of it at the time, was that this event was symbolic of the large amount of distance we have to cover before the psychoses created by slavery and Jim Crow will come anywhere close to an end.  But after reading some of Toure's book, I realize that we may be closer than I thought. Yes, I did see a distinct divide between the proud black folk on both sides of the spectrum who have either assimilated into the culture of this country or chosen a path that seems to go in the opposite direction. But what is most important is that these groups have actually chosen paths that were not aggressively imposed on them by mainstream culture.  The snake that mingles in the grass of each of these group's collective gardens is the pressure that the groups themselves put on their members to assimilate.  

One poignant example of this phenomenon is in Daniel Beaty’s poem Nerd vs. Nigga.  www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vbp6RvAY3MI In his monologue Beaty takes on the personae of the nerd, an upstanding, status seeking, Ivy League graduate who at times comes into direct conflict with his nemesis the nigga, whose mission is to constantly remind the nerd that even though he is a smart talking, suit wearing, Ivy League boy, “his father still smokes heroine” and his brother is still on crack”.  In essence, it would seem that the members of the Opera Noire crowd also represented this conflict.  The gospel crowd who mockingly yelled bravo definitely were intent on letting the opera lovers know that no matter how much they love and even sing opera, they also even sometimes reluctantly so, belong to a peer group that still boldly worships Jesus as well as other tropes that are un-mistakenly considered black.  In this case however, amens were replaced with bravos.  So where does this leave us? Where do we go from here? Is post-blackness the answer to our post Jim Crow trauma, which is acknowledged by some but, denied by others?  I guess I'll have to read the rest of the book to find out. No spoilers please!