Lately I have been struggling with how to respond to recent incidents of police brutality in
African American communities. But all
these atrocities have done is render me mute. We live in day and age where anyone can fancy themselves a writer
and feel compelled to do so on any number of issues. We have social media to thank for that. Because of this I often find myself at crossroads between being relevant and being honest. Although in a perfect world these should be synonymous, social media tends to skew our perceptions of what is genuinely felt and what is reactionary especially when race is involved. I have scrolled through countless memes and angry comments about white police and comments on why black lives matter. Although I am in full agreement with most of what I see, I am beginning to wonder about their effectiveness and how I might be effective as a writer. I am reminded of a recent interview with Toni Morrison in which she stated that she would like to be viewed as an American writer and not just an African American one. And since she is both a Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winning author she has certainly earned a right to that nomenclature. Many of the rest of us however, might have a ways to go. But despite her title I am sure that she would agree that the recent tragedies in Black communities transcend race and regardless of whether she is an African American writer or other, she would still be compelled to comment. For me writers like Morrison represent on a larger scale what I feel every time injustices happen in black communities. I can only imagine the pressure they might feel to say something authentic and relevant. I have only recently become comfortable with simply calling myself a writer. The African American part carries with it a tension that often times is hard to articulate. But one way I can describe it is by the way my peers reacted the first time I tried skiing. One memorable response was "Why are you doing that?" You know black people don't ski." I often hear that voice in my head when I sit down to write, wondering if I am wandering down that road that black folks aren't supposed to go again. Or I find myself wondering if I am not reacting to incidents like the recent attacks on young black men in a way that is acceptable. And In moments when I might be taking myself far too seriously I can
almost feel the glaring eyes of Langston Hughes, James Baldwin and Maya Angelou
baring down on me and urging me to take action. In response I ask, what could I possibly say that hasn’t been said
already? As a writer my greatest
obstacle has always been my reluctance to engage in the most pervasive
conversations. Given the way that social media attacks most issues and
non-issues with such swiftness and aggression, I often find myself wondering if
anything I have to say has any relevance at all. Is it pompous of me to be
easily bored by the platitudes that are plastered all over Instagram, Twitter
and Tumblr? What words could I say
that would not echo the feelings of every person of color in this country that
has witnessed black people being killed with impunity? Is there a word that I could pull from my
lexicon that would make the conversation seem less reactionary, less
cliché? I realize that this is of course
a luxurious problem to have. I also
realize that in many countries in the world to write about injustice could most
certainly mean losing my hands, which is definitely one way to eliminate both
the luxury and the cliché. But since
this is not my reality I have been given the enviable position of shouting from
the highest mountaintop or fastest laptop my opinion of racist policemen and
the racist system that supports them.
The only problem is so has everyone else. So the question becomes, how long will it
take before the collective outrage of all of the tweeters, Instagrammers,
Tumblrs and Bloggers becomes a fad? I strive to be optimistic and I want to believe that a real social movement is
upon us, so I will engage in the conversation.
Consider this my two cents. I am
looking to you now, all of my brothers and sisters in the land of social media
to show me the way from here.
The Extension Dilemma
My wife has a true talent for taking me on the bus to Abilene. I learned via Susan Cain, author of the best-selling book Quiet
that this is a military expression that alludes to an old story about a
family that went to a place called Abilene to spend the day only to
find out that neither of them actually wanted to go. Apparently,
soldiers use this term when their often charismatic superiors put them
in dubious situations. The family ended up there because the most
charismatic and outspoken member of their clan convinced them to go.
Enter the phenomenon of charismatic leadership and its effect on my
personal life. It seems that due to the Abilene process we are
currently debating whether or not to go to Vermont for my upcoming
vacation. The tension surrounding this trip brings me to one
conclusion. My wife the charismatic leader of our family and driver of
the bus to Abilene is not only a master at loading it to capacity, she
drives it better than most. But, although she is sometimes very savvy
at convincing me to do some things, the one place her influence does not
reach is my choices where media is concerned; a fact that I imagine
must infuriate her since she sells media for a living.
At times it seems that our conflicting sensibilities, mine stemming from education and her sales are often the reasons for the occasional marital spat. But ironically we share a common goal. We just want to be understood and appreciated, preferably by one another. In addition, we want the people in our lives to get us. But the realization that kicks me in the teeth is that her quest for self-affirmation comes with a fierce sales pitch that I could neither hope to understand nor execute. Her base of operations is a virtual sales floor; a social arrangement of pixelated personalities that all follow one golden rule: sell yourself via selfies, likes and comments.
I figured this out during one of our occasional arguments. She became annoyed with me because I failed to watch a You-Tube video clip of some dude singing. At first she accused me of “not ever wanting to share her world” And then told me that “everyone else” she sent it to were miraculously brought to their happy places after viewing it which, in my mind (and emotions) implied that my failure to do so just meant that I was incapable of happiness and that I was just plain mean. So my guess was that all of these “happy people” were probably passengers on her bus on its usual route to that magical destination where everyone there shares her likes, understands her and comments joyfully during the ride with affirming gestures reassuring her that she is not alone. I noticed her talents again in real time as she and her cousin watched an episode of “House of Lies” and flashing back to the first time she tried to convince me to watch that show, encouraging me that I would surely like it because it was a show that fit my personality. I wonder if she used the same sales pitch to convince her cousin who now watches it with the same enthusiasm as her. If so, it apparently worked. Over the years I have watched her convince friends and relatives alike of what shows to watch, restaurants to dine and music to listen to with impressive success. Her sales pitch is solid. Her biggest problem with me is that it seems to work with everyone else except me. But I’m not sure this is a good or a bad thing. On one hand, it feels good to be my own man with my own interests. Drinking from the same main stream as everyone else has always bothered me. That kind of conformity terrifies me because people like Ray Bradbury and George Orwell have taught me that how we choose to entertain ourselves in time often becomes the only control we have left in this world until of course someone finds a way to steal that as well. There is a stubborn ogre inside of me that refuses to give up that control and my wife has declared all-out war on him. On the other hand, my wife’s many attempts to invite me into “her world” could be genuine. She may really think that watching “Scandal” with her might actually bring us closer. But whenever she asks me to I feel compelled to refuse. I guess I have commitment issues.
I wonder when television became such a determining factor in relationships. I wonder if the couples of old had these issues back when TV’s were black and white and we only had 3 channels to choose from. Would a man’s refusal to watch soap operas with his wife result in knock down drag out arguments about his reluctance to bond? I would ask my grandparents but they’re no longer around. I don’t think that my parents have this problem, but then again every time I travel to see them they are in separate rooms watching separate shows.
Maybe something went wrong when they came up with so many channels giving people the choice to find their own “identities” and “express” themselves freely. Didn’t Marshall McLuhan say that media is just an extension of the self? Who knew that extending ourselves would keep us from having sex with our spouses?
At times it seems that our conflicting sensibilities, mine stemming from education and her sales are often the reasons for the occasional marital spat. But ironically we share a common goal. We just want to be understood and appreciated, preferably by one another. In addition, we want the people in our lives to get us. But the realization that kicks me in the teeth is that her quest for self-affirmation comes with a fierce sales pitch that I could neither hope to understand nor execute. Her base of operations is a virtual sales floor; a social arrangement of pixelated personalities that all follow one golden rule: sell yourself via selfies, likes and comments.
I figured this out during one of our occasional arguments. She became annoyed with me because I failed to watch a You-Tube video clip of some dude singing. At first she accused me of “not ever wanting to share her world” And then told me that “everyone else” she sent it to were miraculously brought to their happy places after viewing it which, in my mind (and emotions) implied that my failure to do so just meant that I was incapable of happiness and that I was just plain mean. So my guess was that all of these “happy people” were probably passengers on her bus on its usual route to that magical destination where everyone there shares her likes, understands her and comments joyfully during the ride with affirming gestures reassuring her that she is not alone. I noticed her talents again in real time as she and her cousin watched an episode of “House of Lies” and flashing back to the first time she tried to convince me to watch that show, encouraging me that I would surely like it because it was a show that fit my personality. I wonder if she used the same sales pitch to convince her cousin who now watches it with the same enthusiasm as her. If so, it apparently worked. Over the years I have watched her convince friends and relatives alike of what shows to watch, restaurants to dine and music to listen to with impressive success. Her sales pitch is solid. Her biggest problem with me is that it seems to work with everyone else except me. But I’m not sure this is a good or a bad thing. On one hand, it feels good to be my own man with my own interests. Drinking from the same main stream as everyone else has always bothered me. That kind of conformity terrifies me because people like Ray Bradbury and George Orwell have taught me that how we choose to entertain ourselves in time often becomes the only control we have left in this world until of course someone finds a way to steal that as well. There is a stubborn ogre inside of me that refuses to give up that control and my wife has declared all-out war on him. On the other hand, my wife’s many attempts to invite me into “her world” could be genuine. She may really think that watching “Scandal” with her might actually bring us closer. But whenever she asks me to I feel compelled to refuse. I guess I have commitment issues.
I wonder when television became such a determining factor in relationships. I wonder if the couples of old had these issues back when TV’s were black and white and we only had 3 channels to choose from. Would a man’s refusal to watch soap operas with his wife result in knock down drag out arguments about his reluctance to bond? I would ask my grandparents but they’re no longer around. I don’t think that my parents have this problem, but then again every time I travel to see them they are in separate rooms watching separate shows.
Maybe something went wrong when they came up with so many channels giving people the choice to find their own “identities” and “express” themselves freely. Didn’t Marshall McLuhan say that media is just an extension of the self? Who knew that extending ourselves would keep us from having sex with our spouses?