Today in Post-Race History: A Rock and a Hard Place

I really hate it when politics interrupt my fantasy football preparation. There I was checking Twitter for tweets that might help my abysmal fantasy team when I started seeing posts about presidential candidate Rick Perry's little problem.


In case you missed it, according to a story published in The Washington Post last Saturday, Perry's family's hunting camp was known as Niggerhead. In fact, the word was etched on a rock at the camp's entrance and, according to the article, the word was not painted over for quite some time.


Gosh, don't you just love vintage America?

Monday Morning Mash-Up

Since I've only been writing here on Mondays, the blogging silence of the other six days often results in hateration build up.  Fortunately, I take notes.  What follows is a rather desultory dose of scathing haterade for your Monday morning.  Who needs caffeine?

Feel my body! gettin' cooooold.  As a friend said on Facebook, Wyclef can't get The Fugees back together, but he thinks he can fix Haiti?  Well, if it means that 'Clef will stop making records, then I shall feign Haitian citizenship and vote for him, and suggest you do the same.  I think hiring Cher of Clueless fame as a speechwriter would be a fantastic move for Wyclef.  It does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty!

To Resurrect a Mockingbird (in a Really Long-Winded Way)

Last week, the folks over at Racialicious re-posted a piece by Macon D., the creator of the blog, Stuff White People Do.  The article, "Stuff White People Do: Warmly Embrace a Racist Novel," addresses the 50th anniversary celebration of Harper Lee's only novel, To Kill A Mockingbird, published in the summer of 1960.  Macon D. took issue with all the attention TKAM was receiving, and consequently wrote a polemic railing against the (praise of the) novel.

I refuse to go along with this week’s warm, feel-good celebrations of Harper Lee’s novel (published fifty years ago today), To Kill a Mockingbird. Simply put, I think that novel is racist, and so is its undying popularity. It’s also racist in a particularly insidious way, because the story and its characters instead seem to so many white people like the very model of good, heartwarming, white anti-racism.

Macon D. outlines several key issues he has with the novel: its reception, that the mockingbird symbolizes Negroes, Atticus Finch as the O.G. white savior, and the marginal presence of Negroes in the novel.  To put bluntly: I take issue with Macon D.'s issues.  Maybe this is also stuff black people do, because I embrace this novel, too.  Before I continue, however, I want to note that since the initial post takes up the novel, and not the Academy Award-winning film, which premiered in 1962, my response will exclusively center on the text and not the film.

Razing Arizona

I guess I have to start protesting Arizona, née Mexico, which sucks because I'm totally not into marching, making colorful signs, or shouting rhymes in unison with a bunch of people.  I suppose, then, that I have to resort to other means of expressing my disapproval.  At first I thought I'd boycott  U.S. Airways, an Arizona-based airline, but then I remembered that my ma's part-time job is with them.  Besides, if I aim to show up at my sister's broom jumping events in North Carolina next month, I'm going to need Brenda's buddy pass hook-up.  So then I thought I'd stop drinking Arizona iced tea,  until I recalled that several years ago I wrote Arizona a letter about the plantation imagery on their sweet tea cans.  Despite the eloquence of my letter they never sent me any free tea.  I only drink water now, anyway, and a wiki search reveals that Arizona brand tea isn't even made in Arizona, née Mexico.  (New York City!)  Of course, I could root against Los Suns during the NBA Western Conference Finals, but doing so would mean that I would cheer for the Lakers.  But frankly, who's willing to implicitly support Kobe Bean Bryant in an effort to express one's solidarity with a bunch of immigrants one doesn't even know?   I know.  What a totally crazy idea.

On Black Like Me and Others

The Chicago Reader has published its spring books issue, and this time they're featuring books that (have) address(ed) black life in America over the last fifty or so years.  They cover Simeon's Story, the memoir of Simeon Wright, the cousin of Emmett Till, who saw Till taken from his relative's home that fateful summer Mississippi night.  They also profile Ytasha L. Womack, who has recently published a book, Post-Black, that explores black identity in the early 21st century.  (I read the first 30 or so pages--for diss reasons; I'm not sure I'll finish.)

The cover story is on John Howard Griffin's Black Like Me, that little piece of new journalism retelling the account of Griffin, who with the help of a dermatologist and a pair of clippers adventured as a black man traveling through the south in the spring of 1959.  I suppose that makes Griffin a kind of weird predecessor to the modern-day white savior movie--I couldn't help but think about District 9 as I recalled the skin treatment he underwent--but that's for another blog, another time.  Griffin's articles on his experience as a black man in the south were funded and published by Sepia (go figure), a kind of Look magazine for Negroes; the account was published under the title "Journey into Shame."  I could wax about the title alone, but that's another digression, and I'm sure you know what I think about it.

The Most Unhappy Man of Men

Haiti means Katrina in French.

What are Wordsworth?

Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men!
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; -
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and Man's unconquerable mind.

It's This One Thing (That Got Me Trippin')

One more thing about Pat Robertson.  I failed to say anything about "Christy," the black woman sitting next to Pat during the video as he spews his diabolical racist drivel.  I've read a couple of people dissing Christy.  I get it.  She's sitting next to a dude spitting vitriol against her brethren, just nodding her head to the point where we might question her level of comprehension--does she actually believe what Robertson is saying?  Does she agree that Haitians made a deal with the Devil?  Gifting their souls in exchange for their freedom?

Then again, I wonder if Christy is just dumbfounded.  Admittedly, I don't know anything about the woman.  To add, her affiliation with Pat Robertson probably indicates that she deserves our wrath.  Yet I've also been silenced by racist words, been so stuck thinking "Wait a minute.  Is this person actually saying these things to me?" that I couldn't muster any noise, let alone a serious and coherent response.  I don't know about other folks, but whatever wit I might have has escaped me on those few occasions when someone says something incredibly racist to me.  Esprit d'escalier f'real.  By the time the exchange is over I'm still at, "Wow, I can't believe (s)he just said that."  It is/would be so much easier to respond when/if they('d just) call you nigger--for me, least.

Simple Math: Let's Make a Deal

One thing that really irks me about white supremacy is that it allows folks--mostly white men--to say really bigoted and racist things, and make lots of money doing it.  Racism is not just the process of institutionalizing prejudice and methodically discriminating against black folks and other people of color, it's also a very lucrative business, a capitalistic endeavor that allows purveyors of the commodity to make mad dough.  And, as always, the kids with melanin doing the hustlin' make the least amount of money.  Sure, I suppose Flavor Flav got a nice stack per episode, but Pat Robertson is worth at least $200 million--and he gets to be a racist bigot in the name of God!

Today in Post-Race History: What I (Had) Meant to Say Was...

There are 3 things my Grandma Charlotte used to tell me all the time:  1. That books are my friends; 2. That she is always right--even when she's wrong (she's right); and 3. It's not what you say, it's how you say it.  I remembered that last point when I heard about Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid's comments about then-candidate Obama.  If the extent of Reid's comments were what I read in the HuffPo article about the book, Game Change, the interview appears in, then I'm really not all that mad at Senator Reid.  In fact, I agree with him.  He's only in hot water because we need a dose of (racial) honesty.

Senate Democratic leader Harry Reid apologized on Saturday for saying the race of Barack Obama – whom he described as a "light skinned" African-American "with no Negro dialect, unless he wanted to have one" – would help rather than hurt his eventual presidential bid.

Um, this is racist?  Let's take it point by point.

The Magic of Disney

These are my confessions.
I got problems, ok?  I know better, but I get crunk about Disney.  I dig Beauty and the Beast.  I love Aladdin and The Lion King.  The latter is, like, my second favorite movie.  I damn near cried when I saw the musical, and when prompted still go on and on about why we shouldn't bother making war when we can make such beautiful headpieces.  It's my most favorite version of Hamlet.  And I know it's problematic, and racist, and homophobic or whatever.  I still love it.  It's like I got Disney DNA.

And I'm excited about The Princess and the Frog.  I know it's going to be fucked up.  I know this.  But I also know that the songs will be pretty awesome, and that the Creole firefly is going to say something funny. Still, I get excited about Disney animation.  And when it comes down to it, I really enjoy good stories. 

Sorry.

Today in Post-Race History: No Homo

Remember last year when all the white gay people were mad at black people because Prop 8 passed in California?  Well, it wasn't a fluke.  We're still their whipping boys (er, bois?).  Last week, my internet boyfriend AC (again, the only man I'd ever seriously consider marrying), sent me a link of the above video, where Current TV contributor, Bryan Safi learns us about the phrase "No Homo."   Most of the commenters loved this piece and deemed it "genius."  Me?  Not so much.

Today in Post-Race History: Semantic Antics

(Oh, BHO.  You're so funny!)

I will (try to) be brief: I hate this joke.

Then again, when's the last time you heard me say that I liked what this cat has to say about race?

Why? Put simply, it's dismissive.

Today in Pre-Race History: Red Summer

Q: What's black, white, and red all over?
A: Chicago circa July 27, 1919.



My kind of town. Today, the high in Chicago is supposed to be around 85 degrees. Seems like decent swimming weather. But when it's 90+ degrees in the mighty Midwest, jumping in a large body of water seems like an imperative, and the only way to escape the humidity that makes the city all groggy--we complain little and bear the moisture hanging in air the because we remember winter. I suppose that's what some young black boys were thinking when, ninety years ago today, they decided to go swimming at a beach on the South Side. (Yes, Michelle Obama is from the South Side. Move along.)

Back in 1919, Chicago wasn't segregated in the traditional sense. (Big Shoulders likes its racial stratification a little more indirect--instead of colored only signs, it just built things like highways and such.) But with a gang of Negroes migrating up north to places like Chicago, I suppose a color line needed to be drawn somewhere. There was one in the water that day when those black boys went swimming. And I guess they (accidentally) crossed it. Which made white people throw rocks at them. The boys threw rocks back (so I hear). The police arrested a black man instead of a white one, and black people protested--you know, because they thought those amendments had given them rights. This, in combination with the overall assault on black life in Chicago--including gangs who attacked black communities and police who didn't seem to care--resulted in a week-long riot. And by riot I mean seven days of white folks attacking black neighborhoods. Eventually, the National Guard came in and shut things down. Thanks.

That riot was the worst in a summer full violent outbursts. There were so many that James Weldon Johnson, the Secretary of the NAACP at the time, coined the term "Red Summer" to describe it. Nearly a century later, summer is a lot less red, but there are small reminders. Instead of rock throwing, black and brown kids are just politely turned away from the swimming pool. The denial had nothing to do with racism, of course; after all, we are post-race. And as long as Tyler Perry uses some of those greenbacks (with blackfaces) to send them to Disney World, we can move on. Nothing like a trip to Disney to efface the memory of racism past. Wait. Is that ironic?

And the police keep arresting wrong guy. Or (accidentally) shooting the wrong guy. And instead of thinking that maybe the President got it right (did I just say that?), we discuss the class implications of calling a police officer's actions "stupid." We worry about how police morale was affected by such comments rather than the lessons this teaches young black boys--and girls. Because a grown (wo)man's self-esteem is more important than a black life. On any day. On any stoop.

The block is [still] hot. Not red hot. But hot, nonetheless. Don't burn yourself. Be cool. Y'all know the rules.

Skip to My Lieu

A few years ago, when I was still taking graduate school course work, I got into a "disagreement" with a colleague about race and class. We had just left our course on mid-20th century black literature, and were hanging out in the department lounge for some strange reason--something I'd never do now. I think we had just finished discussing Native Son in class that day, and afterwards the issue of race and class came up. I think I started talking about how unsatisfying the last third of the novel, Fate, is. Or maybe I didn't. The memory is hazy, as it was a traumatic time in my life, and I'm kind of old now; I don't much remember my wide-eyed days. Anyway, I think I was making some poorly worded (and perhaps ill-informed) statement about Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison and being black and disillusioned with communism. At some point, and this is clear to me, my cohort emphatically said to me with authority, "I'm sorry. It is all about class." I was pretty much like, no. I might have said something snarky. I might have not.

Though I should have been really offended that this non-black person (of color) was sitting in front of my face whittling down my experience as a black person in the United States to adventures in class struggle, I channeled Jigga, and brushed it off my shoulder. Frankly, I hadn't really taken the conversation that seriously. Until she sent me emails. (I wish I still had them.) I can't recall exactly what she said, but it was pretty much about her marching with commies and an overall mischaracterization of what I had said. It was weird and surreal. I called someone (another non-black person of color) who had witnessed the conversation to make sure I hadn't said what homegirl claimed. But homegirl insisted I had said what I didn't. So I shut down the conversation; I had run out of patience. In retrospect, I can't believe I was so tolerant of someone so committed to telling me that, essentially, white people were an occasional pain in my ass because they were bourgie and I was a proletariat. (Has there ever been a more appropriate time for the retort, "Get the fuck outta here"? Faulkner wasn't lying when he said Dilsey and her people endure[d].) She hasn't really spoken to me since. That's ironic, Alanis.

This morning, I thought about what she'd say about this Skip Gates ordeal. Would she--or the circa 2004 her, assuming her position has evolved--say that a woman called the police, that Gates was confronted by the filth because he looked poor? The police report reads like outtakes from Crash (I pray the police officer made up that "Yo' mama" line, surely a man who wrote a book on signifyin' came harder than that), the statement on behalf of Gates like scenes from a movie starring Morgan Freeman (as Professor Gates). But one thing is for sure: if race got him into those bracelets, middle-, upper-class access got him out.

There's a joke black comedians like to recycle about the show Cops. Essentially, they observe that white folks getting arrested on the show say things to the police black folks wouldn't dare. And they wouldn't dare say those things not because they are (presumably) poor, but because they know that when it all falls down, being black is akin to committing a crime, and thereby always arrest-worthy. That's why there's a primer for black interaction with police--it's like a family recipe: never written down, but passed on through generations. But perhaps you need a bit of leisure time, a little class privilege to study black people long enough to link things like blackness and criminality. Perhaps we sing an ascension, class-based lullaby that causes some of us to daydream, to forget that many of us are what we study. We are becalmed into thinking we have things like rights. I almost got caught up once. I got stopped by the police for walking down the street in Lincoln Park at night; accidentally gave him my student ID. I guess I got temporarily hypnotized by all those Nobels. Just a pitfall of being young, gifted, and black, I suppose.

Was Professor Gates thinking like my cohort, that it's all about class when he showed the police his driver's license and Harvard identification? Was that going to erase the fact of blackness? Were those arm bands not a reminder? How would my colleague account for the fact that "all about class [access]" cannot explain 5-0 running up in the house, putting the manacles on the wrists, but can definitely help interpret why a buzzing internet, Charles Ogletree as legal representation, and--probably--those dropped charges? Can she now see how all of this is like buying freedom papers? And that such action, if I am understating the facts, is heavily seasoned with race?

Either way, it's not very classy to tell a black person--or for a black person to think--that it's all about class. Trust me. I know. And if I forget, I will be reminded. I am reminded that for so many, getting arrested or chastised by the police is just another day around the way. And if that's the case, no one will tweet about it. Or release a statement. Or hire a lawyer for you. Or write a blog about you. Stay black and (or?) die.

And sometimes (Harvard) access isn't enough. Ask Chanequa Campell. She knows.