A Recent Realization

White people are not bound by your feeble "logic."

They cannot be expected to abide by the rules of common sense, nor can they be expected to avoid hypocrisy.

They are white. Thus they create their own rules, their own logic and their own morality.

You coloreds need to get with the program.

I'm taking a page from the book of another respected blogger, and quoting myself just from another source. The quote excerpted above is from a comment I left on another blog that discussed the cognitive dissonance of the Tea Party. But, after I read my words, I decided I wanted to write something more.

Wait, let me say something up front. White folks, if you're trying to do right, don't take this personally, nor assume that I'm condemning you just for your skin color. I wanted to get that out of the way because I know that conversations get derailed without it.

I could have just as easily made the quote up top in response to any amount of random ridiculousness I stumble across regularly on the web.

It could have been the story I read about the different reactions black teens and white teens received while staging a "mock" vandalism of a car. Or it could have been the story about an irate caller at C-Span who was tired of all the black people calling on the Republican, or "Whites Only," telephone line.

It would related to this excerpt I read where a former employee of Tiger Woods blamed Tiger's "black role models," namely Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley, for leading him astray. Or I could have said the same thing after reading comments from readers at the "Stuff White People Do" blog about their experiences with being mistaken for criminals while living their non-criminal lives.

It wouldn't matter where I said it because the truth of the comment stands alone.

Logic ain't real high on the list of white priorities when it comes to dealing with minorities, particularly black folks.

A friend of mine told me recently about a quote from Toni Morrison following the O.J. Simpson trial. He said that when Morrison compared the prosecution's description of O.J. to the public image of O.J. before his ex-wife's death, there was an extreme disconnect. In most white folks' eyes, O.J. went from the all-American great guy with few flaws to this demonic, sub-human animal with no good qualities.

Morrison, according to my friend, said that was only possible for a black person. Only a black person could go from being perfect, to then being perfectly irredeemable. She said that white people are able to accept totally contradictory ideas about black folks as true in a way they can never do with themselves. In my mind, she seemed to be saying that many white people don't bother with nuance or logic when they consider black folks.

Ain't that the truth.

I know some folks get tired of race talk, but I feel it necessary to point this out. When you consider many of the public and private opinions white people hold about minorities, particularly black folks, doesn't it strike you how many of them are not bound by logic, how many of them are rife with hypocrisy and how many of them directly contradict the professed moral code of those same white folks.

I'm constantly amazed at how people will set aside their values and their common sense when it comes to racial matter. Particularly since most racial matter are not life or death struggles for white folks, they are just exercises in minorities trying to get white folks to understand their pain and help us do something about it?

Why does this disconnect exist? Honestly, acknowledging the reality that so many minorities already know exists would not cause a fundamental shift in the way the world works. After all, just acknowledging the truth doesn't force people to act, that's an entirely different process. Acknowledging the truth just allows us to have an honest conversation using a shared set of facts.

But, it would seem that honest conversations are also low on the list. Oh, I'm sure there are some white folks who would complain that when they speak "honestly" they get attacked and disparaged. I can't disagree with that point. Then again, when your "honest" opinion is insulting and based on lies, folks have a tendency to get hot and bothered. Honesty does not bestow some sort of protection, in fact it's often an invitation to be attacked from what I can tell.

But what's the use of living in comfort if you're living a lie?








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R.I.P.

Rest in peace Undercover Black Man A.K.A. David Mills.

Sorry to hear the brother is gone. I had some heated discussion with him and disagreed vehemently with his thoughts on black intelligence, but death is still a sad and final chapter in every life.

The brother didn't believe in God, from what I could gather, but maybe if Deacon Blue is right he got one last chance when he checked out.

Anyway, he was a smart and funny dude, and I wish peace upon his family.


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You Don't Belong Here

Growing up, I always did well in school.

Thanks to the constant threat of beatings from my father, and my own fairly decent intelligence, I've typically excelled in the classroom. However, my journey wasn't pothole free. My toughest challenges in an academic setting came in middle school and in grad school. Coincidentally, or perhaps not, those were the two times I went to "diverse" schools.

By diverse, I mean schools with white folks.

In middle school, I had one of my first experiences with being an "only." There were certain classes where I was the only black person present. I would sit on one side of the room, the white kids would sit on the other. At the time, I didn't really think about it racially, I was more worried about working out my algebraic equations. But, looking back, it was weird.

In fact, that experience, along with several others at that middle school, actually dictated where I would go to high school. In my city, there aren't many good schools, and at the time, all of the decent ones required you take tests to get admitted. All of the white kids were trying to get admitted to this one particular high school, let's call it The Bastion, which is one of the top ten schools in the nation. I also took the test for the school because my parents thought it would be good for me to attend.

I passed both the academic skills test and the IQ test, and got admitted right away. Several of my white classmates did not. I remember sitting with them in algebra class, and they were discussing what they were going to do, and how they might need to challenge their scores or something. Somehow, I volunteered the information that I had gotten admitted to The Bastion. Then I dropped my bombshell.

"Yeah, I got in, but I ain't going."

"Wait, you're not going?"

"Nah, I'm not going over there. I'm going to School X, that's a better spot for me."

School X was an all-black, magnet high school with a stellar reputation in the black community, and decent reputation among white folks. When I say "decent" I mean that white folks knew that kids got a good education there, but they still weren't going to send their children.

None of my classmates could comprehend my decision. This was The Bastion, if I went there I was guaranteed a top notch education. These white kids were killing themselves to get admitted, and I was turning down my spot?

Was I crazy?

Nah, I wasn't crazy, I had figured something out. I want y'all to read this story and this one and then I'll tell you what I had determined.

See, as those stories note, there are clear lines in much of the world. When you attempt to cross those lines, or boundaries, you have to deal with a lot of extra hassle. In one of the videos about the kids vandalizing cars, you hear a lady say that the black kids shouldn't have been in "our backyard." In the video about the police in the Midwest, you see city officials accused of telling the police to make black people realize they weren't welcome.

I knew The Bastion was a wonderful school, but I also knew that in a city that was 65 percent black, The Bastion's black population was only 12 percent. And very few of those black kids were boys.

It may sound cowardly given the heroic sacrifices of my black ancestors, but even as a child I understood that sometimes it's smarter to take the path of least resistance when it comes to race. Sure, The Bastion would have offered wonderful academic programs, but at what cost to my future happiness and well-being. What kind of emotional and social sacrifices would I have had to make? What kind of relationship would I have had with my teachers?

At School X, I was a black kid surrounded by black kids. Some of them were striving, others were chilling, but there was still a certain comfort level. Plus, as an academic standout, I was protected by teachers and administrators. Actions that might have gotten me into dire straits at The Bastion were treated differently at School X. Yes, I was still punished, but there was never the undertone that I was irredeemable, or dangerous. There was always the sense that these people believed in my potential and were deeply disappointed if I failed to live up to that potential.

That's something black folks typically sacrifice when they move in white spaces. That sense of support and nurturing often disappears with the melanin in the faces around us. Sometimes black folks can find staunch supporters and mentors in largely white groups, but it's not the norm. From what I've seen, the norm is a prevalent feeling that you just don't belong, and that you're infringing on someone else's territory.

It makes sense for people to protect their turf. But, it's almost inevitable that black folks will cross into white folks' turf frequently since the areas clearly delineated as "ours" often have inferior opportunities and services. When white people then use law enforcement officials and other officials groups to protect their boundaries, it can cause problems.

Is there a solution? Can we learn to co-exist? I hate the term "tolerance" but is that the most we can hope for since truly becoming "comfortable" is a pipe dream? How can we learn to drop the arbitrary boundaries we've created? Are the only choices for black folks assimilation or isolation?

I honestly don't know.

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Time Marches

Got two little boys.

Beautiful, brown, bouncing, beaming, bombastic babies bringing a bodacious bounty of bliss to Big Man's blessed being.

For real B'.

My oldest, who is nearly three-years old, has this habit of jumping in the air just to fall. Not on accident, on purpose.

He yells out "Look Daddy," then jumps in the air, kicks his legs up behind him like a maverick on the Wyoming plains, and then falls to his knees laughing.

It hurts my old bones just to watch him.

My younger son is nearing his first birthday. His will is so strong, I already know we gonna' have beef. When he doesn't get his way, he throws his arms up over his shoulders and tries to make the crown of his head touch his calves, while squealing in dismay.

I wince watching him contort.

Watching their youthful bodies revel in the joy of life, it forces me to consider my own increasingly feeble frame.

Oh, your average septuagenarian would scoff at my melodramatic language, but when I look at my babies, I think of the virility I once felt and I do feel feeble.

If not feeble, then I'll just say old.

I remember as a child how the concept of being "30," was as foreign and fantastical as dragons, and not nearly as interesting.

Once, as a child, I marveled at the fact that a then 35-year old Hulk Hogan could overcome the fragility of his ancient body to rip of his shirt for Hulkamaniacs worldwide.

When I related my surprise to my father, making sure to play up the fact that Hogan managed his magic despite knocking on death's door, my father calmly asked me how old I thought he was? In response to my blank stare, he said "I'm 35, too."

That seemed impossible because my daddy always felt old to me.

Adulthood belonged to a shadowy world where you had to stretch before exercising and were always rubbing nasty liniment on your muscles.

When I played marathon sessions of basketball, often lasting for five hours, I never contemplated a day when just getting off the couch to find the remote would be something I would avoid in favor of calling on the fresh legs on my son.

But, sadly, that day is here.

I'm not totally decrepit. In the last two years I've taken up jogging and I'm probably in better cardiovascular shape than I've been in for years.

Yet, I frequently wake up with mysterious ailments and pains. I find myself more careful about my steps, and conscious of stretching, yes stretching, before any strenuous activities.

The physically carefree days of my youth have vanished and I can only recapture their magic in random spurts. I have become old in mind and body, yet in many ways I don't feel "old" at all.

I wonder if this is how those in middle age feel when they are casually called "pops" or "mister." Do they recognize the inevitable march of time, but still feel themselves suspended in the present?

My momma used to say: "Son, getting old is better than the alternative."

Her wisdom helps me keep things in focus as I feel the green monster creeping into my mind while watching my youngsters frolic. Besides, while I may envy their freedom of movement, I don't envy the hard road they must still travel to get to where I am as a man.

Strangely the good news and bad news about growing old are actually the same news.

You can't go back.




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