| Black Catharsis
"we put the black in
blog"
May 14, 2004
Commentary: Black-on-Black Youth Crime is Overlooked
by Our Leaders "Read these names: Marcus
McLain, Alexander Brown, William Thomas and Andre Mellerson.
They were the four black boys shot on the grounds of
Randallstown High School — located on the outskirts
of Baltimore — last Friday after they left a charity
basketball game.Now forget the names. It’s not
as if they’re really victims. I mean, it’s
not as if anybody white, or a cop, shot them."
Gregory Kane, of the Baltimore Sun, is a tad ticked
off and telling the truth all over the place. Check
this
out.
Harmed and Dangerous:
Letters from Lockdown
ADHD Inmate's Polical Analysis
By John Schwade
I've only seen one legitimate case of adult Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity
Disorder. "Broomstick" had been diagnosed
as ADHD as a young child, and shortly after he got to
prison he realized he hadn't outgrown it.
While he was sweeping the dormitory, an inmate in an
upper bunk looked at "Broomstick," pointed
at the inmate in the lower bunk, and suggested, "Why
don't you poke him in the ass with the broom?"
(In prison that's not gay.) Instantaneously, "Broomstick"
earned the nickname.
Guys who complain of being impulsive because "I
got ADHD" give themselves away by their choice
of targets. They "impulsively" assault smaller
or outnumbered inmates. Not "Broomstick."
When I asked him about the reaction of the inmate who
can't take a poke, he answered, "We had to go to
the shower." In prison, the shower is the boxing
ring. "He beat the shit out of me!" Such candor
is always welcome.
Strattera, a new non-stimulant ADHD drug, has worked
wonders for "Broomstick." Since he began taking
Strattera, he has not committed any impulsive acts or
suffered any consequent beatings, although "Broomstick"
is smart enough to understand that evaluation of the
drug benefit is confounded by his prison experience,
including an apparently therapeutic thrashing. "i've
grown up a lot in prison. I've been ridin' my bunk to
stay out of trouble."
Unlike our first meeting, today "Broomstick"
was able to sit still, listen without interrupting,
and keep the conversation on topic. But he still has
trouble attending to details. While riding his bunk,
he said, "I've been reading U. S. News." Apparently,
he's unconcerned with "and World Report."
Still, it's a major improvement over poking inmates
in the butt with a broom.
"Who do you think is going to win the presidential
election?" "Broomstick" asked. Again,
the ability to concentrate on such matters represents
substantial progress.
"Bush," I told him.
"I don't think so," "Broomstick differed.
"I think it's gonna be that other guy." Remarkable!
Or so it seemed.
"Cheney."
I've got to buy a copy of that "U. S. News"!
May 13, 2004
What we're calling prisoner mistreattment in Iraq is
just
another day on lockdown in the US. Also, check out
Slate
on the psychology of sadistic prison guards.
374 of the nation's newspapers have all white newsrooms.
(And that's not counting the 481 newspapers that didn’t
reply to the most recent ASNE
survey.) Perhaps that will change now that Mark
Whitaker Named ASME President. Award-winning magazine
editor to continue association's mission and focus on
diversity in magazine publishing industry.
Speaking of things that are all-white -- ORIGINS
OF WHITE FLIGHT: Ruling accelerated exodus. Whites in
Richmond traded the city for the suburbs after the Brown
decision. But still, here's racial progress in academia:
Auburn
University is the unlikely home of the nation's
highest concentration of black computer science faculty
and graduate students and [blackface
Halloween parties] in the country.
Farrakhan
May Hold Another 'Million Man March'. Please, Lord,
Make it Stop! Some
'friends' in town for a big celebration once left their
car at our house and drove all of us crazy wanting to
be chauffeured everywhere so as to avoid paying the
$8 per day parking fee at their hotel. I finally just
gave them the $32 dollars; it was too hard screening
calls with so many (actually) loved ones in town. Similarly,
there's a
program aimed at providing suitably face-saving
employment for African dictators so they can get the
hell off their people's backs. Think about it; they
usually only leave office feet first 'cuz, where they
gonna go? So, here's the plan: let's all chip in and
find out how much it will cost to buy off anyone who
wants to "million-ize" ANYTHING ever again.
OK, now black people, on the count of three, everybody
'paper-scissors'rock' to see who has to invite Minister
Farrakhan to their next Sunday dinner to keep him occupied.
Now here's a post-soul
post card for your...behind. I believe I am officially
scared of Colin Powell. Homey's got big nerve. Doesn't
he know he's supposed to spit on his white ancestors
and revere his sainted black ones?
May 12, 2004
Harmed and Dangerous:
Letters from Lockdown
By John Schwade
The Prosecutor as Extortionist: "Wayne's
World"
According to the prosecutor's office, on the last night
of his life, "Puff Dead E." and his crew set
out to steal some marijuana. They stopped at a gas station
and asked a loitering saleswoman where they might find
some weed. She referred them to "Wayne" and
his brother "Garth," whom she paged with the
order. "Puff Dead E." insisted the loitering
saleswoman join his crew so that the marijuana merchants
would not be suspicious when they ventured into "Wayne's
World." She complied, got into the car of "Puff
Dead E.," gave directions, and eventually introduced
"Puff Dead E." to "Wayne" and "Garth."
When "Wayne" and "Garth" offered
a bag of marijuana for sale, "Puff Dead E."
claimed it "looked slack." "Garth"
added enough marijuana to satisfy "Puff Dead E."
"Wayne" requested payment. "Puff Dead
E." reached not for his wallet, but for his Lorcin
.380 semi-automatic pistol. (By the way, this is a gun
that has been traced to this state in an incredible
number of NYC homicide cases. Tobacco is not our only
lethal export!) "Wayne" saw that his customer
was not concerned with damaging his credit report. Shwing!
Up popped "Wayne's" handgun. Then, as we say
here, "It was ON!"
The following day the loitering saleswoman reported
what she saw and heard to police after hearing that
they had discovered "Puff Dead E." dead in
the driver's seat of his car, with the lights on and
the engine still running. She told police that she saw
"Puff Dead E." produce a pistol instead of
cash in response to the request for payment. She heard
gunfire, and then, along with the not-so-loyal crew
of "Puff Dead E.," she vamoosed, leaving him
for dead.
The police immediately arrested "Wayne" and
"Garth." "Wayne" was charged with
Voluntary Manslaughter, for which he was convicted.
In this state,"Wayne" was considered to have
provoked the victim by way of engaging in an illegal
activity, and thus forfeited his "perfect"
right of self-defense. "Wayne" was not charged
with Second-degree or First-degree Murder because he
did have an "imperfect" right of self-defense,
in that it appeared reasonable for him to conclude that
he was at risk for death or great bodily harm.
That "Wayne" was charged with Voluntary Manslaughter
indicates the police and prosecutor understood these
matters of law. (This is not always a safe assumption.)
Nevertheless, "Garth" was initially charged
with First-degree Murder. "Wayne" and "Garth"
were thus afforded the opportunity to contemplate "Garth's"
death in prison, by causes natural or unnatural, as
the investigation proceeded.
At no time in the investigation did the police have
evidence that "Garth" had committed murder,
let alone fulfill one of the three criteria for First-degree
murder. These criteria are either: (a) premeditation;
(b) poisoning, lying in wait, imprisonment, starvation,
or torture; of (c) while committing or attempting arson,
rape, sex offense, robbery, burglary, kidnapping, or
any felony in which a deadly weapon is used. Nothing
so reveals what an egregious overcharging "Garth"
endured as the eventual sentence: 6-8 months for Possession
with Intent to Sell or Distribute a Schedule II Drug
(marijuana). You need not pass the state bar exam to
understand the implications of the enormous discrepancy
between either execution or life in prison without the
possibility of parole and 6-8 months in prison. If a
defendant is deserving of a state-supplied execution,
he should not get off with a 6-8 month sentence; if
he is deserving of a 6-8 month sentence, he should not
be threatened with execution.
We don't usually identify with criminals, especially
those involved in homicides, and that's a good thing.
Still, in this case it is worth asking yourself whether
you or anyone you know could ever have been convicted
of selling marijuana. Tell the truth, to yourself if
to no one else. I knew students who "worked"
their way through college and graduate school selling
marijuana. And the marijuana smokers I knew would never
deny anyone wishing to purchase a small quantity from
their stock. Now, back to the marijuana merchants you've
known. Can you imagine any of them sitting in jail facing
a death penalty?
In this case, overcharging "Garth" put pressure
on "Wayne" to confess to and accept a plea
for killing "Puff Dead E." "Wayne"
admits that he shot and killed "Puff Dead E."
under the circumstances described above. "Wayne's"
prosecution, conviction, and sentencing were undeniably
just.
But, as they say in "Wayne's World," "Garth"
was not worthy of the treatment he received.
Ideal Drug Dealer Names
Today's list of New Admission includes two inmates with
ideal drug-dealer names. (Don't get nervous; the names
of inmates, their location, and their convictions are
all public information.)
Orlando Crank sounds like a great place to buy methamphetamine
before marching the kids through nearby Disney World.
Alas, although Orlando Crank was convicted of selling
drugs, he marketed cocaine.
Tony Sells has promise, not just as a name that could
double as an advertisement, but also for a ""Who's
On First" type of comedy routine. Imagine Tonay
Sells as a kingpin, with his "shorties" on
street corners. A customer stops to inquire about purchasing
marijuana, and the following conversation ensues.
Customer: Anybody selling weed around here?
Shorty: Tony Sells.
Customer: Sounds good. What's Tony's full name?
Shorty: Tony Sells.
Customer: I know Tony sells!
Shorty: Well, if you know him, why you asking me his
name?
Customer: OK, OK. I know Tony sells. Tony sells WHAT?
Shorty: Weed.
Customer: I know Tony sells weed!
Shorty: So why you keep asking me these questions?
Were I as clever as Abbot or Costello, I would end
this routine more cleverly. But just when I got to this
point, I thought I ought to find out why Tony Sells
is in prison. He was convicted of cruelty to animals.
That's bad news for my comedy routine and worse news
for another new inmate: Eric Beagle.
Wanking in Prison
The activity the Chinese call "hand lewdness"
and the English call "the solitary vice" is
popular among inmates. I'll use the less formal term
"wanking" which, sounding mechanical, will
perhaps enable me to sneak this e-mail past Big Brother
to my big brother Bob, an engineer.
On my first day on the job in this prison, I accompanied
my boss, the Hindude, to the supermax facility to speak
with an irate inmate. The irate inmate had been caught
in the latest crackdown on wanking. The superintendent
was cracking the whip on those caught "cracking
the whip." I got my first look at the Hindude's
repertoire of techniques for instantaneously calming
irate inmates. The inmate, "Jack," greeted
Dr. Rao (he pronounced it "Ra-ooo"), and without
prompting, related his tale of woe.
"A'ight, I'm layin' in my bunk, jackin' my dick.
Now you KNOW, I'm-a JACK MY DICK!" "Jack"
was so angry his eyeballs were twitching.
"Of course," Dr. Rao assured the inmate.
"And I will jack MY dick. Now, what happened?"
My jaw dropped. What would the licensing board say?
Then I looked at the inmate and saw that he was suddenly
calm, smiling as if he'd just had an injection of morphine.
Dr. Rao knew just what medicine the inmate needed for
what he calls "dungeon syndrome." Later, Dr.
Rao explained to his newest protégé "You
have to connect with the inmate as a human being."
After just a few minutes of Dr. Rao's treatment for
"dungeon syndrome," the once irate inmate
was laughing and eagerly recounting his misadventures
as a juvenile delinquent in the training school where,
just three days earlier, I had been a psychologist.
It was the first of many amazing experiences with "Dr.
Ra-ooo" and the inmates.
When the next crackdown on wanking came I responded
as I often do to the imposition of ridiculous rules
and requirements: I got behind it with every silly bone
in my body. I made a series of anti-wanking posters,
a parody of the old safety posters that hung in the
factories and warehouses in which I worked my way through
college. I parodied another element of the ridiculous
attempts to "reach" young criminals, employing
famous athletes and "getting down" with gangs
(including the Folk Nation, the People Nation, and the
Nation of Gods and Earths, which claims that 85% of
people are deaf, dumb, and blind, and thus incapable
of learning their "sacred knowledge").
For your potential amusement, I've cut and pasted in
the text from those posters.
Poster: I
There's a reason it's called
jerk ing off.
Don't be a jerk!
Poster 2
Superstar Golfer
Tiger Woods says:
"In my game, the player with the fewest strokes
wins."
So all y'all playas,
if you got game,
do it with fewer strokes!
Message sponsored by the PGA
Poster 3
Different strokes for different Folks?
Not in our Nation.
Message sponsored by the Folk Nation
Poster 4
If all we ever do is masturbate, some day there will
be no
People in our Nation.
Think about it!
Message sponsored by the People Nation
Poster 5
Ever wonder why
85% of people are
deaf, dumb, and blind?
Maybe it really does cause blindness!
Message sponsored by the Nation of Gods and Earths--the
Five Percenters
Poster 6
Remember when
"Beating your meat"
was something you did to a steak before you grilled
it on the backyard barbecue? When
"Holding your own"
meant standing up for what you believed in? When
"Come one, come all"
was an invitation to a church picnic?
Come to your senses.
Return to traditional family values.
Don't masturbate!
Message sponsored by the Republican Party
May 11, 2004
Stories like this
are why I write nonfiction. You can't make stuff up
this good. This movie writes itself, doesn't it?
All the next few links are from
Slate, my favorite on-line hangout.
"How the Other Half Banks: The depressing, amazing
"payday loan" business". (Go'head. Front.
Act like you don't know why I'm linking to this.)
"The United States is about to undergo a paradigm
shift in the way it eats, and the success of Morgan
Spurlock's super-entertaining, super-disgusting documentary
Super Size Me will have something to do with it. With
any luck, Spurlock's odyssey will do for patrons of
McDonald's, Burger King, KFC, etc., what scientists
did for the sociopathic Alex (Malcolm McDowell) in A
Clockwork Orange (1971) when they pried his eyes wide
open, administered a drug to induce nausea, and forced
him to ogle hours and hours of violence. It will put
you off your fast food—or, at least, slow you
down. Just the thought of a Quarter Pounder With Cheese
and a large fries makes me gag these days. And not too
long ago, I was addicted to the stuff." (Go 'head.
Front like you don't know why I linked to this.)
In the interest of fair play, here's a link to an article
summarizing the new wave of jock
bloggers. (Ladies, I have no idea why I linked to
this knowing they already spend too much time on sports.
Thank God my husband doesn't follow them. OK, now I
know why I linked to it.)
"The injustice of white-collar sentencing rules".
Yeah, they
went there.
Of course, I immediately went back on the road. This
time, however, to do some reporting in Philadelphia
for a piece I'm working on. More on that when it runs
in a few months. I got back late Saturday. Sunday was
my son's third birthday, but, like I wasn't going to
tell him that. May 9, June 9...what's the difference
really?
I've been such an absentee Mom (and bill-payer and
wife and neighbor and daughter and sister and all kinds
of other stuff) and so exhausted, I decided to take
advantage of the fact that he's only 3 and let him continue
to think that he was only two. I figured, in a month
or so, I'll have gotten life back on track and be able
to throw him a killer party. What I didn't know, and
what my husband forgot to mention until 1 pm on Sunday,
was that Dash's nursery school uses all the kids' birthdays
to teach about time and stuff. On Monday, they'd be
talking about Dash's birthday party. Damn yuppies and
their class-based assumptions. I always suspected the
husband hated me for traveling so much. Here was the
proof.
So, instead of going back home to sleep after the Birthday
Pancake Brunch that Dash thought was just brunch, suddenly,
I was putting together a kiddie party. As I'm speed
shopping at partywarehouses, herding helium balloons,
and filling goodie bags in my car's front seat, the
cell rings and its a fancy news show wanting to send
a film crew for their Monday broadcast. Something about
torture, Iraq, the future of democracy -- definitely
non-birthday related.
Thinking that, with the crew, there's be at least 8
people at Dash's party, I contemplated saying yes. I
actually thought about it. They could set up in our
large yard, right next to the pinata I was filling while
talking with the producer. We could hang balloons from
the cameras and send all (three) of the kids home with
souvenir head shots.
But in the end, I couldn't think of a good explanation
for why Mommy was talking to a hard-bitten film crew
about the torture of naked prisoners while the lettering
was still wet, so to speak, on Boo Boo's birthday cake.
"Mommy won't be a playa, Sweetie, if she doesn't
get as much visibility as she can, can she? You want
Mommy to be a playa, right sweetie pie?" I remember
reading somewhere that Kathy Lee Gifford chided little
Dakota by asking him if he 'liked going to private school'
when he objected to her frequent absences.
Being married with children an a volcanic career is,
like, hard.
Besides my family, no one suffers more from that than
the amazing folks who were minding their own business
when I harrassed them into contributing to this blog.
And then I abandoned them. I'll try to catch up and
stay caught up with Lisa H and John Schwade, especially.
Post-Soul Post Cards
by Lisa H
One of my (softball) players – let’s call
her Nee-nee – missed practice the other day because
she was running from the, as she put it, po-po. Some
boy hit her when she wouldn’t give up her cell
phone, and she called the law on him, but when po-po
arrived, she acted brand-new and claimed she didn’t
know what the problem was. When po-po said maybe I ought
to just run you in, she took off and stayed on the lam
all evening. She told me this the next day when I asked
her if all that clicking I heard from my backseat was
her text-messaging. She confirmed that it was. (Do I
need to say that sponsors paid Nee-nee’s $50 registration
fee because her mother said she couldn’t afford
it?)
Nee-nee rides another player for talking white. The
“white” girl, who has informed me that she
takes Honors English, says “screet” and
“scraight” and “axed” in the
harsh, choppy, consonant-swallowing accent prevalent
in her neighborhood. I cannot imagine what makes her
white, other than that she seldom curses, actually likes
school, and fervently wants to escape to college. She
is clearly a teacher’s pet type. Nee-nee believes
that being “ghetto” (her word) is the sine
qua non of life. She does not want to go to college,
but she does want to be a lawyer. When I tell her I'm
one, she yells, "How much money you make?"
The "white" girl hisses her disapproval: "You
caint ask no grown-up they personal business like that."
Nee-nee turns to me, coolly, "Well, den, you can
bail me out."
Maybe I need to explain why my interaction with my
players is so vexing....
Despite my current repositioning, I am still very much
black-identified and deeply value my upbringing in a
small-town, working-class Southern setting. (My own
household wasn't working-class, but my larger community
generally was.) I see myself as one who "knows"
children like the ones I coach. The sting, then, comes
from the realization that they don't see me that way,
and they're honest about it. My blackness is of little
note to them, because I'm "white." In that
sense, they are more emancipated than I, because they
fully understand that accidents of melanin are just
that. I am obviously trying to have my cake and eat
it, too, and am setting myself up for small pains. Even
as I try to convince myself that I know these kids,
I am astounded at the gulf between my value systems
and their own, and it's not merely a generation gap.
Can we ALL be black? In what meaningful way?
May 4, 2004
Well, my book tour finally ended. I was on the road
from the end of January thru the end of April and I
thought I wouldn't survive. I understand now why bands
on tour do drugs. I think I'm still married, but I'm
not sure. If I were my husband, I'd have packed up the
brats and left. Wudda taken me weeks to notice. My three
year old gets hysterical if I get up for more coffee,
thinking I'm going to the hated "airport".
My 7 month old sleeps a total of 20 minutes when in
daycare when I'm gone. She sleeps 6 hours a day, then
from 7pm to6 am when I'm not. But it's cool, 'cause
I'm not entirely sure those are my kids, they look so
diferent, but I'm too tired to do the math. They'll
do.
So, hopefully, I'll be posting more.
Post-Soul Post Cards
by Lisa H
PART 1 (For the nonce, unimaginatively titled “Girlz
in the Hood.”)
Their teachers are black.
Their principals are black.
Their school superintendent is black.
The fire and police chiefs are black.
The city council is majority black.
Their mayor is black. (And female.)
Their state congressional representative – hell,
their U.S. rep – is black.
Their hometown is waaayyyyy majority black.
Their hometown abuts Atlanta, which is also way majority
black and has a black, female mayor. In fact, it’s
had black mayors for 30 years. It is sometimes even
called the Black Mecca.
(Just to set the stage.)
My friends and I coach a girls’ softball team.
The girls are 12, 13, 14 years old. The going is rough
right now. In this city of 40,000, we can’t find
enough adolescent girls to make up a proper team. They
have better things to do than spend 3 or 4 afternoons
a week with some foreigners. I have lived here for 5
years, I am black, I am a female, I am a Southerner,
but I am not confused – I’m foreign. After
one girl charged another one with talking like a white
girl, I said, “Well, what in the world am I?”
The girl bit on a grin and stayed silent. Another turned
from her cell phone long enough to murmur: “White.”
So much for modeling roles. And that stung a little
bit, fully conversant as I am in black vernacular speech.
But I understand her. It’s “white”
just to describe one’s code-switching, isn’t
it?
Hey Lisa,
a black friend from back home recently asked my sister
"how's your sister doing?" She knew damned
well he meant me, the one who left St. Louis on the
first thing smoking, but just to be evil, she said innocently,
"which sister? I have four." He replied: "the
white one."
Yours in IncogNegritude,
Debbie the white girl. I mean 'white' girl.
Harmed and Dangerous:
Letters from Lockdown
By John Schwade
Fresh slice of prison life:
"Poop Dogg," the lad who, upon meeting me,
commented on my substantial gluteal development relative
to my melanin deficiency, has become one of my favorite
inmates.
He's doing much better these days; I'd like to think
my psychomologimical treatment has helped.
Today, he got to see his mother for the first time
since his trial, whereat he was convicted of first degree
murder and sentenced to life without parole by a jury
who saw him in court, in a manic state, with his face
covered by a leather mask. Last month, his mother called
me to ask how her son was doing, and told me a pitiful
tale. How's this for perverse? "Poop Dogg's"
mother complained to me that when the prosecutor announced
he would no longer seek the death penalty, "Poop
Dogg's" attorney stopped supplying a "Mitigation
Specialist" (an unemployed social worker who digs
up "mitigating circumstances" to present to
the jury in the sentencing phase of a trial in an effort
to ensure the convicted dies a natural death in prison),
so "I didn't have anybody to talk to anymore."
So much for the legal "dream team."
On Friday, "Poop Dogg" told me his mother
would be visiting today, and accepted my offer to drop
by the visitation room (they are separated by bulletproof
glass and converse on the telephone--as seen on t.v.)
in case his mother had any questions for me. I stopped
by upon returning from lunch, and saw through the glass
that "Poop Dogg" was smiling (wish I had his
teeth) and laughing, along with his mother. I told "Poop
Dogg" I'd spoken to his mother, and he was pleased.
He gave me a bigger smile and a thumbs-up sign. "Poop
Dogg's" mother thanked me for my concern and for
helping her son. Although it was a brief encounter,
I thought I would be able to count it in the "Win"
column.
As I left the visitation booth, I heard "Poop
Dogg's" mother say to him, "Boy, you stupid
as hell!"
Who's stupid as hell?
I found myself once again singing my version of "Home
on the Range": Home, home of the deranged... where
seldom is heard, an encouraging word, and the skies
are cloudy all day....
May 3, 2004
Welcome to my world: Here's an edited
email I received from someone who'd invited me to discuss
The End of Blackness at his organization:
"Erase [our organization] off your calendar. [The
head of this organization] said he really liked your
book. Then he said he wanted to enlist support among
the black[s in the organization]. He approached two
respected [members] who wasted little time agreeing
that your appearance would be "too controversial
and divisive." [Our leader] then dropped a note
in my box stating the black community doesn't support
your coming....They didn't have your book long enough
for either of them to have read it, much less discuss
its contents."
Hmmm. "Controversial and divisive". Isn't
that how whites dismiss our critiques?
Rap, Rage, REDvolution. As hip-hop emerges
as an empowering voice for indigenous youth, mainstream
rappers still objectify Indian country. From the Village
Voice:
"Conjuring up the charge of cavalries and natives
on some futuristic-western warpath, OutKast stormed
the 2004 Grammys in February with the brazenness of
the former, while bedecked as the latter. Resplendent
in neon green Halloween-Hiawatha approximations of Native
American regalia—fringe, headbands, and feathers—Andre
and Big Boi rose before smoking teepees, prancing proudly
through their chart-slaying "Hey Ya!," the
chorus of which is itself evocative of powwow singing.
Was it some kind of tribute, or did the winners of the
Album of the Year Grammy unwittingly channel Al Jolson's
"Mammy"?
It's a question many Native Americans have considered,
responding promptly to launch boycotts and Web petitions
voicing their collective displeasure. CBS's brief, lukewarm
apology—"if anyone was offended"—brought
zero resolution, particularly since OutKast themselves
refused even to comment. Two months later, people are
still waiting; during an April 1 protest outside the
network's Minneapolis affiliate, one person was arrested."
Hate to brag, but, a sister got there first.
From The End of Blackness: "Because blacks do
not stand outside of either Western or American history,
they can not stand outside its crimes, alleged or proven.
When Iran took the American embassy hostage in 1979,
they released the blacks . They knew that blacks were
neither valuable nor somehow quite guilty of America’s
crimes. But came 9-11 and the anti-American terrorists
were equally happy with the black dead as the white.
Progress, albeit ironic. Blacks can no longer have it
both ways, vested when it suits them, homegrown outsiders
when that offers more perks. American history simultaneously
robes and strangles them, too. Both their progress and
their demands create the conditions for their retroactive
condemnation.
For instance, they demand respect for unacknowledged
black contribution to America’s military might,
but only as a one way ratchet. Blacks exalt the Buffalo
Soldiers but choose to know little of their role in
helping to exterminate Native Americans so their land
could be stolen; will they be any more forthcoming than
whites if confronted by Apache and Comanche protestors?"
Apparently not.
April 30, 2004
Post-Soul Post Cards
by Lisa H
I’m sitting in a scheduling meeting for little
league softball. While we’re waiting for everybody
to get here, Soul Coach #1 breaks out a styrofoam box
and pulls forth – of course – a big, ol’,
greasy chicken leg. “Fried” immediately
fills the room, as does the sound of her smacking. The
couple other black folk in the room seem unperturbed,
but I want to fall through the floor. I’m reminded
of my favorite passage in Invisible Man, where the narrator,
having resisted a pork chop breakfast as a shameless
badge of his southern-ness, is later offered a buttery,
baked yam. As he bites into its sugary goodness right
there on the sidewalk, he reflects: “Why, you
could cause us the greatest humiliation simply by confronting
us with something we liked.” The vendor remarks,
“I can see you one of these old-fashioned yam
eaters,” and the narrator replies, “They’re
my birthmark. I yam what I yam.” That’s
me. And what I love, by God, is not fried chicken, but
black folk. But I haven’t quite learned the narrator’s
lesson, ‘cause I still wince when my yams show
out in the street.
But on a lighter note, my sister put my 7 year-old
niece on the phone 'cause she just had to talk to me.
Breathlessly, she pleaded, "Pllllleeeeeeassssse
get married soon." When I asked her why she was
so pressed about that, she told me she needed a new
cousin. (I think she's finally understanding that her
mother has shut it down at one child.) I laughed and
told her if I got married she'd be the first to know.
After she got off the phone, I thought how refreshing
it is to encounter a black child for whom that sequence
of events is normative.
What is Afrofuturist
Art? Don't ask me, ask Cinque
Hicks. If it isn't strictly representational (you
know, little black velvet Elvis's and dogs playing poker),
a sister gets very confused.
April 28, 2004
Harmed and Dangerous:
Letters from Lockdown
By John Schwade
Why are Prosecutors so Timid About Prosecuting Cases
Involving Rap?
On December 6, 1995, in Fayetteville, North Carolina,
James Norman Burmeister, Jr., then 20, Malcolm Wright,
Jr., then 21, and Randy Lee Meadows, then 21--all members
of the U. S. Army 82nd Airborne Division stationed at
nearby Fort Bragg--left the Que and Ale Tavern and followed
Burmeister's order to "Go to a place where there's
a whole lot of niggers and not a whole lot of light."
While "patrolling," one of the soldiers located
"targets." "There goes a nigger couple
right there!" one shouted upon spotting a man and
woman walking together on the sidewalk. The "patrol"
passed the "targets," drove around the block
and passed them again, before Burmeister and Wright
"dismounted" with a 9mm pistol. Burmeister
and Wright approached the couple from the rear, and
then fired two shots into the head of Michael James.
His companion, Jackie Burden, was shot three times in
the head and once in the back. (By the way, they still
had 4 rounds remaining in the 10-round magazine, which
makes me wonder whether a 10-round magazine limit in
handguns was a goal worth pursuing by gun-control advocates.)
The successful completion of this "mission"
entitled Burmeister to the "decoration" he
sought: a spider web tattoo over his elbow.
People don't just "snap" and commit crimes
like this. Ale doesn't cause people to commit crimes
like this. Evidence presented at the trials of Burmeister,
Wright, and Meadows established that they were affiliated
with a white supremacist, neo-Nazi group and culture
that advocated and rewarded crimes like this.
One witness testified that Burmeister had explained
the dress code. They wore Doc Marten brand boots, with
color-coded laces: white laces signified white supremacy,
red Nazi allegiance, blue laces were the "decoration"
for killing a cop, and yellow for killing anyone. Blue
jeans were worn with the cuffs rolled up to display
the shoelaces. Red suspenders added a spiffy look. (This
group knew how to "accessorize" long before
"Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.")
But the testimony that was most revealing concerned
the murderers' taste in "music." They preferred
"stomper" music. A favorite tune, "Doc
Marten Dental Plan" (recognize the brand name?)
referred to the boots Burmeister bragged they wore as
weapons to kick the teeth out of their victims. When
"Third Reich" played, Burmeister and his buddies
would, at the appropriate moment, stand and make the
"Heil Hitler" salute. "White Niggers"
exemplified the diversity of their musical tastes, and
emphasized that it is not skin color alone that makes
one deserve to be murdered, but also how low one's pants
sag.
These "songs" were played in open court at
the trial of Burmeister, Wright, and Meadows, along
with an unnamed song extolling the enjoyment of shooting
black people. The lyrics, which were unbearable for
the families of the victims, included "Point it
at their head and let's have some fun…. It's so
much fun to mow them down." This musical mirth
included lyrics about shooting blacks in the back. Of
course, Burmeister had shot the victims in the head
and back. District Attorney Ed Grannis described this
"art" as "a premonition of what happened
to my two victims."
All three of the "soldiers" were convicted.
Burmeister and Wright are serving life without parole
for First-degree Murder. Randy Lee Meadows, the driver,
was rewarded for his cooperation with prosecutors; he
plead guilty to Assault with a Deadly Weapon Inflicting
Serious Injury, and served a term on probation.
The prosecution and conviction of Burmeister and Wright
for First-degree Murder raises a question. If the "stomper"
music that was a "premonition" of the murder
of Michael James and Jackie Burder may be presented
at trial by the prosecution, why has the "hip-hop"
music enjoyed by so many more murderers never been presented
at trial?
Hip-hop is replete with the celebration of murder,
kidnapping, rape, and other terrible crimes. The debate
over the overall destructive effects of hip-hop "music"
comes to a screeching halt when, in an individual case,
an inmate describes committing a murder because "Tupac's
music was like my Gideon's Bible. Whenever I had to
make a decision, I would listen to Tupac. When that
dude robbed me, I listened to Tupac, how he retaliated
when someone robbed from him or his boys. So I thought
I had to shoot the dude." Mind you, this inmate
was not presenting this as a defense at trial. He had
confessed to the murder, and after a year in prison
was struggling to understand how he--while a student
in his sophomore year of college--could have committed
such a vile act.
Of course, the purpose of playing "stomper music"
in the courtroom during the trial of Burmeister, Wright,
and Meadows was not to convict "stomper music,"
but to convict Burmeister, Wright, and Meadows of the
crime they committed, First-degree Murder. Toward that
end, the prosecutor played their "stomper"
music to establish the mens rea, or "guilty mind,"
of the defendants. The purpose of playing hip-hop "music"
in the trial of its aficionados who commit First-degree
Murder would, likewise, not be to convict hip-hop, but
to establish the mens rea of murderers whose premeditation
included hip-hop.
In the terms used by the United States Supreme Court
in their most recent ruling on the matter (Staples v.
United States), the requirement of mens rea as an element
of a crime is a common law rule. It is also a common
sense rule. For instance, consider how you would interpret
a simple act in which a white man working in a crowded
office turns around, hits a black man in the face with
the back of his hand, and then apologizes, saying it
was an accident. While you might have doubts about the
white man's intentions or the sincerity of his apology,
this information alone is not evidence beyond a reasonable
doubt of an assault. But suppose you learned that prior
to the incident, the white man had been listening to
these lyrics:
If I see you're black,
You better stay back;
If you're of that race,
I'll smack your face.
Naturally, your interpretation of the incident, particularly
the intention of the white assailant, would change.
Even if the assailant claimed he didn't take the lyrics
seriously, or was not influenced by the lyrics, the
fact that he enjoyed, or even tolerated such lyrics
would be a significant revelation.
Too often, those convicted of the lesser homicides,
Second-degree Murder, Voluntary Manslaughter, and even
Involuntary Manslaughter readily admit to me that they
committed premeditated murder, which is one of three
classes of First-degree Murder. At the same time, they
admit they were adhering to the rules of thug culture,
as espoused by their favorite hip-hop "artists."
Most often, these cases involve premeditated revenge
murders or gang-ordered executions. Those prosecuting
their cases did not "sample" the music collection
of the murderer for the jury to reveal the murderer
had been enjoying numerous boasts of, justifications
for, and plans for murder, as did District Attorney
Grannis in the trial of Fayetteville's neo-Nazi murderers.
Instead, the district attorney approved a plea of Second-degree
Murder. The district attorney tacitly accepted the murderer's
explanation that he is a subhuman savage with no control
over his impulses who murdered a man over, to use a
popular example, "a drug deal gone bad." The
worst result is that the murderer does not receive the
due punishment, and the community is not provided with
the due protection. Not to be overlooked is that not
all of the factors that contribute to the worst of crimes
are brought to light.
The timidity of prosecutors regarding hip-hop both
reflects and contributes to the racial stereotypes that
plague our courts and indeed our society. Here, the
lower expectations and perceived mysterious nature of
blacks is insidious. Were an employee of this prison
to play "stomper" music in his or her office,
there is no doubt that employee would be fired or referred
to a psychiatrist through the employee assistance program.
Yet the offices of this prison, and the cars in the
parking lot, resound with hip-hop--the same hip-hop
that inmates listen to, the same hip-hop that provides
boasts of, justifications for, and plans for murder,
kidnap, rape, and other terrible crimes. The same is
true everywhere music is played: on the radio and television,
in movies, in the barbershop, in the gym, in the shopping
mall. "Stomper" music is underground, hip-hop
is on a pedestal.
"Stomper music" is recorded exclusively by
whites, including Europeans. Hip-hop, with the exception
of Eminem (who claims to have been perverted by his
fictional upbringing among blacks), is recorded by blacks.
I know you're getting tired of reading about this, so
allow me to make some generalizations about our courts
and our society. White people are considered to be capable,
intellectually and morally, or producing and enjoying
things better than "stomper music." "Stomper
music" has never been called "white culture,"
although Time magazine labeled hip-hop "music"
"black culture" in 1999. Blacks are not considered
to be capable, either intellectually or morally, of
producing and enjoying things better than hip-hop "music."
Furthermore, white people are not considered so mysterious
that they warrant the type of article National Geographic
published (in 1990, if you've got a stack of them in
your attic) about "The African Americans"
(as if they were a strange tribe National Geographic
had just discovered).
When police and prosecutors investigating a murder
discover the murderer listened to "stomper music,"
this is considered germane to the suspect's mens rea
because "stomper music" is considered an aberration,
a perversion of white culture. And anyone who listens
to perversion is a pervert. Conversely, when the suspect
is discovered to have listened to violent hip-hop "music"
this is not considered a perversion of a culture, but
mysterious black culture itself. Hence, police and prosecutors
are timid, fearful of incurring the wrath faced by any
critic of hip-hop "music." They are content
to accept the slogan once popular on tee shirts: It's
a black thing--you wouldn't understand. (By the way,
75% of consumers of hip-hop are white, so I am not using
"listened to violent hip-hop" as a code for
"black." I am referring to white murderers
as well. Hip-hop is the preferred "music"
of most black, white, Cambodian, and other murderers
it has been my misfortune to interview.)
And, since most murder victims are black, it's not
worth their trouble to try to understand.
April 16, 2004
"MOUNT POCONO, Pa. - Dazed with exhaustion, Angela
Dean takes a third swipe at the snooze bar and then
realizes she cannot afford another 10-minute reprieve
from reality. It is 3:30 a.m., and there is laundry
to be done, lunches to be made and homework to be checked
before she can climb aboard the 5:15 bus that carries
her to her big city job two states away. ... Ms. Dean
is a weary soldier in a growing legion of teachers,
subway conductors and executive secretaries, 17,000
strong, who make the voyage each day from the forested
Pocono highlands to the steel escarpments of Manhattan.
Largely black and Latino, urban refugees ... At St.
Luke's Roman Catholic Church in downtown Stroudsburg,
where the soup kitchen, once dominated by hard-drinking
men, feeds a growing cadre of mothers and their children,
the Rev. Thomas McLaughlin shakes his head at the tales
of overworked parents struggling with unruly teenagers
or imploding marriages. "People used to resolve
their disputes around the dinner table," he said.
"But when you're commuting five or six hours a
day, there's no time for dinner." Here's Part
I and Part II from the New
York Times. Here's their accompanying op
ed.
Post-Soul Post Cards
by Lisa H
(I'm way behind on posting and Lisa's been
on the case.)
Dear Deb,
I’m on the MARTA train going home with my customary
good book in my face as shield and protector. A piece
of paper is suddenly thrust into my sight line, and,
sotto voce: “CDs, DVDs, three dollars.”
I mumble no thanks, and the hustler moves on down the
aisle, but not before I apprehend – with a start
– this man is white! As I jot this strange fact
down, the elderly man beside me starts to fidget. He’s
maybe 80, white, dressed in a neat golf sweater and
snap-brim cap, and, at the next station, I slant my
knees to let him pass. He heads not out of the car,
but back. To the other white man, Subway Hustler, who
is chatting with somebody about a bootleg copy of Tom
Hanks’ Ladykillers. He’s sort of giving
a review. Granddaddy perches near him, and asks a question,
and I strain to hear their conversation, but all I catch
is this: “I would go with J-Kwon.”
Dear Lisa,
Don't you just hate it when white folks act all transracial?
And why can't I find Ladykillers on amazon.com?
Triflingly,
Deb
************************
My thing came down this morning, so I was in Barnes
& Noble satisfying my jones. I managed to keep the
take down to three books, one a history of the Creek
Nation. The saleswoman glanced at me and said, “Oh,
are you part Creek?” And I said no. And she said
her family is – of course – part Cherokee,
and “We don’t teach our children that heritage
is genetic, not what society says.” I think her
point was: don’t get it confused, she is not really
all-the-way black. And who am I, who am not black 7
or 8 days out of 10 lately, to quibble? Though when
I’m not exactly black, when I’m done with
it, I’m not white or Indian or Hispanic or some
other “race.” I’m post-it. Post-black.
Somewhere claiming my freedom to be and do and say as
I please, without genetics or society or heritage or
what the hell ever dictating my aesthetics, my politics,
my relationships.
Dear Lisa,
Zora Neal Hurston: "I am the only Negro in the
United States whose grandfather on the mother's side
was not an Indian chief." Apparently, she still
is. I just love, purely love, when Negroes go on oh-so-nonchalantly
about how hard it was to make their hair stand up "like
that" back in the Afro days. I guess its just my
hair that will stick out straight enough to hang Christmas
ornaments from.
Yours without racial (or ideological) purity,
Debra
**********************
Deb,
I spent a little time last week chatting with H.C.
“Chris” Porter, a photographer and painter
who creates stunning portraits of residents of Jackson,
Mississippi’s poor black neighborhoods. I first
encountered Chris’ work some years ago at the
now-defunct Atlanta Festival of Arts and thought, “God,
who is this brother? This is incredible.” And
then the artist stepped up to greet me and was no brother
at all. H.C. Porter is a woman. And a white one. She
limns the daily lives of her Millsaps Avenue neighbors
– boys playing basketball, a man cleaning fish,
a woman tending her garden, a girl perched on a chair
at the laundromat. Chris’ work is beautifully
luminous, deeply respectful, and she catches hell for
it from black folks who question the “right”
of a white woman to create such loving work. But freedom’s
for white people, too, and Chris – born in Mississippi
the year Medgar Evers died – knows it and rejoices
in it.
Lisa,
White folks are just doing this to get even. I spent
the years from 1977-1990 or so watching white people's
faces turn red when I showed up for appointments and
the like with all this melanin. They don't really love
or take us seriously. Do they?
Now I'm confused,
Debra
**********************
Deb,
You're always asking me what I'm reading. I’m
not long ago finishing Randall Kennedy’s Nigger.
(I know I’m late. I had to wait for the soft cover.
I have an aversion to paperbacks that extends even to
library books.) Kennedy, of course, made me reflect
upon my own two times – in my southern life of
some length – being called a nigger and assess
the damage. (Of course, I’m talking about being
called nigger by a white person. I could not begin to
count otherwise.)
The first time, I was 12, it was the Bicentennial,
and I had left North Carolina for summer school in the
Berkshires. (Behind some serious sacrifice by my parents,
don’t trip.) I don’t know how the beef started,
but next thing I knew Rob Silverstein, a Jewish boy
from Long Island, was screaming “nigger”
down the stairwell at me. I was shocked and certainly
angry. (And not too young to appreciate irony.) Was
I slain, though? Not hardly. I reported the incident
to Wesley Carrion, one of the few black teenagers around,
and he scared the shit out of Rob like I asked him to.
Second time was not too long ago, and I was sitting
in the car place waiting on some brake work when the
side door opened and an enormous white woman in a Krispy
Kreme uniform, a Flannery O’Connor kind of white
woman, pushed through. I watched in rude, slack-jawed
fascination as she crammed a dozen bags of hot fries
and cheese doodles into various folds about her person.
As she turned to leave, she caught me staring and snarled,
“Nigger, what you looking at?” I was astonished.
I was embarrassed. I sucked in my breath and –
burst out laughing.
‘Cause isn’t that generally the case?
It’s not your doctor, your lawyer, your office
mate calling you a nigger. It’s not the mortgage
broker or the insurance man. It’s the brokest
down of the broke-down, who takes in your straight teeth
and square heels, your good grammar and careless laugh,
and comes for you with the last scrap of artillery in
the arsenal. And, really, really, you are way beyond
bullet-range.
**********************
Proof that scientists are just racists.
They actually want us to believe that black children's
educational problems are not all the direct result of
racism. "We found that watching television before
the age of 3 increases the chances that children will
develop attentional problems at age 7...The study
appears in the April issue of Pediatrics.Experts
estimate that between 4 percent and 12 percent of U.S.
children may be affected by Attention Deficit Hyperactivity
Disorder (ADHD). Many parents may believe their children
are just "born that way," but the home environment
can also play a key role in the development of the disorder"...
Liars. For this to be true, it would have to logically
follow that there were actions blacks could take to
achieve their stated desired outcomes, whatever white
people were up to. That couldn't possible be,
ergo, science, I mean 'science', is nothing but racism
with big words.
A final Condi thought from a reader,
Catherine M.:
re: Rice's testimony before the 9/11 commission, I
was intrigued by her response when Sen. Kerrey made
a slip of the tongue and referred to her as "Dr.
Clarke": "I think, sir, with due respect ...
I don't think I look like Dick Clarke." Hmmm, let's
distract everyone's attention away from my job performance
by alluding to my race and gender. That will weaken
and flummox the white men interrogating me. It worked
when Clarence Thomas bellowed about a "high-tech
lynching," even though his accuser was a black
woman. It should work even better if I'm more suave
in my delivery.
April 15, 2004
Here's William
Jelani Cobb's thoughtful
take on Condigate and what it means for Negroes.
April 8, 2004
I've added lots of new links.
April 7, 2004
Here's my take on National Security Advisor
Rice's fate at tomorrow's 9/11 Commission inquiry.
It won't be pretty. It's in the LA
Times. Props, btw, to blackcommentator.com's analysis
of a few days ago. It was reading this
piece that led me to write this op-ed (as well as
lift two of their examples).
William Hung: Racism, Or Magic? From
the San
Francisco Gate. Here's the Village
Voice's take on Hung. A sister was getting tired;
let the Asians run the race war for awhile.
Shouldn't they just sue and demand to be given
the money? "M.B.A. students at HBCUs compete
for $22,000 in start-up capital as part of a business
plan competition." Fom blackenterprise.com.
The Hiphop Cop: A Tale of NYPD's Rap Intelligence
Unit "By 1999, the perception of an increasingly
violent rap industry and Parker's acumen resulted in
his becoming a one-man rap shop. "There was a lot
of resentment and a lot of problems with me leaving
to go and work with these other units in the police
department," he says. Parker recounts that after
he had made a presentation on Hiphop and its connection
to gang culture at a police convention, then-chief of
police Louis Anemone pulled him aside. "Anemone
said, 'Look, Derrick. I'm going to have to put you in
this unit, under the Gang Intelligence Unit.' He goes,
'Your unit doesn't really have a name. You're just going
to be under Gang-Intel, but your specialty is going
to be the rap music industry.' "
See, we're not paranoid. They really are out ot get
us. From the Village
Voice.
April 6, 2004
We have officially overcome. My latest needlecraft
supply catalog (yeah, I sew, knit and crochet. Wanna
make something of it?) boasts 'hip hop jaquard' yarn.
What's next? 'Hip Hop' ice skates? 'New Jack' gingerbread?
April 5, 2004
How do you say 'incogNegro' in Spanish?
"When songstress Josephine Baker visited Argentina
in the 1950s she asked the biracial minister of public
health Ramon Carillo, "Where are the Negroes?"
to which Carillo responded laughing, "There are
only two — you and I."
"Scholars have long pondered the "disappearance"
of people of African descent from Argentina, long considered
South America's "whitest" nation. A 1973 article
in Ebony asked, "what happened to Argentina's involuntary
immigrants, those African slaves and their mulatto descendants
who once outnumbered whites five to one, and who were
for 250 years 'an important element' in the total population,
which is now 97 percent white?"
One history book calls the country's lack of self-identifying
black people "one of the most intriguing riddles
in Argentine history," while another notes that
"the disappearance of the Negro from the Argentine
scene has puzzled demographers far more than the vanishing
Indian." Was the Afro-Argentine community annihilated
by disease and war, or absorbed into the larger white
community?
Of course, whiteness itself is relative. Many Argentines
who proudly consider themselves white come to America
and are shocked to find that in American racial discourse
they are considered "Latino," "Hispanic"
or vaguely "Spanish," and not white. Says
Paula Brufman, an Argentine law student and researcher,
"Argentines like to think of themselves as a white
nation populated by Europeans. I was surprised when
in the US, people — especially Latinos —
told me I was not white but Spanish."
Read this to find out where all the
Argentinian Negroes went.
'Cause the black divorce rate isn't already
high enough: "Family Digest, Black America's
No.1 family and relationship magazine - announced that
they are giving away over $3,000 in FREE gifts to EACH
adult who registers and attends the Bid Whist World
Championship and Family Fun Weekend being held in Las
Vegas July 1-4, 2004". To get info and register,
go to here.
April 2, 2004
Here's a review of The End of Blackness that completely
misses
the point. Again. One needn't accept my detailed
arguments, but a reviewer
might try something unusual like engaging with them.
I'm so bored with the 'blacks/whites are not a monolith'
point. Of course they aren't, a point I make repeatedly
throughout the EOB with phrases like "blacks who
do this," and "whites who do that". By
the way, if I'm not describing you, why would you think
I'm talking about you? (Answer: because I am
describing you, just like the black men who deemed Waiting
to Exhale an attack on all of them.). I thought I was
talking down to anyone who'd read a serious book by
making such obvious points, but I guess things just
can't be simple enough for some people. Once again,
I 'give institutional racism carte blanche' -- why no
mention of the 70 pages I spend vivisecting white racism?
Gotcha! White racism, for the purposes of this discussion,
is irrelevant. The main point of the EOB is that the
existence of racism in no way negates our responsibility
to handle our business but, in fact, requires
that we do so. I wouldn't have needed to write a book
about responding to racism if there was no racism. They
focus on the racism because it allows them to stop thinking
about what our response to it should be. In the EOB,
I focus on the response. I laid out very specifically
what I was up to in this book -- black identity and
action plan in a post-movement environment -- but the
kneejerks want me to spend all my time kissing blarney
stones and not making them look bad to whites (by talking
about bad black behavior. As if it's invisible.). Simply
stating that 'white racism is irrelevant', ever
irrelevant, allows the mentally squeamish to stop thinking.
To them, it's the same as saying 'there is no white
racism.' Nothing like a good straw man to defeat. You
push certain people's buttons, and you push the off
switch to their brains.
But of course, this is the kind of pseudocriticism
the intellectually lazy, the intellectually challenged
and those with hidden agendas make. That kind of 'review'
writes itself, leaving the wannabe, mentally retired
intellectual to chortle over his word counter. Would
Williams make those critiques of The
Souls of Black Folk or
The Mis-Education of the Negro? They speak in the
same terms, which is why I modelled the EOB on them
(as well as
The Culture of Narcissism). They're what inspired
me to write it this way (the anger and smart alecry
were my own). OK, now I have to waste everyone's time
saying, sigh, that I'm not comparing myself to them.
I'm trying to live up to them. You know what's saddest
about that? It won't make any difference. The tiny brains
will be shocked! shocked that I dare compare myself
to the greats.
Now that that brilliant, space-filling observation
is out of the way, let me say that, eventually, I'll
archive all the interviews, reviews, articles
about the EOB here on the site and let those with brains
and backbones figure out who's an intellectual thug
and who isn't. This is far, far from the worst EOB review.
Usually I just make fun of them in emails with friends,
but his prissy embarrassment over the lesser Negroes
than he ("I've never felt any pressure to promote
O.J.'s innocence, to call a sister a ‘ho’,
to mate indiscriminately, to wear pantyhose on my head
in public, or to dumb myself down to sound cool")
plucked my last nerve this morning, even though he proves
several of the EOB's main points. For instance, that
too many bougie blacks despise 'the niggers' every bit
and perhaps more than any Klansman.
By the way, the silly review ran on a very well done
Negro-centered, Denver-based site which I've added to
my black
links page. It does much of what I intend to do
with this site. Except for publishing 'reviews' like
Williams's.
April 1, 2004
Harmed and Dangerous:
Letters from Lockdown
By John Schwade
Dear DD
My colleague Danielle just administered an IQ test
(Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale-2) to an inmate.
That's an individual IQ test that we administer when
the group IQ test, administered to all inmates upon
admission, indicates an inmate might be mentally retarded
and in need of extra help in coping with prison. (I'm
begging the question of whether society has a better
place than prison for its retarded criminals.)
What happened moments ago is quite typical of how we
psychologists cope with the unspeakable tragedy revealed
by testing. Danielle stepped outside her office, looked
at me, and repeated the inmate's most inept responses
as if they were revelations.
"There are a thousand weeks in a year," she
informed me.
"Maybe that's why I feel so old," I replied.
"After 50,000 weeks your body starts to get worn
down."
"And, the reason we need a license to practice
psychology [the test item is more general, asking the
respondent to explain why professionals need licenses]
is in case we get into a car accident!"
Danielle then grabbed our institutional size can of
Glade "Country Gardens" potpourri spray and
vaporized her office. She wasn't being mean--the inmate
had left the building. But most mentally retarded inmates
were never taught to care for their personal hygiene.
Go ahead and cry. I've got to wait until I get home.
PS: In response to the question, "How many weeks
are there in a year?" an inmate once correctly
answered "fifty-two" after a long pause. I
was surprised he answered correctly because his other
responses led me to expect this item would stump him
as it stumps most other mentally retarded inmates. After
the testing was completed, I asked him how he figured
out there are fifty-two months in a year.
"Well, there are four weeks in a month, right?
And there are thirteen months in a year, right? So four
times thirteen is fifty-two."
Later,
JS
Dear John,
You are such a bleeding heart. One might almost think
you're one of those lunatics
who see a relationship between substandard education,
lack of access to medical care and likelihood of incarceration.
Don't you realize it's all about personal responsibility?
DD
DD,
As long as I've dragged you into this prison for the
day, I thought I'd tell you that when your last email
arrived, I was speaking with a mentally retarded inmate--I'll
call him "Mr. Byrne"--who was showing me the
burn mark on his wrist, where another inmate stubbed
out a
cigarette. At least I don't have to travel to Fallujah
to see atrocities.
Having been introduced to the Bible in the two weeks
he's been in prison, "Mr. Byrne" said that
he'd found his answer in that. An inmate discovering
the Bible is not necessarily good news. In our supermax
facility an inmate told me he'd begun to read the Bible
for the first time in his life. When I asked him what
he'd learned, he was enthusiastic. "Mr. Schwade,
did you ever notice that most of the women in the Bible
are BITCHES?"
Given that "Mr. Byrne" is mentally retarded,
and reads at a 3rd-grade level, I wasn't hopeful that
even if he found what he was looking for, he would understandeth
it.
But in the same "pod" of the "dormitory"
where he'd discovered the savagery of which inmates
are capable, he'd also found the kindness.
"Mr. Byrne" was aided in his Bible studies
by the inmate in the bunk below him and the inmate in
the bunk beside him. So "Mr. Byrne" can study
the Bible, with more than a little help from his friends.
"It brings me joy," he said. "It don't
bring me misery, like other things."
The inmate below not only reads to him, he sings to
him. "Mr. Byrne" told me, "When I get
a letter from my Mom tellin' me how much she misses
me, and I start cryin', he sings songs to me. He's got
this one song he wrote, I'll never forget it."
This morning the inmate who slept beside him was shipped
out to a minimum custody camp. "Mr. Byrne"
had encouraged that inmate before they fell asleep last
night. "He said he hopes he's gettin' shipped out,
but he didn't think so. I told him, no you will! And
I prayed for him. And he shipped out. That's God."
To prevent an inmate from escaping by arranging to
have his associates meet the inmate transfer bus (they'd
have to shoot the armed Corrections Officers on board,
but the bus isn't armored), inmate movements are not
announced. This morning, the inmate in the bunk beside
"Mr. Byrne" was awakened at 4:00 a.m. and
told to pack his gear. Before departing, the inmate
awakened "Mr. Byrne" and whispered, "God
will watch over you.
We're gonna get there."
"Mr. Byrne" already misses the inmate who
used to sleep beside him.
"When I woke up this morning and looked over there,
he was gone! It didn't seem right."
I can only hope that tonight, the inmate in the bunk
below him will sing one of his songs. Right now, I'd
like to hear one myself.
Bye
Annotations
Reissue of `Little Black Sambo' Stirs Controversy
from the
Orlando Sentinel.
"Once upon a time, when she was a child, it was
the only storybook in which Jackie Perkins recalls seeing
a character who looked even remotely black.As an elementary
schoolteacher in Orange County, Fla., she remembers
reading the story to her students, because in the 1960s,
storybooks with black characters were rare.As a mother,
she came to see the tale of the little boy and the four
hungry tigers as an affront. She couldn't bring herself
to read her children the story that begins: Once upon
a time there was a little black boy, and his name was
Little Black Sambo. And his Mother was called Black
Mumbo. And his Father was called Black Jumbo.
"I thought whatever had a black character in it
was a good book," says Perkins, 72. "I grew
up between (teaching) school and my children. `Little
Black Sambo' was not a book that I wanted my babies
to identify with. I never read it to them."
But thousands through the years have read Sambo to
their children and hold cherished memories of the story.
So much so that Helen Bannerman's ``The Story of Little
Black Sambo'' has never been out of print since its
publication in 1899.
Indeed, it was never the narrative that incensed black
readers but rather the characters' names and the pickaninny
pictures often paired with the text.Now,
Handprint Books has revisited both the enduring
literary work and the classic clash over racism in literature,
in general, and in particular, Sambo's polarizing past."
One event that made me want to marry my husband took
place in the Union Square (Manhattan) Barnes and Noble.
Coming back from the ladies' room, I heard his booming
baritone reading a children's story aloud. Not reading.
Declaiming, Olivier-style. "Ham," I thought,
knowing this had to be for my benefit. (He wanted five
kids. I wanted zero.) So he'd set himself up for a Kodak
moment surrounded by adoring children, eh? But when
I got there, there wasn't a child in sight. He was all
alone, practising reading to children he didn't even
have yet. The brother wore me down. When our son was
born three years ago, I found the perfect Father's Day
gift. I connived with his stepmom to track down (a very
expensive) copy of The
Real Story Book, circa 1927, his family's all time
favorite kid's book, the one only Dad read to them.
When the last of the wrapping paper came off and he
saw what it was, he cried.
As we settled in later to read to our drooling infant,
my Spidy senses started to tingle. I checked the Table
of Contents. Bingo! Page 88. Little Black Sambo.
"I aint reading that. Are you?" I demanded.
The husband does what he alwys does when I get black
on him (he's white). He went deaf and became fascinated
by every page in the book except the ones from 88-91.
I let it go and have never brought it up again because
I don't want to tarnish such a viceral childhood memory
for him. Nor do I ask if Dad read that one to them.
(Of course he did. Who knew better then? It was in all
the kids' book I read back in the day.) We've kept the
tradition alive that only he reads to the kids from
that one (I haven't settled on a signature story yet).
Near as I can tell, he doesn't read that one. I now
think he should. Just not quite yet.
I think he should read them Little Black Sambo for
the same reason I have a mammy memorabilia collection,
hideous though those figures are to me. I have an especially
ugly, very heavy "Jolly
Nigger Bank" that I lugged around Tuscany and
all the way home again when I saw it in Florence. My
husband despises the collection so that one of our worst
fights was over where todisplay it. I think it very,
very important for America to face itself in this regard
and equally important for blacks to face these images
and defuse them of their power to hurt. Blacks have
to confront this fun house image of itself and realize
that it says nothing about us and everything about whites
and racism.
So when the time comes, Little Black Sambo will come
to our house. When our children are ready for him.
March 30, 2004
What America needs is a ban on black
shoe polish. Blacks decry GSU fraternity:
Protesters complain of slur, threaten boycott of school.
Tempers continued to flare at Georgia State University
on Thursday over a racial incident that happened at
a fraternity party in January.
From the Atlanta
Journal-Constitution.
March 18, 2004
Retarded Children Behind Bars: "Fifty-Four"
By John Schwade
Copyright 2003
Part II [Part I ran below on March 16, 2004]
The call came on a Wednesday afternoon. The sergeant
said, "I've got an inmate here, he's crying, he
reports that his father died."
I told the sergeant to send him over to Mental Health
and thanked him for calling. I notified my colleague
Tiffanie, who, helpful as ever, offered to sit in with
me. Grief counseling is never easy, but in prison it's
worse than God-awful. None of the comforts available
to mourners are available. They can't hug their family.
They can't even cry.
An officer escorted the inmate to my office. Upon arrival,
the inmate was too distraught to speak. Sobbing, he
handed a newspaper article to Tiffanie and I. "That's
my father," he cried. According to the article,
his father left the scene of a "hit-and-run"
accident. Unfortunately, the article was so poorly written
it was not clear whether his father was dead or wanted
for killing another man. Our first task, then, was to
find out whether his father was dead or alive. I phoned
the sheriff's department hoping for the best. I got
the worse.
The newspaper account had erroneously labeled as "hit-and-run"
what was actually leaving the scene of a one-car accident.
"He is dead," the sheriff's detective assured
me. The detective explained that after rolling his car
over on Saturday night, the deceased left the scene
and walked into nearby woods. The detective received
a missing-persons call the next night, and a full-scale
search--with dogs, boats, and helicopters--was initiated.
Two days later, the man's body was found floating in
a pond.
When I told the inmate his father was dead, I thought
it couldn't get worse, couldn't get sadder. It did.
After crying his eyes out for at least 5 minutes, the
inmate concluded, "There ain't gonna be no funeral
for me to go to. He died four days ago. He [must be]
buried already."
Desperate to reassure him, I offered, "He hasn't
been buried yet. They just found him last night."
Wrong answer.
"He was alone in the woods all that time!"
he cried. Me and my big reassuring mouth. All we could
do at that point was watch the inmate cry again, and
then listen as he explained the horrifying way in which
he found the article he'd brought to us. "A dude
was reading the paper, and he knew I came from that
city, so he asked did I know the dude that died."
As the chaplains handle all arrangements for inmates
to attend funerals or viewings, we asked the inmate
if he wanted to speak with a chaplain. He did. As we
accompanied him to the Chaplain's office, he asked me
a question I've come to dread: "Do you remember
me, Mr. Schwade?" revealing himself to be yet another
incarcerated kid from the juvenile "training school"
I'd worked at.
I recognized "Fifty-Four." "You've gotten
much bigger," I said. He was, it seemed, pleased |
