the tuskegee experiment

A Hovah for "The Help"

2011-08-19T01:03:00.000-05:00

I'm not even going to give the obligatory "where I've been" preface to this entry. I'm just going to say that in order for me to come out of seeming retirement to post, I had to be pretty damned annoyed, and I am. Although I don't have anything nearly as smart to say about "The Help" as my best friend gayle, I do think the movie is fodder for a good ol' fashioned Sum-N-Saf List. Since Sum is famous, and I can't afford her rates, I guess it'll just be Saf-N-Saf.

Hope that's all right...

Saf-N-Saf (or Bitch-N-Eat): Reasons Why Black People Don't Need To Go See "The Help"

The bootleg came out Christmas of last year. You can easily borrow it from your baby-mama or auntie.

They're going to make it into a series on Lifetime next fall, starring Anika Noni Rose as the plucky maid who won't let her snotty white mistress (played by Taylor Swift in her television acting debut) get in the way of her joining SNCC and exhorting her fellow maids to vote. Just wait for it.

NOTE: Kimberly Elise will play her meek older sister who sells her out to her boss when he asks if that "gal" is "joining up with them troublemakers," and T.D. Jakes will play the pastor of her church.--which will get bombed in the cliffhanger finale of the first season.

Kathryn Stockett stole Aibileen's story like old girl was Little Richard.

There can only be one Ms. Sofia. Oprah was it. Sorry, Octavia Spencer.

And Tate Taylor: a black woman gnawing a chicken leg right up in a white woman's face?!? Really?!?

Seeing Cicely Tyson onscreen will automatically make you feel guilty about how little you appreciate the sacrifices of your ancestors.

The book was rejected by 60 literary agents. People that read for a living.

If you want to see a black maid in action, you can check into any big hotel in a major city and see dozens--who'd probably tell you anything you want to know for less than $9.50 plus tax.

The only really compelling "white" savior in any of the countless stories told of oppressed peoples is Moses. Burning bushes? Parting seas? Come on now.

And bridging from that--there's no CGI disasters or Pixar characters in the help. Or musical numbers. Or Tyler Perry cameos. I don't think.

The Boondocks lampoon will be so much funnier.

The actors may be black, but the box office goes to the producers.

If we stopped going to movies about blacks in the 1960s maybe someone would get inventive and make a movie about black people in the 2060s. With more of us than just Denzel. Please. God. We hope.

I haven't seen the movie, and I probably won't. At least not in the theater. I actually don't need any "help" swallowing how horrendously black people were treated in the past. It's the present that's fucking with me. All this nostalgic "Aren't you glad we're past that?" shit is ridiculous and far from entertaining. It's insulting.

That's not to say that "help" isn't needed, though.

I think Hollywood needs some "help"--coming up with inventive and truly inspiring storylines for black characters.

And understanding that black people are infinitely better equipped to tell their stories than white people.

And exploiting our desperation to see ourselves on screen is really only a post-post-modern extension of the oppression that is ostensibly being critiqued by movies like "The Help."

Sum-N-Saf: The Rush Hour Edition

2010-06-07T15:25:00.004-05:00

In the interest of perpetuating the stereotype that all unmarried straight black women over thirty are thirsting for a husband like Obama for a gargantuan wet vac, I (Saf) have decided to write on a subject that I've been turning over for a few weeks now. The common plight of Asian men and black women in America.

In much the same way that black women are being shoved out of their own happily ever afters by white women, Asian men are being beat to the glass slipper punch by white men. I feel that both suffer from the very same symptom: horrible PR. We are on the same basement level on the totem pole of sexual desirability. With no myths to buttress us, we are reduced to our big mouths and small penises, leaving us out in the cold, bitterly single.

Quite a few years back, I wrote a very heartfelt appeal to white men all over this wide country of ours to open up their minds and hearts and embrace the possibility of dating and mating with black women.

Now, despite how uncomfortable I am sure it will make many post-racialists feel, I find myself doing the same thing to our Asian brethren.

I say we draw inspiration from those cinematic pioneers Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan and join together. Black and yellow can make a lovely shade of brown. It's the same concept of biraciality that we've been espousing since the '08 election with just a hint of soy sauce. Wasabi. Sriracha. Masala.

Let's go forth together and build a master race of athletically gifted math whizzes with good ass hair!

Top Ten Reasons Why Asian Men Should Marry Black Women:

10. Look at the successful fusion of our cultures exemplified in takeout spare ribs and chicken wings.

9. Don't be scuuuured--Tiger Woods, Lisa Wu, or Amerie were rare genetic flukes.

8. You can make black history by causing a sudden, "inexplicable" rise in the black graduation rate.

7. If you can't love the one you want, big asses and bomb fried chicken make damn good consolation prizes.

6. Most urban black women have Asian hair.

5. Surely our overly libidinous natures can make up for your rumored sexual repression.

4. After years of UTIs, many black women might welcome a smaller penis.

3. Our kids will know karate and ka-razy.

2. You'll be helping to bring breakdancing back "home" where it belongs.

And the Number One reason why Asian men should consider black women...

1. Confucious say once you go black, you will not give a 屁话 about those ungrateful Asian bitches and their 笨蛋 white husbands.

Niggers and (Dumb White) Guys

2010-02-12T01:59:00.009-06:00

So yesterday morning I logged onto Us Weekly Online, per usual, and saw an excerpt from the Playboy Q&A on John "my dick is a white supremacist" Mayer.

I have to admit, my first reaction was astonishment that someone besides Joe Simpson could get that sexually excited about Jessica, but my second was *chortle* "This guy..."

It really didn't go much deeper than that. I thought he was doing a white boy version of the Rihanna thing--trying to make his inane pop star image into something darker and "edgier" in an attempt to gain some weird sort of artistic credibility or prestige.

I thought the attempt was convoluted, transparent, just the sort of thing Us Magazine was made to report. Not news. Certainly not scandalous.

Then, later, I had my daily run through my usual black blogs. And I was stopped short.

Quite a few black women bloggers are actually upset about what Mayer said. Like really upset.

Now, I won't say this shocked me, but after reading a few postings and a slew of outraged comments, it certainly exhausted me, and then it began to bore me.

I know that asking this rhetorical question after this lengthy build-up is mad corny Carrie Bradshaw steez, but here goes...

When is something that someone says so stupid to us that even if it can be construed as racist, we just treat it as the stupid shit that it is?

Black people have higher rates of hypertension than any other race in this country, no? And after reading all this painstaking analysis of this bullshit interview from some douchebag white guy who is clearly just trying to sell some iTunes, I can see why.

I don't condone people exploiting us or denigrating us. But I have a few problems with black people's reaction to this John Mayer thing because:

1) We do issue hood passes.

Just because we don't hand them out at podiums and the white recipients don't thank God and their mamas on TV when they receive them doesn't mean we don't do it. We do. Even though we know that it'll turn around on us as it has so many times before.

We unofficially send the message that certain white people, namely those that co-opt some art form that we originated and show just a scrap of appreciation for the solid, are no longer grouped into the generally hated monolith of White People. They're officially "cool."

Well, in pop culture parlance, being "cool" means acting like a ignorant, misogynistic, often nihilistic opportunistic narcissist, i.e. a black male rapper. So John Mayer's on point in this interview. He's coming off "cooler" than a motherfucker.

I mean, let's keep it real. Many of the black women that were so appalled by John Mayer's comments were pumping "Daughters" when it came out and probably even giggling just a few weeks ago about the inappropriate way he was talking about Jennifer Aniston and Jessica Simpson, secretly pleased to have these paragons of white femininity knocked from their pedestals. We were giving him a pass, on some "Well, he does have that blues band" or "He did sing on that one Kanye song." Now, he says some stupid things in the press, and now we're re-nigging.

Many commentators on these blogs even took it as far as asking "What is a hood pass?" Come on now. That's like raving to your girl about this dude you wanna fuck, fucking him, then when the dick is wack telling her "I really wasn't into him all like that." It lacks a certain integrity.

And let's not ignore the fact that we don't get nearly as worked up when BLACK artists say equally degarding things about us.

2) We aren't very analytical when we deconstruct these kinds of things.

Mayer says this in the same article that he says his dick is a white supremacist:

PLAYBOY: You mean the rules of celebrity have changed since Friends made her a star?

MAYER: I said, “Tom Cruise put on a fat suit.” That pretty much sums up the past decade: Tom Cruise with a comb-over, dancing to Flo Rida in Tropic Thunder. And the world went, “Welcome back, Tom Cruise.”

PLAYBOY: What’s the moral there?

MAYER: You have to show that you don’t take yourself seriously. Once you do that, people will say you’re cool: “You know what? I gotta say I never liked him until he made fun of himself, and now I like him.”

Why hasn't this quote made it into any of the angry blog posts I've read?

I hate when people editorialize on sound bytes. Over-simplify. Excerpt for the express purpose of going off. Black people are really good for that.

Yeah, he said the N-word. But look at how he used it. Then refer back to the above quote. He is basically saying in the interview that he feels this schtick is what is needed to get him the fame he has become addicted to. So as irritating as it is that he uses women and black people for material, it doesn't make him any different really than your run of the mill black or male comedian.

That gets me to another question:

Why do we not feel black or (what?) validated unless we are counterattacking somebody that has supposedly victimized us? Or better yet, why do we always have to take the bait when someone puts something as politically or economically inconsequential as this bullshit interview in front of us, just because he or she is talking about "race"?

We always "go there," engaging passionately, self-righteously with absurd pop bullshit like this, but we hedge when it comes to having these same sorts of conversations about published or publicized conversations and dialogues that really do have some bearing on our consciousness or even our actual lives.

John Mayer not being comfortable with fucking black women is going to really alter the course of black history in this country? Give me a fucking break. If everything that so many of the commentators on these blogs are saying is true, not that many black women really give a shit. They don't want to fuck him.

So what's all the fucking fuss for?

3) We can be so disingenuous about our own racism in scenarios like this.

I read Afrobella's post on the interview, and she asks, "What does he mean by 'white girl crazy?'" I'm sorry but I refuse to believe she doesn't understand what he's saying.

Just like white people stereotype us, we stereotype them. Two of the most pervasive and durable stereotypes we have are white people are "crazy" and white women are indiscriminate dick suckers. You know it's true, ignorant as it is.

I once read a Yusef Komunyakaa essay that said that minorities, particularly oppressed minorities, tend to be puritanical because it allows them to use virtue as a measuring stick of superiority as opposed to race. We--black people--do this.

Even as white people stereotype black people as oversexed, we do the very same thing to them. They say we're violent. We say they are. They say we're natural born killers. We slap them with the same label. And on and on.

John Mayer is trading on the myth of black female moral superiority that so many of us propagate when he talks about Kerry Washington in this interview:

MAYER: ...Kerry Washington. She’s superhot, and she’s also white-girl crazy. Kerry Washington would break your heart like a white girl. Just all of a sudden she’d be like, “Yeah, I sucked his dick. Whatever.” And you’d be like, “What? We weren’t talking about that.” That’s what “Heartbreak Warfare” is all about, when a girl uses jealousy as a tactic.

He's saying black girls don't do things like this. And isn't that what so many of us "respectable" black women want people to believe about us?

So now why are we playing crazy? Why are we acting like we don't each have (or didn't grow up with) some equivalent term or concept for "white girl crazy" in our idiolects?

Huh?

John Mayer is a medicore pop star. He appears to be addicted to fame. He's emotionally underdeveloped or the more apt term may be stunted. And he's just not as funny as he thinks he is. People may listen to him, but it is doubtful that they take him seriously. At least they shouldn't. And what he said in this interview really isn't that much more offensive than your typical Top 40 rap verse, if we're going to be honest here...

I think that what black people need to do instead of blowing up at every stupid thing that some celebrity like John Mayer says or does that carries a racial connotation is devote our attention to dialogue that really matters and has some bearing on the reality of our lives and the actual state of our community.

This Playboy interview just ain't it.

And for the record, I haven't gone 'white girl crazy' writing this. I'm just trying to keep it readpop real...

Haiti I Can See Your Halo

2010-01-24T10:21:00.006-06:00

First, I'd like to thank Beyonce for once again justifying the amount of public ridicule that my friends and I subject her to on a regular basis by singing her own, stupidly and ever so slightly altered ballad at a telethon for humanitarian relief.

You never cease to amaze me with your shameless self-involvement and abject stupidity when it comes to anything other than figuring out the most fascinating angle at which you should pop your ass at a video camera.

Oh, yeah, and I appreciate you giving me a "snappy" title for this post.

It's been a minute here at TI, and since my partner-in-crime, Sum, has ascended to the upper echelon of the blogentsia (the bloggerati?), I guess I'll get off my rather complacent ass and take care of the somewhat dirty job we are supposed to be doing around here.

Shout out, Sum, for the Women & Film piece and the work at Black Youth Project work. You do me proud!

Anyhow, I'm not exactly apologetic that it has taken something like the Haiti disaster to bring me back to political(ly incorrect) blogging. I guess I could get on and bitch weekly or even daily about the rather disappointing decisions that Obama's been making since he took office, or the Republican's ridiculously convoluted efforts to thwart them, but I'd actually have to be... I don't know... shocked or something to do that.

I voted for Obama because I firmly believe, like the ngh Chris Rock, that true equality is when black men can fuck up as readily and hugely as white men.

I never expected Obama to save the world, the US, or even black people-I just thought it was high time that we got the chance to go into the White House and demonstrate that a ngh can misuse undeserved, unwieldly power as agilely as any average-ass alcoholic white man.

It was time...

I've kept my peace. America's going to hell in the envelope of an unemployment check, but whatever. Obama doesn't have the balls to strike up any New Deals (he doesn't even have to balls to buy new jeans or Nikes apparently), so fuck it.

Like one of my students told me, the world's gonna end in two years anyway. I'm partying like it's 19... 2010.

But now Haiti has been plunged into the hellish aftermath of an almost cataclysmic series of earthquakes. And the US is fucking up efforts to help its people after pretending to be as concerned for them as fucking Wyclef Jean or Brad Pitt or whoever.

I gotta say something. For all my brothers and sisters in the diaspora.

(Wait, did I just say 'diaspora'?)

My basic problem with the whole conversation that's going on here in the US about Haiti is-wait for it-the hypocrisy.

You weren't expecting that, were you?

No, seriously. I know that we are as known for our hypocrisy over here as we are for our stupidity, xenophobia, repressed sexuality, obesity, and unexplicable love of strip malls, but I still have to say something. Because people are getting on my nerves with the slick-talking way that they are trying to characterize the Haitian victims of this disaster as historical culprits deserving of divine retribution for their so-called political crimes. Either that or as savages who lack the intelligence or "civility" to take actual humanitarian aid.

Just like Nicolas Eustache Maurin decided to depict Toussaint as an ape in a pirate hat to express his chauvenistic contempt for the man that dared strike back at his French oppressors, so too is a certain segment of the American media and government depicting devastated Haitians as criminals and crazies because:

1) They still, still, still resent that Haiti is a nation of self-governing black people that have refused to sell themselves for proverbial rum and rifles, no matter how poor or underdeveloped it may be,

2) They do not enjoy the fact that renegade negroes like Toussaint-who have been historically villified by America's western allies-are not so different from the pirate-hat wearing, tea-stealing settlers that started this great nation,

3) They want to cover for the US government's largely unfounded yet continual refusal to change policies toward Haitian refugees over the last five decades, even as the huge faults in the way that Haiti has been historically and recently governed have been revealed in its inability to rebound from the earthquakes without tremendous amounts of outside help, and

4) They want to justify sending troops to secure Haiti (with its darned "progress-resistant cultural influences") rather than sending supplies to nurse and feed it.

Check the LA Times' primer on Us-Haiti relations. Check the article on the so-called relief effort on Slate.

"Pockets of anarchy and violence" are bound to pop up wherever people have been oppressed for a ridiculous length of time, stripped of their resources, and effectively left to languish. This tendency to lash out in anger at mistreatment is not native to the Haitians or blacks, right Thomas Jefferson? Paul Revere? Edward Gerrish, Bartholomew Broaders, Richard Holmes (three instigators of the Boston Massacre who were not-ironically-among the 11 killed in the incident)

It is not the fault of the earthquake victims that their political plight has been largely ignored by bigger, richer, whiter nations, allowing their anger and resentment of their historically poor leadership and entrenched poverty to grow into a force that could probably have shaken the island to rubble itself if ever fully loosed, and has now been pushed to the tipping point by "recent events."

It's not their fault that on the back end of this horrible disaster, they still have criminals that need policing (that isn't there) or (the nerve) bodies that need feeding and watering.

The fact that they are being depicted so negatively is not their fault either. It's punishment. For being a black nation that wrested its power. A nation of slaves that freed themselves rather than waiting for documentary permission. For remaining stubbornly independent of potential allies who were only going to give with one hand to take with the other.

The true retaliatory force in this situation is not the biblical devil, but the myopic white one, the western notion that because Haiti chose to cut itself off from western power, it does not deserve to benefit from western wealth, at least not in any truly progressive or substantive way.

And perhaps the West is justified in feeling this way, but then don't fake like a concerned group of humanitarians.

Say exactly what you intend to do, Pat Robertsons, David Brookses, and just why you intend to do it.

Stop feigning elite panic and admit that you help countries like Haiti not for their own good, but for yours, to maintain a favorable image on the international stage.

Clear the stupid troops away from the airport so that people that are truly trying to save babies and feed starved and wounded people can get the food and medical supplies to them. Bring them back to their bases if you aren't going to have them out in the streets hefting bags of rice.

Just like I would exhort our girl Beyonce the next time someone asks her to sing for a relief benefit, stop acting like you give a shit.

It hasn't been a good look in these bitter years following Katrina, and it isn't any better now.

CALL FOR NEW PROGRAMS

2009-08-23T14:25:00.011-05:00

THE TUSKEGEE EXPERIMENT IS LOOKING FOR TELEVISION SHOW PILOTS THAT FEATURE AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMEN CHARACTERS THAT ARE NOT ANY OF THE FOLLOWING:

EX- OR CURRENT CRACKHEADS

ABUSIVE OR NEGLIGENT MOTHERS

THE GIRLFRIENDS, SPOUSES, OR EX-SPOUSES OF FAMOUS ATHLETES/RAPPERS

RAPACIOUS SOCIAL CLIMBERS

FAT, FUNNY SIDEKICKS

STRUGGLING SINGLE MOTHERS

SASSY ASSISTANTS, SECRETARIES, HOUSEKEEPERS, NANNIES, OR NEIGHBORS

COURAGEOUS (IF MAVERICK) LIFE SAVERS

GHETTO GIRLS WITH HEARTS OF GOLD

SNOTTY BAPS

DITZY, DIZZY HIPPIE CHICKS

RIGHTEOUS, REVOLUTIONARY HEADWRAPS

WE ACKNOWLEDGE THAT CONCEPTUALIZING BLACK WOMEN AS FULLY-REALIZED HUMAN BEINGS IS A STRETCH FOR MOST CREATIVE TYPES, INCLUDING BLACK FEMALES THEMSELVES, BUT WE EXHORT YOU TO DIG DEEP.

BLACK WOMEN ARE SUFFERING OUT HERE, AND WE ARE CERTAIN IT'S FROM A LACK OF POSITIVE PR.

THIS IS CERTAINLY NOT A NEW IDEA, BUT ONE THAT HAS ACQUIRED NEW URGENCY IN LIGHT OF CERTAIN NEW DEVELOPMENTS IN THE REALITY TV TREND.

WE THINK YOU KNOW WHAT WE'RE REFERENCING HERE.

PLEASE...HELP US, HELP US.

From Gayle: Today in Post-Race History: Hooray, Beer!

2009-08-04T10:59:00.003-05:00

Let's face it, no one wants to sit around with the President, Joe Biden, Skip Gates, and some random police officer--with "diversity" training--drinking beer and pretending to talk about race. Sure, it's a (free?) trip to the White House and all, but I don't want to explain to Joe Biden what I mean by calling him the Pras of this Obama outfit with a bubbling belly full of Bud Light. (Buy American.) I'd be sitting in my chair, staring at the filth, counting Secret Service dudes, and trying not to hum Stevie and Sir Paul's "Ebony and Ivory" too loudly. Besides, I'd rather drink Hawaiian Punch and ask BHO how many times they've had Harold's flown in. But who can end racism when a black person brings up chicken? Personally, I firmly believe we might perfect this union more expediently over a 4-piece wing dinner (fried hard, salt, pepper, & mild sauce), but that's probably just me. Besides, I don't want to be blamed for getting the Bill of Rights all greasy. Either way, let this be a lesson to you (white) police officers out there: if you arrest the right black guy, you'll get invited to the White House. Don't shoot him, though, because that's not cool.

Anyway, trying to impress your new, black feminist love interest by pretending not to be high and staying awake during Daughters of the Dust (not that I've ever done that) is probably a more comfortable and entertaining night than being a part of this effort towards interracial inebriation (and I like free alcohol), so I've decided to make up some stuff. I thought: what might those Secret Service dudes have heard during Beerfest?

Here, in a rather desultory order, are some snippets from my somewhat gruesome and inappropriate imagination:

Gates and Obama: No, Joe, Dred Scott is not a good name for a reggaeton group. Besides, there's already a rapper going by that name.
Crowley: They're right. I think I arrested that guy.

Obama: So I said to Sasha and Malia the other day, 'Look, if I catch Bo doing a doodie in the Lincoln bedroom one more time, I'm going to hire Michael Vick as a dogwalker. I hear he's looking for a job.' They said, 'No, daddy! We'll call PETA!' So I said, 'I'm the president. You can call PETA. Heck, I'll call PETA for you--on the RED phone. But please know I will arrest their leaders, detain them at an undisclosed location for an indeterminate amount of time, and feed them dead houseflies.' Needless to say, Bo is doing his business outside, and I haven't had to veto his ass.
Biden: If you talked to Congress that way, we might get something done.

Gates: Part of the reason I was late coming home that afternoon was because I stopped in Africa on my way back from China to look for Obama's birth certificate. It wasn't until last week that I found out it's been in Cornel West's afro the whole time. Now, Lou Dobbs wants to shave his head.

Biden: Stop me if you've heard this one already. Homer Plessy, Sally Hemmings, and Barack Obama walk into a bar...
Crowley *laughing, trying not to spit out his beer*: I know this one! Tell it! Tell it!

Obama: Maybe it's the facial hair, but I think Ben Bernanke kind of looks like Uncle Pennybags. Which reminds me, I was playing Monopoly with some of my staff the other day, and Tim Geithner nearly went bankrupt trying to put hotels on Baltic and Meditteranean.
Crowley: Who ended up winning?
Biden: The Chinese.

Gates: It took several years of debate, but the last time I picked up my Harvard sweater from being cleaned, I finally convinced my Cambridge dry cleaner that The Canterbury Tales in Middle English is indeed worse than water boarding!" [*cue* collective fake laughter]

Biden: So, Crowley, what kind of music do you listen to?
Crowley: I listen to a lot of hip hop. My favorite song is Biggie's "Who Shot Ya?"
Obama: Really?
Crowley: Yeah. Told you I wasn't a racist.

Gates: Crowley, I still can't figure out why you arrested me. I'm just as white as Obama. I should know. I took a DNA test, and shared the results with the world during one of my famed documentaries.
Crowley: Yeah, I heard you were 50% white, genetically speaking. That's why the charges were dropped.

Obama: Officer Crowley, when I said "stupidly," what I meant was, you behaved in a manner that would have been perfectly acceptable had you not been arresting Professor Gates.

Crowley: I have no idea why anyone would think I am a racist. I use "A More Perfect Union" in my diversity training seminars all the time.

Gates: Crowley, I have to admit, that "yo['] mama" line in the police report was pretty terrible. It was so bad that I wanted to swat you with my cane. Have you not heard of my work? I've heard better quips on the yard at Harvard University, where I teach. You could've done much better. Let me teach you how to signify. Barack, yo['] mama's so white, you got elected president. [Confession: that's a semi-recycled joke]

Obama: Let's go inside, guys. The Real Housewives of Atlanta is on.

The Perils of Exceptionalism

2009-07-30T13:25:00.005-05:00

In the last few weeks, two very different black men have overtaken the news airwaves for two seemingly different reasons.

Micheal Jackson's unexpected and tragic death late July brought all of the controversy that has surrounded him since the late 90s back to the airwaves, with the added twist of a convoluted custody battle and a rather ugly conspiracy theory that alleges that the Man in the Mirror was murdered.

Henry Louis Gates Jr.'s arrest showed America once and (hopefully) for all that a nation whose fundamental political structure had a color-coded caste system built into it can never, ever be post-racial.

People have talked exhaustively about these two men, their lives, and the meanings of their myriad struggles to a nation that is fighting desperately to see itself as anything other than divided.

But no one has gotten to the real heart of the matter, at least as far as I am concerned.

Yes, race is at the center of any discussion of MJ, whether it be about his upbringing, his rise to fame, or his collapse into infamy. The same can be said about Gates.

But we should all know by now, after watching Toure talk shit endlessly on meaningless segment after segment about MJ, that real talk about race requires way more specifics.

You can't just utter the word 'black' and think that you've made some sort of profound statement. You need to be able and willing to explain how 'black' is acting as a catalyst for conflict before you jump on camera acting as if you have some workable theory or solution that needs to be shared.

In the case of MJ and Gates, I think that the problem isn't so much race as the limitations of racial exceptionalism. Both of these men were made to believe, as a result of their numerous and prestigious accomplishments, that they would not be subject to the same indignities as their commoner compatriots in the so-called struggle.

The (white) world had seen and so understood that they were not your average, everyday nigga. And so they apparently exhaled whatever fear they had that their happiness or success might be thwarted by the bullshit, and set up shot in their respective protective towers--MJ's, a replica of the Maguc Kingdom, and Gates', the ivory tower, that pristine paddock of national proclivities and hypocrisies.

But what their current situations show is that exceptionalism--the bestowal of "special" status on a black person by his so-called white peers or public--is perilous. It is conditional love that is so intoxicating, its nature is lost on a recipient that has become too inebriated to keep a clear head.

Apparently, there are rules to being an exception. And when they are broken, niggas get pitched into racial purgatory. You can work your way out, perhaps with beer diplomacy or some other form of shucking and/or jiving that shows you understand and accept how ungrateful it is to be angry when you have been treated so "well" by the (white) world.

Or you can be catapulted into the burning pit (i.e. MJ) because you refuse to confess your sins and repent.

I can't condemn any black person that wants to make his or her walk through this crazy American life any easier. There are times when I wish that black wasn't such a burden. (Black) Jesus knows.

However, after sitting back and watching how exceptional status transmorgrifies on that ass when you least expect it and most urgently need it, I have decided to just stay out in the field, sweating, picking, and praying to make it through one more day. No big house for me.

Seems getting in and being booted out is so much more destructive than never getting in at all.

When Keeping it (White) Liberal Goes Wrong

2009-05-31T07:46:00.005-05:00

from an NYT article about the significance of Nancy Drew novels to O'Connor, Ginsburg, and Court nominee Sotomayor:

That sort of thing [being a "nice" girl] might have mattered more to women of Justices O’Connor and Ginsburg’s generation, but what about the younger Judge Sotomayor, who was more likely to face challenges related to ethnicity? What was in it for her?
A charge “rightly leveled” against the early books, Ms. Rehak says, “is that they were racist — all the villains were ‘foreign’ or ‘swarthy,’ and all the African-Americans were portrayed as second class in terms of intelligence, profession, etc.” She said that “one of the things I find so interesting about Sotomayor’s citing of Nancy is that even she, as a Puerto Rican child, just looked past all of that and took away with her the essence of Nancy.”

Dear Ladies,

Just in case you didn't get the memo, melanin "more [than] likely" trumps vag. That whole women's lib movement took care of all that gender discrimination, k?

[I read it that way because the words "generation" and "younger" lead me to believe that the comparison isn't about racial/ethnic background, but rather age.]

Punch Drunk Love

2009-05-26T23:45:00.001-05:00

(from: mybestfriendgayle)

Dear Gayle,

I started watching internet videos again. I know. Absolutely not the way to get any writing done, but what can I say other than it's addictive? There's some good, mind-numbing stuff on the web. Anyway, last Friday morning, I logged on to Twitter, and some of the folks I follow were talking a Charles Hamilton video that had been making rounds on the internet. Admittedly, I haven't paid much attention to Charles Hamilton, but not because, like Carl Thomas, his name makes him sound less like a rapper I should know and more like somebody's uncle. Rather, I yawn at this dude because: 1. with few exceptions, most days I care more about than I do about new emcees; and 2. Charles is a known beat jacker, and for that, he gets bozack from me. But there's something about a tweet link that compels me to click away. So, yeah, I watched it.

If you haven't seen it, here's a synopsis: It's a clip of Charles Hamilton and a young woman, who is, I guess, his girlfriend. Apparently, young Charles had been a mark ass buster previously, and the gf was miffed. In response, she wrote a poem/rap. During the video the unofficial hypeman, whose name just HAS to be Tyrone, instigates a rap battle. So she spits. From her Blackberry. Then Charles spits and commences to talk about how he had sex with her, etc. In other words, Charles Hamilton, like a lot of his hip hop brethren, was acting like an obnoxious asshole. But before Hamilton can finish rapping about their sexuation, the gf straight punches him in the face. How nice. (Maybe she was just upset by the fact that it's officially on blast that she slept with a dude who looks like Cam'ron's nephew with that stuffed Pink Panther on his wrist {all in the name of being a blipster, I'm sure.}.) Anyway, a few days later, the couple decides to apologize to each other. On camera. To add, the hypeman/mediator gets on his soapbox, telling folks who dissed Chuck in the interim that they suck, because Charles was a real man by not retaliating. Again, how nice.

If anything, the twitsponse reflects my love/hate relationship with Twitter: I love the links some people supply; I hate the commentary (and the fact that some folks think having egg whites for breakfast is somehow tweet-worthy. But that's another story.) Some of the stuff I read either found the Charles getting cracked in the jaw funny, wanted to discuss where/when how violence between the sexes is justified, or implicitly praised young Charles' for his self-restraint. As for the latter, I guess, folks are still smarting from the Breezy v. Reezy public relations fiasco, which I wrote about previously.

Gayle, I suppose people are glad that a young black man used his words. (The gf tells me that's ["use your words"] what you say to toddlers who prefer to point and make noise until you give them what they want. I find its use here more than appropriate.) Whatever. What got lost in the whole "Thank God Charles Hamilton ain't Chris Brown" response was how he responded to her, what he said to her. Homegirl was obviously hurt. And though I think she would have benefited from a ghostwriter to help her express that shit more cleverly, and though it probably would've helped not to put shit out on internet front street, his blatantly disrespectful response confirms that black love is deader than chicken fried hard. And, of course, she shouldn't have hit him.

His retort, in all of its nonchalance, was all about the fact that he'd fucked her. No matter how wack her poem/rap was and no matter where she shared it, she didn't deserve that shit. Essentially, she said, "You hurt my feelings and I'm mad about it," and his response was, "But I hit it, though." Both video clips are chocked full of disrespect, and the only thing more unfortunate than her response and the apologies and forgiveness in the aftermath, is the fact that I know this kind of thing is normal to women who neither date up-and-coming rappers, nor work out their relationship issues in front of a video camera.

It seems that the standard for romantic relationships has sunk so low that a man is considered "real" when he doesn't hit a woman (back). As if not engaging in domestic violence is now some admirable quality that Angie Stone and/or Jill Scott should add as a lyric to their next ode to black men. Since when is whittling down your partner to a sex object and your relationship with her to a mere sexual encounter or two not abusive, especially when she seems to believe that what you all had was more significant than that? Dear Hypeman, Your boy might wear pink, but he ain't all that progressive, nigga. Not from this view.

But more to my point, when did this kind of interaction become par for the course in the game of (heterosexual black) love? Is the self-esteem so low, have we digested the whole scarcity of good black men schtick for so long that any ol' mediocre, silly-acting, not phsically violent one will do?

Of course, Gayle, I don't want to seem like I'm being too hard on young Charles. He did, after all, apologize. Perhaps this was an isolated incident, and unfortunately, a video camera was just there to catch the poor behavior. The situation could be unique, and not indicative of their entire courtship. Maybe, despite this, he's a good guy. Maybe it's all a publicity stunt. Charles' camp has been known to stage internet dust ups, so I hear.

Maybe I was hoping all that pink would seep into his skin, and help him get in touch with, I dunno, some sort of womanly(?) perspective. Yeah. I was totally wrong about that. Skinny jeans don't have that kind of special power, either. But I dunno, Gayle. I can't shake the feeling that something fucked up happened when Meth met Mary. (Which reminds me. Saf and I need to get to work.)

Oh well. At least he's dating a black girl. *Shrug*

Black Hipsters?

2009-05-26T13:16:00.003-05:00

Summer of Sam on black hipsters:
22 May 2009

"I Ain't Hip"

Dear Gayle,

Don't you just hate trends now that the internet is around? Two kids wear ties around their waists and sing "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go," and the next thing you know, the blogosphere is babbling about this new "thing" happening in [insert random locale here]. What I find most irritating about these moments is how many bloggers and the media treat these mini-events as if somehow they're are new and ahistorical, without precedent, as if it was something they had never before seen. Like a black president. Oh wait. Nevermind.

I felt this irritation when I checked out what was happening over at The Root the other day. An essay on the site called, "The Rise of the Black Hipster," couldn't have been more irritating if it had been printed on sandpaper and given to me to use as emergency toilet paper. (I didn't mean to imply the article was shitty this early, Gayle, but if the trucker cap fits...) You guessed it. The article is about all these weird-dressing and -acting black people the writer has been spying lately, I guess--perfect fodder for The Root. Instead of just calling them regular-ass Negroes in ostensibly funny (for Negroes, of course) clothing, they go by the term "black hipster." Excuse me, Gayle. I mean "blipster." For nothing says trendy more than a portmanteau. You know you're hot shit when you've gone the way of the spork. Anyway, the byline, "What happens when the hybrid hipster culture hits black America?" should have alerted the smoke in my head to start slowly billowing from my ears. Surely, there was no where to go but up, right? (Wrong.) Either way, I have plenty of water on the brain to create the necessary steam. Once my initial skim revealed that one of the paragraphs began with "Asher Roth" the cranial liquids began to bubble like a recently opened can of Faygo.

Of course, to recognize a black hipster, one would have to know what a regular, um, white hipster looks like, right? And thankfully, the author tracks that for us--not. She writes, with no hint of irony, "By now, the traits of hipsterism are easily recognizable to culture vultures," and goes on to describe the hipster tendency to rock skinny jeans--that would give even the most modestly endowed young man a hysterectomy--bright t-shirts, a taste for the underground and esoteric, and of course, Pabst beer. Apparently, young urban black folks have taken up this style recently. She notes (again, no irony), "Simply put: The racial archetypes that had defined the last 15 years of masculine street style have given way to a radically new aesthetic."

The assumptions in the piece are many; all of them irritatingly (yes, you've noticed a theme) problematic. First, well, the traits of hipsterism aren't as recognizable as we might think. The term "hipster," what it means, who it describes, et cetera has been long debated. Just because you've recently noticed that more and more nigs are covering their ass cracks with Sonic the Hedgehog boxers and jeans that fit doesn't mean they're all hipsters. Second, how about giving the reader a little morsel of the word's etymology? Surely being a (black) hipster goes beyond rocking a Members Only jacket and listening to afropunk. What hubris (or laziness) one must have to ignore (the possibility of) lineage, and treat this whole schtick as if it were fresh! Forgive me, Gayle, but I thought it went without saying that nothing, especially in this post-modern world, is new under the sun.

Perhaps going beyond "Hey! Look! A black kid on a skateboard!" might reveal some pretty interesting things, some stuff that might give one pause before applying the term to black folks or other people of color for that matter. And we might learn stuff, like the term's West African roots, which might lead us to think that the term was racialized long before Kanye put on purple Reeboks. We might even peruse the Norman Mailer essay on the subject. (I know. I know. "The White Negro" is totally not available on the internet; we'd actually have to pick up a book to read it. And then there's that whole stabbing thing. Oh, Norman...) Perhaps we'd learn that the term was used initially to describe white folks who were appropriating black culture, and later evolved to describe rather apathetic white kids who could voluntarily marginalize themselves for the sake of being, I dunno, awesome.

What would we do with those revelations? Maybe we'd think long and hard about what it means to apply a term associated with folks who could easily eschew labels--purely because whiteness allows them the privilege--to black people. Maybe we'd ask whether or not alleged black hipsters were entitled in the same kinds of ways. Maybe we'd question what it means to apply to the phrase used to describe people who evacuate various expressions of race, gender, and class of all meaning for the sake being "cool" to the group they originally appropriated. Can one appropriate an appropriator? Especially when it was your shit they appropriated in the first place?

Maybe we'd think--as a homie on Facebook responded when I posted the article--that black people have been doing this shit for years, and that calling someone a "blipster" really intimates acceptance of a narrow construction of blackness. Doing so keeps white at the center, making them tastemakers, while the expression(s) of people of color remain mere reactions. Further, accepting this stuff doesn't compel us to interrogate the constricted notion of blackness one gathers from popular portrayals of black culture. Rather, embracing and employing the phrase "blipster" in such a way implicitly agrees with what those images profess: that black is one thing, and every black person who isn't that is somehow special, indie, alternative.

Frankly, "hybrid...culture" hasn't come to black America. Hybrid culture is black America. Black culture is inherently a hybrid and radically inclusive. Just because they don't tell that you on your t.v. (on the radio) doesn't mean it's not true.

So, no. I ain't hip--just black, whether I listen to Santigold or merely put ice on the gold. And if you know like I do, you're just black, too.

Later, Gayle.

Love,
me

original post

When Keeping It (White) Liberal Goes Wrong

2009-05-19T21:35:00.004-05:00

'Successful' model Julie Henderson has this to say to all of those who oppose her post-racial romantic relationship with hip-hop impresario and Dalai Lama, Russell Simmons:

I have been spending “special time” with Russell for about 4 months and in that time I have learned some subtle things about some in the black community that have surprised me. I must say that while it has been a bit of a challenge for me, it has also been a wonderful learning experience. I realize that in this day of Obama and change that there is still a tremendous amount of poverty, suffering and pain in the black community, and for that I am deeply sorry.

But, I have to say the angry responses to those realities are sometimes misdirected….Just for the record, I am nobody’s white b*tch, gold digger or fame chaser. Nor am I any of the other mean things I have been called lately. I don’t need anything from anybody, I come from a good family and I’m a young independent “successful” model making my way in NYC. (If you don’t believe me google me or go to juliehenderson.net).

Finally, I just wanna say that Russell has been a great “special” friend and I’m sure as sh*t not giving him up cause some in America object to our friendship. I wanna close by saying, what Russell always says, Namaste. (That means the goddess in me recognizes the goddess in you)….Or, b*tch get your own man.

Love, Julie

In the immortal words of Uncle Russell's well-known protege, the notorious Diddy...

Take that, take that, take that...

When Keeping It (White) Liberal Goes Wrong

2009-05-19T12:16:00.002-05:00

I'd think it was entirely proper to applaud the fact that Oxford broke its 301-year male-only streak by appointing Ruth Padel, the (ironically) great-great granddaughter of Charles Darwin, the new Oxford professor of poetry this past Saturday...if some "anonymous" person hadn't completed sunk competitor Derek Walcott's campaign for the post.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/18/books/18arts-301YEARMENON_BRF.html?ref=books

Does this truly constitute a victory for so-called minorities?

When Keeping it (White) Liberal Goes Wrong

2009-05-04T13:26:00.003-05:00

From a university website:

A homie couldn't move though the university system until she "updated her race and ethnicity." The choices for ethnicity? A. Hispanic B. Not Hispanic. Nice.

When Keeping it (White) Liberal Goes Wrong

2009-05-04T13:19:00.002-05:00

from a New York Times piece on Michelle Obama's image:

Only 10 months ago, Mrs. Obama was described as an angry black woman by some conservatives and as a liability to her husband. Now, she is widely admired for her warmth, and her vibrant and accessible manner, and her race seems almost an afterthought to many Americans.

Yeah, afterthought.

Not Necessarily the News Pt. 2

2009-04-27T16:20:00.002-05:00

for the segment, go here.

Dear Fox News Chicago,

I should begin by saying that I don't consistently watch your 9pm newscast. But the gf was subjecting me to American Idol, and during the commercial break, we saw the trailer for your piece on "ethnic hair." It worked; we were intrigued enough -- or perhaps too lazy; I couldn't find the remote -- to stick around and see the "report." I should also add, with full disclosure, that although my BMI would solidly place me in the overweight category, my boxing/jogging/yoga regiment along with my afro do not make me part of the demographic of which you were talking. The BMI can also get the bozack. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I suppose, that there must have been some magnetic tango happening between our melanin and your teaser. Yeah, it worked. We both were like, "What's up with Robin Robinson's hair?" Whatever.

Listen, I know your writers/producers/whoever probably patted each other on the back for this one. I can imagine the problem posed during a meeting: In this technological age, this era of the black president how do we reach a more diverse audience? It's not enough that we have a black co-anchor. ABC7 has Asians, and Latinos. And frankly, Jeff Goldblatt's ill-conceived joke about Robin Robinson looking like Michelle Obama really hurt our ratings. [I made that up.] I can also see the pitch/solution a couple of meetings later: How about we do a story on black women and obesity? We can get Robin Robinson to do something to her hair that's totally incomprehensible to white people, have her work out in an expensive health club, and at the end of the segment have our viewers vote on whether or not they like Robin's new 'do! Or maybe some of those NewNew Negroes you (may) have working for you sipped a bit too much special punch at one of those First Friday events and thought this shit up. (Same team! Same Team!**)

However the story came about, it was a really poor idea. The problem with this whole entire segment was its myopic and reductive reasoning, and the overall lack of desire to really uncover the hidden truths between black women, hair and health.

Robinson's perpetual use of the term "ethnic hair" is prime evidence of this. Robin Robinson, stop voluntarily othering yourself. The white guy next to you will do it and think nothing of it. (Yes, he will LITERALLY think nothing of it.) Every time I heard the words "ethnic hair" come from her lips, I got closer and closer to abandoning pacifism. Ideas like "ethnic hair" exist purely because the white power brokers decided to devalue all that wasn't white, and we, in turn, believed and internalized it. And now we say things like, "straight hair looks more professional," and that being able to hold a curl is one of the few "advantages" of "our" hair. Instead of interrogating corporate, American culture, this segment continued to perpetuate the idea that obsession with straight was hair initially and has always been an idea of the racialized other, and not some bullshit standard set by white folks to justify disenfranchisement. I tell you one thing, if all the Negresses in HR (because that's where we work) showed up tomorrow with Afros, they wouldn't dare fire everybody.

That is not to say that black women aren't on one when it comes to hair. Then again, if I paid $80 for a touch-up and another $50 every two weeks to keep my shit up, I'd be on one, too. I don't know how many times I've heard a black woman tell me she likes my hair, but that she just "can't" do that. But that doesn't mean that you, Fox News Chicago, can cue a black doctor and cite a study to prove that hair is helping black women stay fat. 65% of Americans are overweight. Not all of them are black women. What's white people's excuse? Surely it isn't something as simplistic. If we addressed obesity among people of color the way we interrogate white people's problems, we might actually have to think about things like: where black people live, and if those neighborhoods are safe enough for exercise, and what kinds of restaurants and grocery stores are around, and if they can afford to shop at the Whole Foods in the rapidly gentrifying neighboring community, and if they have more than one job, and free childcare. We'd have to ask, you know, if we were really interested in why black women are overweight, if they could afford a $175/month gym membership to the posh East Bank Club -- where you sent Robinson for this story -- so they could get their hair done after working out. We have to ask, you know, real shit like that.

We'd have to ask how hairstyle and obesity are really connected. Not as cause and effect, but as the products of white supremacy and all the crappy aspects of black culture that are influenced by it. We'd have to ask about class. Not all of us are models, and retired executives. We'd have to ask why black people, no matter what the time period, always seem to be dying a lot earlier than other folks. (You might consider the emergence of the black insurance industry as a starting point.) But most of all, we'd have to stop waiting and asking for judgment, from our bosses, from our viewers, from ourselves.

So, I guess what I'm really saying is though I didn't expect a story like, "How Racism Makes Black People Fat" on your broadcast, what you actually produced was worse than my already low expectations. It was bad tv. Thoroughly unentertaining. Next time, could you at least interview one, maybe two overweight black women? I mean, seriously, can you at least find one, and let her say -- on camera -- "I don't work out because I sweat in my head."? That'd be great.

Thanks,
sm.

Not Necessarily the News

2009-04-14T13:32:00.001-05:00

Watch this:

Analysis later in the week. In the meantime, stew.

1, 2 Step (Off) - Sum-n-Saf Sound Off About The Ciara-JT "Situation"

2009-04-05T23:49:00.013-05:00

Sum-n-Saf would like to begin by saying that we don’t really give a fuck about Ciara’s “career” – her music, her previous betrothal to Bow Wow, her dancing, or her videos.

We’ll start paying real attention to her when she issues a formal statement in which she thanks Aaliyah for dying, and clearing a place for her in the pop pantheon.

But since it looks like that press conference isn't going to happen any time soon, we’ll have to deal with what we have... Which is, essentially, mad black blogosphere blatteration about her latest music video “Love Sex Magic,” featuring Justin “I ain't Thicke” (pun intended) Timberlake.

If you haven’t seen it yet, please take this time to mosey on over to Youtube and check it out. Like the nigga Kat Williams says: we’ll wait...

If you’re too lazy to open a new tab, here’s a synopsis: Justin Timberlake ogles Ciara like she's Britney Spears or somebody as she dances in front of, under, around, (insert your favorite preposition here) him for about 3.5 minutes, like they're up in Magic City or some shit. There are also a couple of moments in the video when Ciara is rocking a chain, and Justin lightweight yanks it while he blows hot air on her neck. It kind of looks like a Beyonce video, but with this whole Jefferson-Sally subtext that quite frankly does nothing to up the so-called sexiness factor. The visuals may raise the hackles of proprietary black men and feminists, but they don't do shit to enhance the experience of listening to the song. The shit still sucks. But we guess that's not really our point either...

The internets are all abuzz about JT and his alleged objectification of black women and such. And that “pattern” of objectification is derived from Nipplegate and, well, this video. Folks want to know how long he’ll get a pass and thangs. Which, essentially, presupposes that people gave him a pass in the first place; that he should’ve, um, said something to “help out” Miss Jackson if you’re nasty, rather than opting for the prudent public relations act of distancing himself from some bullshit to save his career. Which assumes, we guess, that niggas expected more from JT than other white guys, as if singing like a Negro makes one a friend – and defender – of the family.

Oh, if Timbaland beats actually had such power!

Anyway, we guess the whole 30 seconds of JT playing the libidinous massa to Ciara's (sex) slave could be considered controversial. But we see that approach to the video as rather reductive. Looking at it as some sort of violation requires:

1. Us to forget about the song lyrics. Listen to her. She’s offering herself up to homeboy, doing freaky shit to and for him...voluntarily (in much the same way that she donned that tiger catsuit and locked herself in that cage)...

2. Us to think that this shit is always (already) jungle fever. All (sexual) relationships contain a certain degree of fetishization. But just because the folks bringing out the whips and chains come from different sides of the color line doesn’t mean it's Massa and Kizzy getting busy. And, frankly, so what if they were? Some folks go beyond whipped cream. You do the French maid; Ci-Ci does the unsuspecting slave chick on the auction block. To each her own.

3. Us to believe that this is all Justin’s fault. Why is his authority just assumed? Ciara is about a foot taller than ol' boy, she probably outweighs him by about 30-40 lbs., and it's her fucking video. At the danger of sounding like a date rapist, Saf still says, "She wanted it."

4. Us to presume that the (white male) gaze has no capability beyond objectification, and that in such sexual instances, a black woman can be nothing but an object. The latter point is nothing but the reification of the very thing some of us are working against, is it not? We don't know that JT doesn't see Ciara as an intelligent, ambitious, talented young artist. If so, then he's really more of a retard than a racist, but hey...

Ciara ain’t got much ass, but she does have other talents (i.e. circus-style contortionism). Rid yourselves of your Puritan-ass sexual conservatism. Some of y’all should take notes. Ol' girl is getting her attention. What are you doing besides blowing up this silly piece of pop fluff on your womanist media watch blog? Are you getting it in any way?

Bottom-line: Justin did not purchase Ciara, then shove her ass in that catsuit and into that cage. This is what talentless girls with good looks do to sell records. It may be a type of prostitution, but it isn't slavery. There is a difference. And while it may promote the objectification of black women, the person that needs it brought to 'em about that shit is not Justin. It's Ciara. Because when it's all said and done, she's the one with the responsibility to the race.

When have you ever known Massa to shoo a slave from the field?

The title of this post is 1,2 Step. It implies a certain predictability--it is a perfect metaphor for the imagery in this video. Same shit, different day. If yanking it from Youtube would change the world, then Sum-n-Saf would be all for it, but we all know there'll be another version up before you can say (jigga)boo.

So let them make their money, "dirty" as it may be.

Now, excuse us while we go torch our black feminist guest passes for warmth...

It’s still cold in the Midwest.

On the Ubiquity of Blacks -- Kinda

2009-03-24T11:37:00.002-05:00

Do y’all remember the Scream trilogy? For several reasons, I thought about the movie the other week . I can’t really recall what I had been doing in my hotel room – probably flipping channels while waiting for N to finish fluffing her ‘fro in the mirror – when I saw the commercial trailer for CNN’s Black in America deuce, enticing me to watch with a shot of Soledad O’Brien looking all omniracial, introspective, and on lower frequencies, as confused as her name. I wanted to scream. The idea of another week (was it?) of SO’B asking ridiculous questions and providing the most vapid, shallow, and surprised voice-overs ever (Oh my God! It’s hard out here for poor black people!) made me want to scrape every inch of melanin from my body with my dull and dykly short fingernails. As I recalled how infuriating the first part made me, I had a myriad of concerned thoughts about the whole thing, one of which was the inferiority of sequels, as discussed by Jamie Kennedy (was it?) in Scream 2. If BIA2 is going to be worse than its predecessor, I’m going to need wig, for I refuse to pull out the strands of my Afro because of some basic cable bullshit.

One of the problems I had with BIA was that it was saturated with Roland Fryer’s expertise. If you recall, Fryer was the professor who came up with the genius idea to pay black kids to go to school. Though he has a doctorate in economics and the education segment was probably the only one where his commentary was most appropriate, BIA kept returning to Fryer for comment on, I dunno, everything else. Which, like Janet and Michael, made me, again, want to scream (Oh my God can’t believe what I saw when I turned on the tv, this evening…). But Fryer is not alone. He is not the first; he is definitely not the last.

About a month ago, I got a text message from a friend who was at a conference. He told me that someone had described another blackademic as the ubiquitous black intellectual, or something of the sort. I literally lol’d. And then it dawned on me, this is my problem with Fryer, et. al. and the institutions which they serve.

It seems to me that these cable networks, etc. have about 5 smart black people they call up whenever they’re doing a story on Negroes, and they need a comment. I mean hell, any given “I Love the ____” Vh1 special has a more diverse group of black opiners. And that reality is patently offensive. The idea that any of the 5 Negroes on speed dial can provide helpful commentary on any given “Negro” subject presupposes 1. A (white) viewership that only needs nuggets of information on said black topic – and that nugget would only, say, get you one answer (question?) on Jeopardy!, but not help you sweep a category; 2. That one (or two, no more than two) black persons has the black experience on lock, and can articulate it better than anyone else; 3. That diverse opinions on that experience don’t exist and/or aren’t necessary.

On any given day, Saf and I may come to the conclusion that niggas ain’t shit. We may arrive at that point, however, from two very different points of entry. More seriously, I may be able to provide you with a decent response to a question about black poetry. Yet if you were looking for something beyond a rudimentary and rather uninteresting response, I’d kindly refer you to my partner in crime. Since I see the same black people everywhere I look, I’m guessing they don’t follow that rule. And since television producers don’t seem to want to go beyond one of Tavis Smiley’s CSPAN specials or a Google search to find their experts, I think it’s safe to assume they won’t be delving any deeper into the black psyche than necessary. I’m offended. Nobody asks Paul Krugman for comment on anything beyond economics. So the idea that the cat who can enlighten you about black political participation can turn around and drop mad knowledge about, I dunno, black women and feminism just doesn’t feel right to me. If it did, I guess I’d also understand blacks as some of most simplistic people on this planet. My opinion on the likes of CNN goes without saying.

To add, maybe I’m just lazy, but I just can’t imagine churning out books of worth every two years on every issue under the black sun, while maintaining a busy lecture and television schedule and remaining abreast of all the stuff going on in the world. How do they do this? Are they black intellectual superheroes? By the time I’m done with Twitter and Golden Girls, I barely have enough time to write a dissertation chapter or plan a class. No wonder no one ever calls me for a quote. In the meantime, I’ll determine whether or not it’s worth the effort to make either party accountable for such laziness.

Perhaps I’m hating because these people have tenure, and I don’t even have a dissertation chapter. Whatever.

Required Reading

2009-03-20T10:24:00.000-05:00

Go here.

Random Acts of Enwhitlement

2009-03-17T18:49:00.006-05:00

Here at The Tuskegee Experiment, we believe that part of our job is to highlight, with varying degrees of humor and intelligence, the (fucked up) racial/racist shit still happening in our wonderfully race-obsessed society. We wish we could say our job has been harder since we went all post-racial in the ’09. But as long as CNN keeps producing sequels to Black in America, we strongly believe this will continue to be an inherent component to our purpose. Sometimes, we have to click a few websites, or watch endless hours of cable for blog inspirations. Then there are moments when penicillin-worthy events fall right into our laps, thereby fucking up our chokras. (That last part will make sense in a minute.) And so, it is with great pleasure that we introduce to you: Random Acts of Enwhitlement.

Enwhitlement – n. 1. Term coined by Ms. Rhodes. 2. An insubordinate, impolite, and/or rude act(s) performed by privileged white persons, that surely stems from the fact that they have generally moved through this world liberally, in a way racially and/or economically marked persons can and have not: “St. Patrick’s Day is the apotheosis of enwhitlement. There is no way Negroes – or any group of color, for that matter – could declare and subsequently use a holiday as an excuse to get drunk and act like pricks.” – Sum.

In an effort to learn to breathe better in the boxing ring, I (Sum) recently committed to taking yoga classes at my local YMCA. I love my Y. The folks are friendly, they remember my name, and it’s not full of muscle-bound boys who grunt and turn red in a testosterone haze, while attempting to squat 675 lbs. of iron as they squeeze their needle-pricked glutes. They offer extra classes at no cost; I get to bond with my brown neighbors. And jogging on the treadmill makes me feel less guilty about watching The View and stopping at The Brown Sack for an Oreo shake on my way home.

Last Wednesday, I went to my sixth yoga class. We’d recently been moved from the larger aerobics room to a much smaller one. The kiddie tables, plastic soccer/hockey goals, and abandoned Dora shoes reveal the room’s true purpose, and don’t necessarily make it conducive to 20+ adults with visions of downward facing dog. But our yoga instructor, cool and calm as, well, a yoga instructor, assured us we would make do with our limited space.

I kicked off my kix and jacket and tossed them near the window, and placed my mat just outside an arm’s reach of a half-moon kiddie table; there was noticeable space between my mat and the person beside me. Sort of like the phantom parking space between two cars on the street: your eyes tell you you can fit, but as soon as you try, you realize that no matter how long you stare at it, you’d need to clip off six inches of your bumper to successfully park there. (I find the latter quite frustrating.) Despite visual evidence that another person could fit her mat there, but wouldn’t be able to successfully perform all of the poses without committing the uncomfortable faux pas of body contact with a stranger, the white chick behind me – who had heretofore seemed perfectly content in that spot – decided she wanted to parallel park her mat between my soon-to-be old neighbor and me.

As she sat there waiting for class, gnawing on an apple core and picking up the droppings with her fingers and eating them, my mood went from relatively calm to relatively shitty. It was so obvious to me – and I have pretty weak vision – that one of us would have to move.

The instructor modeled the spread eagle pose where we were to begin; my invasive neighbor carelessly spread her legs, and turned her head, as if in surprise, when she "realized" that she had violated my boundary. After she muttered a pseudo-shocked, “Oh!” instead of getting up, I shot her a look and moved back to her original spot. The combination of angry thoughts and her smelly faux Uggs made me unfocused for the rest of my practice. Instead of concentrating on balancing, I assessed what the way she’d spread her items – her second-hand coat, her scarf, her biker’s helmet – across the kiddie table, as if no one else would want to place their things on it, said about her.

Perhaps it’d be more yoga, or whatever, to take this time to self-reflect, to understand what my response to her says about me. But that ain’t happening. Not today, not today. Besides, outwardly, I think I handled the situation relatively well. Instead of telling her narrow ass to move, I wordlessly slid into her old place. But trust, that’s the only pass she’ll get from me. I dare her to try again tomorrow. I dare her.

I’ve concluded that her act was a prime example of enwhitlement. She asked neither me nor the woman next to me whether it would be ok for her to move into the space between us. She saw the space, and colonized it, took it over as if it belonged to her. It never occurred to her to view the lay of the land before she invaded it. And her act reminded me of the way in which some white folk invade my privacy without a second thought, as if it is their birthright to violate my boundaries. Her act was reminiscent of the time a man sitting next to my girlfriend and me at local brunch spot turned and asked if we were sisters, and then lovers. It called forth the moment when my mother told me that a former boss asked her – with a straight face – whether or not she and my Uncle Jeff had the same father. Asking, doing these things as if they have the right to know, as if they should know, as if we would be overreacting if we told them to shove it.

I don’t mean to suggest that melanined folks won’t get up in your business – they will. But in my time roaming this world in this body, I don’t think my POC have ever invaded my space with the same unmitigated gall as privileged, 21st century incarnations of Mr. Charlie and Miss Ann. And I think that stems directly from being socialized, consciously and otherwise, that the world, and the people in it, is, in fact, yours.

This, we must remember, is the offspring of racism and racial oppression. This is how white privilege works. White people need to recognize that shit, and do something about it. And it is not my job to teach. With Google and a library card – two things the forefather, Fred Doug didn’t have – one should have no problem self-educating. For if they don’t, random acts of enwhitlement may result in random acts of violence. And I couldn’t claim that the latter was unjustified. And I’m a pacifist. So my suggestion for a more perfect union would be for white folks to really interrogate how (their) whiteness works, to assess how their everyday behavior violates (racialized) others, and change their behavior accordingly. Doing so might make some black folks less angry. And that's what you want, right?

Speaking of, maybe I should write a black version of Falling Down.

Back Next Week

2009-03-13T14:27:00.001-05:00

promise.

Golden Age: De La Soul

2009-03-06T09:31:00.002-06:00

"Buddy" (1989)

How to (Still) Have Fun in a Post-Racial Society Take 1

2009-03-03T12:09:00.003-06:00

Setting: Sunday night at the Midway Airport Potbelly. It is approximately 8:30 pm.

Scene: Sum and companion have just deplaned, and are about to order some grub. The non-black Potbelly employee doesn't begin this order with a typical, "May I help you?" And so the fun begins...

Employee: [sort of mumbling] Are yous [must be from New York] twins?

Sum's companion: Excuse me?

Employee: [louder] Are yous twins?

Sum and companion glance at each other. Sum speaks first.

Sum: No, we're just black...

More Cake

2009-03-03T11:28:00.004-06:00

First, thanks for the responses, homies. They reminded me of some things I didn't say in the first piece that I want to mention here:

This was not the first time.
If/when the relationship is back on [and I guess that's word on the street], I know folks will judge her. I want to make the following clear: love does not stop after feeling the first blow, or hearing the first abusive words explode from the mouth. The pain of those blows will dissipate more quickly than her love. So before we form our mouths to claim how quickly we'd leave such a situation, maybe we should shut up and think about how difficult it is for both parties to break cycles of violence -- especially when your adoring public presupposes any sort of justification.
Yes, I said love. They both love each other. We love as imperfectly as we are. Toni Morrison says it more eloquently, "Love is never any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. There is no gift for the beloved. The lover alone possesses his gift of love. The loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of the lover's inward eye." (The Bluest Eye)
This is a great time to have informal (or even formal) convos with young black men and women (gay, straight, et. al.) about abuse. Get to it.
There's a larger, more "plight of black folks in America" discussion that definitely needs to be had, and Ashon's mention of the Moynihan Report reminded me that that's something that needs to be repeated aloud. I might go there.

Eat the Cake, Anna Mae

2009-02-24T12:39:00.008-06:00

And she became the most famous, richest black woman in the world. Does that mean anything?

"See, we could fight like Ike and Tina..." -- Alicia Keys, "Unbreakable"

Why is this your opening line, Alicia? And why would this song EVER be your jam?

The other day, a relative of mine asked me (Sum) what my opinion was of the Chris Brown/Rihanna saga. It was a curiously framed question that I didn’t quite understand. It had never dawned on me to have an opinion on the matter. Maybe this was because of the black interest blogs I read. On them, there are people actually choosing a set – Team Rihanna or Team Chris – and repping it. Besides, I had only been paying mild attention to the whole ordeal, and what I did know consisted of rumors and hearsay. And I’m not in the business of forming an opinion based on some shit some niggas might (not) have said. I was a nerd in a black high school for two years. I know how to avoid fistfights.

Though she probably wasn’t, at the time it felt like my relative was asking me pick a camp and join it. Choose which rumors to believe or not, and cast my allegiance accordingly. Misunderstanding or no, the question made me uncomfortable – so much so that I actually squirmed a bit. But it did get me thinking about black people, and (normalized) violence, and how and why the black public sphere reacts to domestic violence the way it does.

If there are any white people reading this (so doubtful), you’ll have to trust me on the following statement. (In this instance, my cultural capital is worth more than yours. Take that, suckas!) Black people – and yes, I mean all black people, including Michelle Obama – know and quote scenes from two movies: What’s Love Got to Do With It? and The Color Purple. On varying levels, both movies are concerned with violence against black women perpetuated by their male partners. To add, Tyler Perry, who is a descendant and beneficiary of the kind of influence these films have on black movie audience and black culture at large, is the most popular black filmmaker of the day; he continues to disseminate and profit from the collateral intimate knowledge of these movies provide. For instance, one of his most recent films, The Family That Preys, features a deliberately unlikeable black female character who, through her insubordination (shout out, moyazb for this line and so much more), emasculates (and therefore disrespects) her black, blue-collar husband. So much so that the climax of the movie is his justifiable reclamation of manhood via smacking the shit out of her. I say justified because members of the primarily black audience I was in the company of (don’t ask why I was in a theater to see a Tyler Perry movie) cheered when it happened. The homie, Maegs had a similar experience. I put up several blue chips that these aren’t statistical aberrations. So, really, what the fuck is this about?

“You told Harpo to beat me,” and “That’s all you got, Ike?” elicit two responses from black folk: laughter and the outward expression of our inner thespians. What we seem to forget in our collective re-enactment of these scenes is the violence against black women at the heart of them. That casual omission seems to suggest, on some level just barely beneath the surface, that domestic violence is not only normal and acceptable, but a source of amusement. I ask, as someone who has participated fully in these exchanges plenty of times, What the fuck makes this shit funny? No, seriously, that is not a rhetorical question. Why the fuck are we laughing? Why are these the lines we memorize?

We have to stop this trend of normalizing violence in the home to the point that it is a stock device that any black comedian can employ to garner a laugh. I see no irony in this, Chris Rock. We have to stop rewarding (NAACP, listen up) and financially supporting a man whose career is based on dressing up in drag and caricaturizing black women, recycling coonery for the 21st century, and perpetuating misogyny and a belief in a patriarchal structure that advocates violence if it means the reclamation of a (tentative-ass black) manliness. We need to check these black interest blogs for the way they deliver this “news” to us. (And I’m not making that last point because nobody is fucking with our shit, despite Sum-n-Saf's blatant genius.)

Most importantly, we have to stop normalizing this violence and responding to it (only) with laughter. My ex used to talk about how ironic it was that the only blacks on television starred in sitcoms, because there really wasn’t much funny about black life in America. Well, there isn’t anything funny about black women getting their ears boxed. And I see no point in choosing sides or turning this Chris Brown/Rihanna mess into t-shirts or Mortal Kombat sketches. I’m over it.

Here’s a dose of penicillin for that ass: How about we stop trying to make light of, debate and justify the actions of victim and/or victimizer of domestic violence, and fucking confront our pathology? WARNING: THIS MEDICINE WILL NOT CAUSE DROWSINESS, AND IT WILL NOT MAKE YOU LAUGH. IF ILLNESS PERSISTS AFTER SEVEN DAYS, CEASE TAKING MEDICINE, AND CONSULT A THERAPIST.

n.b.: This morning, I received this via email. See what I mean?

Sum (N-Saf) Valentine's Day Luv from Ya Girlz

2009-02-13T13:07:00.008-06:00

Though hip-hop is largely known as the soundtrack to the destruction of the black family, the audio instruction manual to the pimp-ho shit that passes for interaction between black men and women nowadays, the death knell of african american music, in truth, the genre has produced some of the greatest love songs of the last thirty or so years.

[Yes--I am typing this shit with a straight face.]

People generally turn to R&B for their baby-making music--they find rap niggas spitting sweet nothings, often liberally laced with expletives and/or explicit references, either distasteful or disturbing but fuck it...

Since squeaky-clean, 'candy girl' ass niggas are pimp-slapping chicks nowadays (Shout out, Chris Breezy), you can't really front on the thug lovers out here.

In light of the whole Grammy night drama, and what we've learned about our favorite legendary balladeers from the endless train of tacky TV biopics that keep TV-One afloat, hip hop love songs are just as true expressions of black love and lust as any of K-Ci's or the Kang Himself B. Brown's...

Wait--those probably aren't the best examples...

Anyhow...here you have it...Sum-N-Saf's Top 14 Hip Hop Love Songs...

NOTE: These are not ranked so no combative ass emails disputing the order of appearance, please. We love all these babies just the same. Also, these are OUR top 14. We're not claiming them for all time or no shit like that.

1. Meth and Mary "You're All I Need (Razor Sharp Mix)" -- Even though hip hop and r&b had been shacking up, this classic made it official.

2. Mystic "Neptune's Jewels" -- As literary geeks, we support employing roman mythology to express one's amorous desires, spit game, et cetera. Oakland emcee Mystic does us personality chicks proud with this often overlooked joint.

3. Black Star "Brown Skin Lady" -- Sum likes to call this "Ode to Crunchies." If your girl rocks ankh jewelry and/or wears patchouli oil, this MUST be on the mixtape if you're tryna get her to leave off quoting Sonia Sanchez and shit and drop her eco-friendly, fair trade panties.

4. Dilla/Common/D "So Far to Go" -- Damn, Sum-N-Saf miss J Dilla. Though "Time: The Donut of the Heart" is a personal jam of Sum's, we had to go with this one. D's voice is so right that you just kinda want Common to shut up. Or at least spit something half as nasty as the beat is. Just put the instrumental on your mixtape.

**SUM PICK**
5. LL "Hey Lover" -- Backed by a sample of Michael Joe Jackson's valedictory ballad "The Lady In My Life" and Boyz II Men's harmonies, LL found new life as hip hop's Barry White. We miss the golden age of Trackmasters... and good Hype Williams videos (Saf says Amen to that last shit, most def!).

**SAF PICK**
6. ATCQ "Electric Relaxation" -- The purist in your girl wanted to go with 'Bonita Applebum' because it did get the guys on, and it's fucking 'Bonita Applebum'--who every headwrap aspires to be. But 'Electric Relaxation' is a personal favorite, and a far sexier song. It's what happens when art nigs grow up and get some real game.

7. Pharoahe "The Light" -- Infinitely better than it's brethren, Common's joint. Any shit that makes you halfway contemplate going home with a nigga as funny-looking as Pharoahe you gotta give it up to. Boy is nice on the mic but... This cut is the exemplar of the term 'mouthpiece.'

8. The Pharcyde -- "She Said" -- Tre did crooning way before Kanye's crazy ass, and much better, thank you.

9. De La -- "Eye Know" -- Some innocent, frolic in the daisies, first love shit, with the killer Steely Dan sample. At 13, this shit made Saf want to rip off her African medallion and get busy with some young, stupid nig underneath the bleachers, like that shit would have been a spiritual experience. Good thing her crazy ass knew better than that shit.

10. Bahamadia -- "I Confess" -- The BB Queen laced the sunny day track with her silky vocals. Slicker than any nig.

11. Slick Rick -- "Teenage Love" -- The theme song to many a junior high break-up back in the mid-90's, the title says it all. The Ruler's take on affairs of the heart was surprisingly vulnerable from a nig that was also famous for "Mona Lisa."

12. Jigga -- "Song Cry" -- Nothing, and I mean nothing, drops draws quicker than confession game. This ode to the ex that was used as a stepladder slays stupid girls that think a nig that sees his mistake won't make it again. But Sum-N-Saf have to admit, they're also suckas for it...

13. The Lost Boyz -- "Renee" -- It's lightweight necrophilia game, but with that classic Cheekz delivery, you gotta fucks with it.

AND LASTLY...

14. The Roots -- "You Got Me" -- If you were worried we'd leave this shit off the list (because the Roots are mad overrated--sorry Maegs), you shouldn't have. This has all the necessary love song ingredients--the boy/girl dialogue, the sassy hook, the references to the haters. And on top of that, Badu's on it. And you can flip it on the Jill Scott, rocked-out remix, and still be good. You can't say that about the fucking Puffy mix of Mary J. and Meth.

Though Saf is boycotting Valentine's Day this year, she still wishes you and yours--along with Sum--a lovely day like Roy Ayers. Use a condom (and/or dental dam). No still means no, even on Valentine's Day. And everything that happens in a hotel room, stays in the hotel room.

X's and O's

Sum-N-Saf

Celebrate Black History: Negro Firsts V

2009-02-09T14:32:00.007-06:00

Roddy Rock: The DJ Savior

In the late 80s, Roderick Anthony was paying his way through college by working retail at the Twin Oaks Mall Chess King and DJing off-campus parties and other events. The gigs required many late nights, and sometimes he caught up on his sleep during his Monday morning Poli-Sci class, but he enjoyed the work. During a party, at least one Jordache-rocking co-ed was bound to request her favorite song, and compliment his gear. If he thought she was cute, he’d slip her his pager number. He had a particular weakness for Deltas who rocked doorknockers, which would explain his two baby mamas. But that, again, is another tale for another time.

One June, just after school had ended for summer break, Roderick (professionally known as DJ Roddy Rock), was choosing vinyl to spin at his cousin’s wedding, when he realized that there was a real paucity of booty-shaking hits worthy of a black wedding reception. It was 1989, you see, and R&B was freshly New Jack. And though Guy’s “Groove Me” had been the jam the previous year, not everything affiliated with Mr. Teddy Riley was mother of the bride (she was a devout Bible study on Wednesdays Christian) friendly. Despite Heavy D and the Boyz’ and Uncle L’s best effort (“Jingling Baby” is still a sure-fire dance floor winner), hip hop had taken a decidedly serious, militant and gangster turn. Roddy Rock had enough experience behind the ones and twos to know that even Huey Newton wouldn’t want to shake a tail feather to “Fight the Power” at a wedding reception.

He made it through the dinner portion of the reception with relative ease, playing the gentle stylings and dulcet tones of Alexander O’Neal, Freddie Jackson, and Rene’ and Angela. By the time the chicken dinner was over however, Roddy Rock knew he’d have to play something to fight off the “Itis.” As Roddy’s cousin and his new wife slow wined to “Make it Last Forever,” he flipped through his records searching for something, anything that would ease the crowd into dancing. Though Johnny Kemp’s “Just Got Paid” would definitely fill the dance floor, folks would surely catch a cramp from eating too much green bean casserole.

Roddy had just about settled on playing Nu Shooz’ “I Can’t Wait,” when he remembered a Marcia Griffiths 12” he’d borrowed from his most recent ex-girlfriend, Yolanda’s dorm room the week before finals. Yolanda was an international studies major from New Rochelle, NY; the child of Jamaican immigrants, Yolanda would play Peter Tosh records and teach Roddy patois during study breaks. They’d bonded one night early in fall semester during a discussion on South African apartheid, dancehall, and how weak the weed on campus was. The only thing Roddy remembered Yolanda telling him about the record was that it was the soundtrack to a really simple line dance that had been catching on in New York. He pulled the record from the sleeve, placed it on the turntable, dropped the needle on it, hoping it would catch on in Columbus, Ohio.

Four bars into the song, Roddy looked up and saw 3 of the bridesmaids -- transplanted Eastcoasters -- doing a line dance. They called a few groomsman to the floor and taught them. Eventually, curious observers walked to the dance floor for a lesson. By the end of the night, Roddy had played Marcia Griffiths' song 5 times. Folks just couldn’t get enough of it. In an attempt to save his ass, DJ Roddy Rock had accomplished a Negro first. On a June evening in 1989, Roderick Anthony became the first person to play the Electric Slide at a wedding. The rest, as they say, is history.

Until next time, this has been "Sum-n-Saf's Little-Known Black Firsts."

It's electric! Boogie woogie woogie!

Golden Age: Boogie Down Productions

2009-02-06T09:27:00.002-06:00

"You Must Learn" (1989)

Here's some KRS in honor of BHM. Of course, he would later do a "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" inspired voiceover for Nike, but we won't hold that against him -- right now.

Celebrate Black History: Negro Firsts IV

2009-02-04T21:00:00.007-06:00

We have our slave ancestors to thank for many of our most enduring customs: gospel singing, storytelling, hair-braiding, booty-shaking...

[Disclaimer--From the MSN Encarta, "...Dances dominant through the 18th century included the ring shout or ring dance, the calenda [and] the chica...The ring shout originated in West African religious ceremonies, and was performed by blacks throughout the Eastern and Southern United States as a part of Protestant worship. It was danced by a circle of people who shuffled and stomped their feet and swayed their hips. The calenda and the chica were sensual mating dances; partners began these dances at a distance from each other and gradually moved closer and closer. They were performed in the Caribbean and in parts of the American South, and may have originated in the region around the Congo River in Africa....]

But it is probably the culinary customs that were handed down to us that have had the most marked impact on our culture. There isn't a black neighborhood in America that doesn't boast at least one joint where a nigga can get a shoulder sandwich or fried perch dinner. And there probably isn't a black household in America that doesn't have upon its stovetop that ancient, ubiquitous metal tin or faded shortening can filled with that most tasty and versatile of cooking aids...that's right...bacon grease.

Not many people know, but we have a resourceful slave foremother named Keziah (a/k/a Kizzy) Cogburn to thank for that.

Here is her story...

Keziah Focht was born in the Virginia colony to an African slave mother and white slaveowner father, George Focht, in 1704, just 15 years after the peculiar institution was legalized, decades before the colonies became states, or the states were united.

Because she was a mulatto, young Kizzy was plucked from the harsh conditions of the quarters and made the companion (i.e. maidservant in training) to her half-sister Mary.

She grew to be a graceful and lovely young lady and would probably have spent her life as a house slave, wearing her mistress's cast-offs, sneaking scraps from her master's feasts, and sleeping in a trundle bed inside the big house if she hadn't fallen for her master/father's pride buck, the prophetically named Tom. A gambler that was always in debt to one or another of his neighbors, George Focht had promised a friend that he owed $500 that he could have Kizzy upon her 18th birthday if he wiped out his (sizable for that time) years' old debt. When the friend discovered Tom and Kizzy kissing on the back porch of the big house one night during a raucous poker party, he assumed that they had "jumped the broom" and refused to take Kizzy as payment. Enraged, Focht tossed Kizzy out into the field with the rest of the niggers. He forbade her to see Tom, and threatened to castrate him and hobble her if he ever caught them together again.

Though Tom was a strapping specimen, one of the strongest slaves in the county, he didn't dare disobey his master. Even though his treatment of Tom and Kizzy had been harsh, Focht still had a reputation for being one of the most merciful slaveowners in the region. Kizzy was not as easily cowed as Tom. After trying to convince him that they could continue their affair clandestinely, Kizzy turned her attention to a prospect that she hoped could gain her back some of the preferential treatment she'd enjoyed as a house slave: the plantation's overseer, Thomas Dehaven. Dehaven was young, unmarried, and extremely religious, but after a few months of Kizzy batting her green eyes at him--stopping her work in the fields to pour water over her sheer cotton sack dress to "cool" herself -- Dehaven gave into his lust for her. He began visiting her shack every night, after the lights in the big house had gone out, and he was certain the master wouldn't detect him sneaking down to the quarters. Very soon after their affair began, Kizzy found herself pregnant. Of course, this outraged her master, who was intent on her living out her days in misery and shame (as he was since his "credit" with his gambling buddies had gone bad).

Needless to say, he punished her in such a way that Kizzy was truly "focht" when he was done.

Focht ran Dehaven from the plantation, waited for Kizzy to deliver her daughter, then took her away and gave her to a barren maidservant--another house slave named Silvie. Focht made it clear that if Kizzy interfered with the girl, he would sell both her and the girl away to separate states. Terrified that she might not even get to watch her daughter grow up, Kizzy left her alone. She contented herself with pilfering piss jars from beneath the porch, grinding up the glass, and giving it to the cook, Henny, to put into the master and mistress's food, which Henny did religiously at every meal.

Silvie was a kind foster mother to the little girl, who she named Diana. She loved her like her own, but was honest with her the day that Diana asked how a woman so dark could have given birth to a child so fair. She told her that Kizzy was her real mother, and the child didn't seem surprised at all. She'd spotted her in the fields from the porch one day, and deduced that she was her mother. They had the same green eyes and impossible mulatto brown hair--too nappy to be straight, too straight to damn cornrow.

Diana began sneaking down to the quarters, spending time in Kizzy's shack, getting to know her. This was easy, as the glass that the master was ingesting everyday was wreaking havoc on his already precarious health (he had gout, cirrhosis of the liver, and a nasty, nasty case of syphilis due to his decadent lifestyle). He was unable to keep tabs on his slaves, and his wife was too busy sleeping with Tom ("Such a docile nigger," she bragged to the women in her sewing circle, "So gentle") to take over for him.

As thirteen-year-old Diana's devotion to her mother grew, so too did her determination to restore to her mother the lifestyle that the master had taken from her. She began bringing her "gifts" from the big house, mostly food and spirits. And she brought her a china place setting with which to enjoy them, from the set that the master and mistress had gotten as a wedding present.

Sadly, this would be her undoing.

On the eve of a huge Christmas breakfast that the master and mistress were having for visiting relatives, Diana brought a fresh rasher of bacon to her mother for a holiday treat. Kizzy was so excited at the sight of the prime pork that she cooked it up immediately, and she and Diana glutted on it, then promptly fell asleep. She stored the drippings in the tea cup from the place setting, thinking they would give her usual cornmeal mush some added flavor when she fried it up the next day.

While they were sleeping, Mistress Focht had Silvie take down the china and set the table for the breakfast. When she discovered that a place setting was missing, she began scouring the house looking for it. Her intuition told her that Diana had something to do with its disappearance, so she began looking for the girl too. When she couln't find Diana or her dishes in the house, she went down to the quarters, straight to Kizzy's shack. She began screaming and grabbing at Diana, which led Kizzy to jump up from her pallet and begin clawing at her mistress. But not before she cleverly hid her teacup of bacon grease under a pile of rags in the corner of the space.

It took four male slaves to break up the fight between Kizzy and the mistress (they all had to hold back Kizzy, who had tightened her headrag, slicked a fingerful of that bacon grease on her face, and was ready to tread on Mistress's ass like the British monarchy). Horrified at how undignified she'd appeared before her slaves, the mistress tried to reclaim her power by threatening to sell off Kizzy and Diana, just as her husband had threatened 13 years before. Kizzy responded that she could sell them away, but they had to go together. Otherwise, she'd tell Master about Mistress's affair with Tom. Afraid she would be booted off her husband's land, or worse, cut from his will, the mistress assented to selling them--Kizzy and Diana--as a pair. A few weeks later, a trader came to pick them up and take them to the farm of a Dutch couple in New York (i.e. colonial weed farmers).

When Diana and Kizzy climbed onto the trader's wagon, they had only three belongings other than their clothes wiht them. They had a sack of shaved glass, just in case their new master wanted to get froggy; they had a stay (i.e. corset), just in case Diana had to get her miscegination on; and they had that teacup of bacon grease, because Lord knew what kind of food they'd be subjected to at the new place, but they knew that bacon makes anything taste better.

A bit of folk knowledge that sticks with us, even today.

Until next time, this has been "Sum-n-Saf's Little-Known Black Firsts."

Kwaheri!

Celebrate Black History: Negro Firsts III

2009-02-04T12:16:00.005-06:00

Cleopatra Willingham: Blonde Ambition

Paducah, Kentucky, was too small for Cleopatra Willingham’s ambitions. Her big dreams needed the big city, with its big lights to illuminate the star she thought she was. Born just after the turn of the last century, Cleopatra had been so named by her mother because her only child had been conceived on the riverbank during the Jackson Purchase Fair. More than the Tennessee and Ohio rivers came together that night, but that, again, is another story. Like any Negro with both an imaginary father and the ability to pass a paper bag test, Cleopatra assigned her pancake batter complexion to a half-Chickasaw father she’d never seen. He had, again, according to Cleo’s mother, stowed away on a riverboat sometime just before her birth, claiming to have a tryout with Chicago’s Negro baseball team, the Chicago Unions. He had promised to write and send for his new family once he was settled. Perhaps, even eight months later, Cleo’s mother was still basking in and blinded by the afterglow of that magical July night, for she believed that, despite his illiteracy, her baby daddy would write once he made it to the Windy City. Could he have chosen a more apt destination?

Nonetheless, Cleopatra grew up strong, and she grew up right with those Kentucky boys on those Kentucky nights. Yet that, as was mentioned above, was not enough for Miss Cleopatra. By the edge of 17, Cleo had already begun plotting her own trip out of Paducah. Though the truth was that nary one of them could actually be a patron, color-struck GI’s back from World War I would flirtatiously tell Cleo that she reminded them of the chorus girls they had seen at the Cotton Club. Unfortunately for those brave southern boys, that was the only seed Cleo allowed them to plant.

Cleo had been practicing her high kicks for sixth months when Buckey Macgraw, a train-smoke-black backwoods bootlegger, said he’d give her a lift to Cincinnati, where she could catch a locomotive that would choo-choo her right into the heart of the Big Apple. But Buckey could read neither words nor map, and the two were five miles outside of Indianapolis, Indiana, before Buckey recognized his error. Unwilling to listen to Buckey stutter through his interminable list of dreams for another 500 miles, rather than wait in the car, a frustrated Cleo slipped away from her road trip companion as Buckey got drunk on his own supply and lost their gas money in a back alley craps game.

As luck would have it, the alley was right near one of Madame CJ Walker’s hair colleges. Though she didn’t advocate young women running about with carousing young men, in a scene seemingly out of Up From Slavery, the head dean was sympathetic to Cleopatra’s plight, and offered her not only a highly coveted spot in the school, but a small backroom where she could sleep, in exchange for Cleo’s janitorial services. Down(trodden) but not out, Cleo humbled herself and accepted the opportunity.

But unlike Booker T., Cleo proved a rather inept housekeeper and hair student. With the head mistress’ threat of expulsion hanging in the air with the scent of lye, one morning, a despondent Cleo took a break from her before school cleaning chores and sat in a client’s chair, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Was this all that her fair skin and good hair would get her? A broom closet to sleep in and dishpan hands no student manicurist could soften? Had she gone from black Scarlet O’Hara to Negro Cinderella in a mere six weeks?

Mademoiselle Willingham cried until her eyes were red and blurry. Eventually, she regained control of her breathing and decided that only a makeover could cheer her. Straightening her naturally curly locks would do, and she believed she had just enough time before classes began to do it. Cleo wet her hair with what she thought was water but was, in fact, the label-less peroxide-based cleaner in a bottle that resembled the school’s hair product containers. Unaware of her false step and her lack of time management, Cleo was just finishing rinsing out her hair as the first students arrived. When she removed the towel, her fellow cohorts gasped in astonishing surprise and amazement. Cleo rushed to a mirror and discovered that she hadn’t straightened her hair, but had, in fact, accidentally dyed her hair blonde!

Though her hair was a bit dry, all of Cleopatra's colleagues enjoyed new look, and begged her to do the same for them. By the time the head mistress arrived, all twenty of her students had become towheads.

Cleopatra Willingham would go on to graduate from Madame CJ Walker’s beauty school with honors, and begin the legendary Lady of the Nile product and wig line (the latter coming about after Cleo’s hair fell out from years of bleaching). Portions of her valedictory address, “Each One Bleach One,” are still recited in many African American beauty schools. You can bear witness to her legacy on many a black woman’s head even today.

Until next time, this has been “Sum-n-Saf’s Little-Known Black Firsts.”

A mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Celebrate Black History: Negro Firsts II

2009-02-03T09:11:00.001-06:00

Following the historic Brown vs. The Board of Education decision, the NAACP began to register black students for all-white schools all over the South. As we all know, one of the most famous attempts successfully integrated Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, in September of 1957. What few people know is that history was not only made on the steps of the school on that hectic September 4, but during one of the first planning meetings for the "showdown" between Orval Faubus (governor of Arkansas at the time) and the Little Rock Nine.

After the nine intrepid young people were recruited and registered for the 1957-58 academic year at Central High, the Little Rock branch of the NAACP held an informal meet-and-greet so that the parents and students could get acquainted. The gathering was a barbecue, held in an all-negro park near the office. After everyone got down on ribs and watermelon (nobody would touch the potato salad), and sang a few rousing rounds of "We Shall Overcome," the freedom-fighting families returned to their homes, and the organizers gathered at the office to talk shop.

As they departed the picnic site, one of the main organizers asked a secretary of the branch, Palace Towers, to fetch a carton of cigarettes for the meeting. This was the 50s, mind you. Everyone had been smoking non-stop since breakfast time, and their packs were running perilously low. Palace was given petty cash from the "box" (secretary Hattie Lee Harris's ample, lycra-encased bosom) and sent to Jenkins and Sons Pharmacy to fetch a carton of Kools, the current menthol king of the cigarette market.

On the way to the pharmacy, Palace ran into her on-again, off-again boyfriend Junebug Johnson, the neighborhood numbers runner. Palace was a habitual player, and Junebug hadn't had the sort of day he needed to make his rent. He had a rent party planned for that night, but he wasn't sure whether everyone he had invited was going to show--his sister-in-law Peaches had a reputation for threatening "heifers" with her straight razor if she thought they were looking at her man. He couldn't pass up the opportunity to make a quick five bucks.

"Palace, you know what number came out yesterday?" he began running his usual game on his starry-eyed jump-off, who was always good for a hefty bet when he was in a pinch. Palace was a self-hating negro that wished she looked like Marilyn Monroe. She had heard that the fancy doctors out in Hollywood had actually built Monroe's nose, and she wanted to buy one of her own. She thought the lottery might be the ticket for the $500 fee.

"What number?" she asked eagerly.

"It was 6125," Junebug lied adeptly. He knew that Monroe's birthdate--Palace's favorite number to play--was 6/1/26. "Just one off from your number. Bet you your number comes out today. You know how last week 6331 came out, then the next day my birthday came out --6330?"

Of course, these numbers hadn't come out. But Palace had a difficult time admitting to Junebug that she didn't know what was going on in the streets. She already knew that her "church girl" status worked against her when she was dealing with him. He smoked reefer and winked at white women on the street. He was a bad boy. Palace couldn't let him know what an L-7 she was next to him.

"Yeah," she told him about the numbers. She'd actually been to revival every evening of the week before, but she couldn't let Junebug know that. "I remember..."

"Well, I bet you the same thing happens this week with your number. Bet it comes out tonight," Junebug goaded.

Long story short, he departed Palace's company with her $5 tucked into his breast pocket. Stunned by her lack of self control, Palace began to brainstorm how she would replace the $5 in order to buy the cigarettes for her bosses. By the time she got to the pharmacy, she was so desperate that she spilled the story to the owner's--Mr. Jenkins's--oldest son, who was working the counter. Percy, who was also known around the neighborhood as a square, struck a deal with Palace that involved him dropping his dungarees, her lifting her skirt and petticoats, and the two of them using one of the lambskins that his dad kept hidden behind the counter, next to the girlie mags.

Ten minutes later (Percy had been a virgin before this momentous occasion), Palace slunk out of the store with the carton of cigarettes her bosses had requested and an extra pack--a "thank you" gift from her new boyfriend, Percy Jenkins. Spent by the effort it had taken to secure the cigs, Palace broke open her gift pack and began smoking. These were a new brand of cigarettes that none of Old Man Jenkins's regular customers would buy--they were called Newport. Palace lit one, inhaled, and almost passed out from the cool, minty taste (and nicotine concentration) of the smoke.

As Percy Jenkins called all over black Little Rock, letting his peers know that he had "met up" with Palace Towers that afternoon, Palace spread some news of her own at the NAACP office. No cigarette had ever tasted as good, or given her as strong a buzz, as this Newport. Word spread, from NAACP office to NAACP office, then out into the prominent black communities dotting the landscape. And by 2005, Newport had become not only America's best-selling menthol, but the most popular among African-Americans...

All due to Palace Towers, the first black to smoke a Newport back in 1957.

This has been "Sum-n-Saf's Little-Known Black Firsts."

a salaam alaikum...

Celebrate Black History: Negro Firsts

2009-02-02T15:04:00.004-06:00

Curtis Lamont Wells III: The Great Mixologist

One afternoon during a late summer day in 1974, nine-year-old Curtis Lamont Wells III sought respite from the steamy concrete of his urban East Orange, NJ, neighborhood in the second-floor apartment he shared with his family. (Frankly, he was also hiding out from the neighborhood terror, Lawanda James, but that’s another story.) Thirsty, Curtis ran to the refrigerator for something to drink—soda, Ovaltine, anything but water. Discovering that his older brother, Clarence, had left a mere corner of Kool-Aid in the designated family Kool-Aid pitcher, young Curtis sought sugar, and the tin where the remaining Kool-Aid packets were stored, only to find one packet of grape and one of cherry. This perplexed Curtis; his mother was always sure to buy flavors in pairs. Who could have done this?

His younger sister, Brenda, was surely the culprit. Young Curtis had noticed her reddish-purple thumb and index fingers as he helped her pick up her hair beads strewn from the pavement—a double dutching accident, for sure—earlier that day. Brenda must have added sugar to those packets and scooped the delicacy with her fingers while she waited her turn to jump rope. With no money for the corner store and nothing in the fridge but his brother’s backwash to quench his thirst, Curtis had to come up with something, or be stuck drinking New Jersey tap water. He stared into the Kool-Aid tin. What should he do?

The pioneering and brave Curtis Lamont Wells III dumped the grape and cherry packets of Kool-Aid into the pitcher, and free-poured enough sugar to send even Willy Wonka into a diabetic coma. He stirred and stirred until nothing but a faint whirlpool of sugar floated atop the brownish liquid before settling on the bottom of the pitcher. Curtis poured a glass of his new invention. Tasty! With a lot of thirst and a little innovation, Curtis Lamont Wells III became the first black person to mix Kool-Aid flavors.

Curtis and his feat are honored each year during Kool-Aid Days. An adult now, Curtis is a highly successful radio disc jockey. He is married to a white woman. They have three children. They live in Cherry Hill, NJ.

As Sum’s papa used to say, “Sometimes you gotta take what you got, and make what you want.”

Until next time, this has been “Sum-n-Saf’s Little-Known Black Firsts.”

Each one teach one.

Sum's Inauguration Coverage

2009-02-01T12:33:00.001-06:00

Happy Black History Month!

Election night
Getting to the Inauguration
Adventures in Chocolate City
More Adventures in Chocolate City
What is Africa to Me?

Dream Jacker

2009-02-01T12:00:00.014-06:00

a teetering MLK atop Ben's Chili Bowl.

(I think I've given black people ample time to celebrate)

"Dream Jacker: How to Make History and Not Make it at the Same Time, Or, I'm Not Really a Black President, I Just Play One on TV"

Last week, a BBC video of an MLK interview became really popular on the internet. In it, the interviewer, Bob Mackenzie, asks if MLK thought there would ever be a Negro president. Da Kang “predicts” that the US could elect a president in less than 40 years – that 40 years not being a loose biblical reference, but rather inspired by Mackenzie’s preface that RFK said he thought a Negro could become POTUS in that time. The video made its rounds on January 19 – MLK day and Inauguration Eve – as, I don’t know, some sort MLK as Miss Cleo game. Nevermind the fact that the idea of a black president was a question asked to MLK, not something he seemed to have on his mind; nevermind that his answer compelled me to infer that King was simply saying, “Well, stranger things have happened.” Nevermind the fact that I think LL Cool J learned to lick his lips by watching MLK on video. I (Sum) think the clip went viral partly because folks really want to solidify this whole Martin to BHO teleology. You know that whole, “Rosa sat so Martin could walk…” line of thinking? In other words, I take the position that both RFK and MLK were wrong, and so are the people who posted the video with presumption that MLK had been some sort of soothsayer. This was not written – not for black history, at least.

This post does not assume that Obama isn’t black. He is. Well, he’s African American. If anything properly demonstrates that point, it’s that a particular kind of flawlessness was demanded of him while, for example, Sarah Palin’s articulation dropped more g’s than an LA gang war. Rather, this entry is concerned with the (successful?) attempt to suggest that the event of Obama is somehow the continuation, and perhaps, end of a larger narrative of the black struggle in the United States; that his election is somehow a win for black people, a giant leap forward for the race, a sign that soon we won’t be wandering in this desert much longer. A tale, as told by the media, etc. that ends with more black tears that Denzel could muster in the whipping scene in Glory (da shoes, man, da shoes!). I reject this master narrative.

Confession: I’m not sure I’d admire anyone who could actually be elected president of this country.

Another confession: I fully acknowledge that it’s somewhat pleasantly weird to see two little black girls (pressed hair or not, Saf) running around the aptly named White House. And, if I may borrow Kat Williams’ hilarious joke, Mrs. Obama does look like she smells like Motions hair conditioner and cocoa butter. That said, the man of the house probably doesn’t wear a wave cap at night, and I think it best for us to remember that. So, when I saw three little black girls scurrying across the Mall waving American flags and singing “Hail to the Chief,” part of me was relieved (thank God it wasn’t Soulja Boy), another part of me was happy (How often can young black girls seem to be so carefree?), and yet another part was just as perplexed as I was when I saw two white folks standing on a bench holding up a flag as background for a black couple taking a picture. I ask again: what, black people, are we celebrating? I mean, I don’t know about you, but my citizenship still feels tenuous as hell.

I feel like black folks who understand Obama’s election as a “Dream fulfilled,” as illustrated by the many t-shirts, posters, etc. purchased between November 5, 2008 and January 20, 2009, have been tricked by some sort of racial sleight of hand. How can a man whose campaign decided it was best to pretend its candidate wasn’t marked racially fit so neatly into the larger narrative of the struggle for racial equality? And further, how could the son of an immigrant fit into the story of a people whose presence in this country is the result of an involuntary three-hour tour? Yes, Gilligan, this minnow is more than lost.

I think BHO fits more neatly into the narrative of (black) immigrants, not that of blacks, and I think that makes all the difference – particularly to white folks. That is not to say that Africa hasn’t been ravished by colonialism, racism, etc., or that even in this country my Diaspora people aren't subject to discrimination based on race, among other things. However, it has always seemed to me that white folks have fucked with immigrants from the Diaspora and their children a lot harder than they’ve fucked with their local, native Negroes. Maybe it’s the accents. Maybe it’s the funny name, middle one notwithstanding. Maybe it’s because things like the Middle Passage, slavery, and Jim Crow all undermine the ideals this country holds dear, while the success of black immigrants reifies those notions while simultaneously allowing folks to continue to think that Negroes are just plain lazy. Accepting BHO into the narrative of blacks in America is like sipping a racial cocktail without having to deal with the bitter beforetaste. And I’m not letting white folks – or middle class black folks who want to celebrate their tokenism, and/or differentiate themselves from other blacks and popular connotations of racialized blackness through BHO – off the hook that easily.

Though I agree that race, on the national level especially, needs to be discussed much differently than our leaders, the Sharptons, the Jacksons, etc. have, I do not think the solution is to support a guy who, under the guise of a different kind of politics, agreed not to talk about it at all. A guy who claims to have access to black people's experience in this country, etc. via his wife. A guy who could agree not to talk about race because he didn’t have to, because he could disrobe that garment rather easily. A guy who can delineate his father’s immigrant story in a way that endears him to white folks partly because it sounds a bit like great-granddad’s journey from (insert chosen European country), and partly because they can support a black guy without having to deal with the nasty side of all that race stuff. For me, winning has never been that important. Apparently, for BHO it was. Sorry. Not change I can believe in.

And why, while I’m at it, is talking about all that nasty race stuff political suicide? Why were Obamanuts so committed to saying that BHO couldn’t come off as wanting to be the president of black people, but all people? Since when have the desires of black people been antithetical to those above mentioned ideals? Well, I have an answer. If we argue that BHO had to run as the president of everyone (and somehow, therefore not black people), we implicitly understand that institutional racism benefits us in some ways (white folks, tokenized blacks like myself), and we’re not quite willing to give the benefits of that up. Being a president that aimed to help black people would require us to defuel the white supremacy that keeps this baby running. And you can’t be the first and/or only black in your national honor society, in your law school class, in your neighborhood if that happens. This country needs a downtrodden people, I guess. Who else can be your symbol of oppression (Prop 8, anyone?) or that which you juxtapose yourself against? (Had any Popeye’s delivered to the White House yet, BHO?)

So, while MC Lyte’s ass is crying as if Abraham Lincoln himself had personally manumitted her, I take BHO not as a dream fulfilled, but rather a dream killer. For as long as we accept his meteoric rise as some salve to America’s racial wounds, we will never have to come to terms with what it means that the descendant of black slaves has never been elected POTUS. BHO, as both biracial and African, like so many other black Harvard graduates, seems to boost our affirmative action numbers with a little less effort, while the same black people who still can't get into Harvard, get the bozack. (I know BHO didn't list his race on a law school app. I'm trying to make a different, larger point here.) Obama’s next great campaign slogan might need to be “Great taste, less filling.”

I will cry if in 40 years or so, Oscar Grant’s four-year-old daughter is elected POTUS – without having to apologize for or gloss over the facts of her father’s death.

For pithier, clearer words, please see: Aaron McGruder; Debra Dickerson.

All that said, I suppose I can only hope that his presidency will not reflect what and how BHO got there. Drugs laws are still racist, a gang of black people are in jail, and this shitty economy is hitting black especially hard. I hope he does something about that. Then again, like McGruder said, no one gets in the White House who ain't supposed to be there. That's not a good thing for most of us.

Golden Age: Poor Righteous Teachers

2009-01-30T09:34:00.001-06:00

"Rock Dis Funky Joint" (1990)

My Mind's in the Gutter, but I Still Roll Strikes: Inauguration Observations, Jan. 20, 2009

2009-01-26T10:21:00.005-06:00

an agoraphobiac's nightmare.

As thought, observed and/or maybe uttered by Sum on Inauguration Day.

Damn. These tickets really do feel like freedom papers.
Part of me feels like this Metro experience symbolizes how government really works.
How did I get stuck next to Negroes trying to start a wave? Maegs and I wanted to start the Electric Slide, the Cha Cha Slide, or maybe a steppers' set. But a wave? F'real? Typical.
Voice over homeboy just announced the Senate. How come no one felt me when I shouted "Roland Burris"?
It's 10:30. Still no conversion.
Jigga! From slinger to the inauguration. Only in America, Don King. Only in America.
Speaking of Jigga, part of me feels that B should've remixed "Upgrade U" for this great day in Negro history. Personally, I'd make a track that looped the line, "I can do for you what Martin did for the people" over and over and over...
I feel so underappreciated right now.
Aretha should've prepared a Negro uplift medley, including "Steal Away Jesus," "Ain't no Stopping Us Now," and that one jam, "U Will Know," from the Jason's Lyric soundtrack.
Oh shit. Is that me humming "Swing Lo, Sweet Chariot"? Involuntarily? And HARD?
Note to self: Technically, it is not a ring shout if it's just you participating.
According to my informal poll, black people still love Billy Clint.
I don't care what you say, the Jackson 5 should've reunited for this. And no, Randy cannot play, too. But if Rebbie had shown up, I'da done the Centipede on the reflection pool. For free.
Who would you have remix "Hail to the Chief"? A. Scott Storch B. Swizz Beats C. Kanye West D. Timbaland [Maegs picked Scott Storch -- The Roots connection]
No lie: I straight dissed the lady who tried to high-five me after BHO took the oath. Black unity my ass. Obviously, she doesn't read the internetssss. (Yes, I just overestimated my reach. I have a dream, too, homie!)
This may be a bit of a Daily Show swipe, but BHO stepping on stage did, in fact, remind me of Simba returning to Pride Rock.
Paul Bates should've been invited. A resounding "He's Your President To Be" would've gotten the crowd hype. In fact, they should've just replicated that entire scene from Coming to America. You can't tell me doing so would've been inappropriate.

And finally,

Negro, got freedom?

Throwback Sum-N-Saf: Divinely Inspired

2009-01-24T22:52:00.002-06:00

[FYI--when I entered "black jesus" to find a picture to post with this, bho's photo did come up...numerous times...saf]

Our arms might be short, but Sum-n-Saf will talk about God--or God's creations. After satisfying Sum's negroid desire for yardbird, and Tummy's (Saf's unborn "seed") yearning for waffle fries at the Beachwood Mall Chick-Fil-A, the illest dynamic duo since Amos and Andy (fuck what ya heard, Rob and Big) came up with this divinely inspired list. Maegs might not be Catholic anymore, but we're pretty sure witnessing us comprise this sent her straight to confession. Rumor has it she's still saying Hail Mary. (Come with me!!!!)

Sum-n-Saf Present:

God's Biggest Hits

Chicken – for its versatility…

Pussy – not like its fickle friend Peen…

Satan – It’s like he’s Prince to God’s Michael Jack… Guess that isn’t an appropriate metaphor after that ‘molested the little boy with cancer’ thing…

Oprah – 'cause when an ugly black girl from Mississippi born in abject poverty comes out like her, God is Good (all the time)…

White women – unless you're OJ…

Marijuana – perhaps the biggest hit (haha)…

Miscegenation (at least I'm glad my Africa got diluted out this bitch)…

The Bible (bigger than "Thriller")…

Cockroaches (engineered to last)…

Shut up…There’s only supposed to be nine. It’s a divine number.

God's Biggest Flops

Dinosaurs – 'cause where are those niggas?

The o-zone layer – 'cause if anything needed to be
tamper-free …

Menopause, vaginal dryness, erectile dysfunction, and premature ejaculation – none of that shit is raw. Well, I guess some of it is (i.e. vaginal dryness)

The Ten Commandments – Name 7 out of 10, and we'll give you a dollar.

Native Americans and their comrades, the buffalo: two words—manifest destiny (or white man—take your pick).

Africa – ibid.

The indiscriminate way that fertility—male and female—is just handed our to mutha fuckas at birth. Niggas really should be required to take some sort of test before they’re given viable parts and shit. I mean, you have to take a test to drive a car and shit.

That's 7 flops, 'cause that's how many "days" it took the Big Man to make this world we're destroying. And as brilliant as we are, we couldn’t think of ten more.

Until next time, this has been the Sum-n-Saf Half.

Golden Age (Kinda): MC Lyte

2009-01-23T11:20:00.003-06:00

Sum is so OVER MC Lyte.

Seriously, I renege my forever fan status. I can't embed. Go here.

Saf's Beef With BHO

2009-01-22T20:08:00.013-06:00

As controversial and "quirky" as I imagine myself to be, I can't lie. I fell for the okie-doke. I voted for Obama, and developed a massive crush on ol' boy during the course of his 22-month campaign. I was loving the whole "family man" thing. But I'm a baby-mama so you've got to cut me some slack. At this point, a man actually living in the house with his kids impresses the shit out of me even if he subjects said kids to mortal danger, media scrutiny, and daily bouts with that most heinous tormenter of black girl children--the hot comb.

Anyway, I was fucking with Obama. I was. Until Monday night. When I found out that my part-time retail working, non-car having, barely paying child support ass baby daddy was going to the Inauguration on Tuesday. It went something like, "Uh...yeah...I was able to get in on this $70 bus trip..." W-T-F? I'm trying to squeeze all the Pampers, Juicy Juice, and Swipers I can out of a measly $50-a-month support payment, and you're spending $70 to stand among the unwashed masses on an icy D.C. street and watch on Jumbo-Tron what anybody can see on fucking CNN?

Motherfucker went to D.C. to see BHO take the oath but couldn't be there to see his daughter taking his first steps?

This is where Mama gets off the Freedom Ride.

I didn't have any beef with Obama until Monday. Even though I'm a dyed-in-wool cynic, and couldn't give a shit about party politics, I went along with his whole schtick. Change. Hope. Vote. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I stood in line. I cast my ballot. I did my patriotic duty. What any self-respecting race woman would.

But now I have beef with BHO. Like Biggie-ass-beef. And let me tell you why.

I am an artsy, nerdy type nig. I hang with a bunch of artsy, nerdy type niggas (i.e. men). You know what I'm talking about--mad creative, "righteous" mutha fuckas that want to change the world as long as that move doesn't require them to be 1) sacrificial 2) monogamous or 3) gainfully employed. The type of nigga to write a poem about Darfur, but who can't afford to donate to the cause because he only works 20 hours a week at Borders and well... How is he going to buy his Guinness and cigarettes if he comes up off that $50? Man...

That type.

Anyhow, my beef with Obama is that he gave niggas like this a way to feel like "good brothas" rather than the fucking parasitoids (not a malaprop) that they are by providing them with the opportunity to volunteer for his campaign. They could hook a fucking pin onto their camouflage jacket, tuck a clipboard under their tattooed arm, and pile onto the Change-mobile, and feel like they were making a better tomorrow for their people, even if they hadn't seen their respective children in, like, six months.

That's some bullshit.

Political involvement is cool. Somebody's got to disseminate stickers. I get it. And seeing niggas get off their asses to do something more than run down to the local FYE to cop the newest Lil' Wayne or whatever was a nice change of pace. Admittedly.

But I just wish that in all of his fucking "I have a dream"-ass sermonizing, BHO could have got off his King and on his Cosby for, like, five minutes and said to all the black men in America: the first and most important thing you can do to change this country is to take care of the black women and children that you routinely step on and over in your mindless pursuit of fucking happyness.

Whatever the fuck that is for a black man nowadays.

I'm just saying: backing a "good brotha" doesn't make you one.

And I'm mad at BHO for giving niggas another way to delude themselves into thinking that they're not complete, negligent assholes out here.

P.S. I'm not mad at Michelle's relaxer though. Shit was flawless.

My Mind's in the Gutter, but I Still Roll Strikes: Inauguration Observations, Jan. 19, 2009

2009-01-22T15:06:00.006-06:00

what will willie tyler and lester have to say about this?

As thought, observed and/or maybe uttered by Sum on Inauguration Eve. All gems inspired by walking through Chocolate City.

[said to Maegs]: If a reporter asks us how we feel about these inauguration tickets, I'm going to tell her that we're the happiest Negroes since Juneteenth.
[said to Moya, Maegs, and Moya's homegirl]: I should've sold some Yes We Canteens filled with Hawaiian Punch. I could've made a killing.
Confession: I did have to stop myself from chanting "No We Can't" in the metro station.
B.E.T. is giving away free coffee. Is this some wack ass form of reparations for their programming?
Wow. A dude is slinging Obama hand puppets. This is, by far, the most creative Obama product I've seen. Yep. Better than the Obama notebook paper. Though I won't be buying one (I'd prefer to put my foot up his figurative ass), white people are buying many many puppets. I guess the slogan, "One size fits all" is effective. And kind of true. You know, when you think about BHO's omniracial game, etc.
The best pick up line I've come up with so far (you know, just in case)? "No, baby. I'm just here for the Kool-Aid."
Introducing myself as John McCain doesn't elicit any laughter. Duly noted.
Need a campaign slogan for 2012, Obama? How about: Obama 2012: Can't Stop. Won't Stop. Any takers?
Snippets of a conversation: Maegs, "You know, there are a lot of military people here, but where are the young black men?" Sum, "In Iraq."
Oh, listen! Young black girls with American flags skipping as they sing "Hail to the Chief." SMH. I guess it's better than Soulja Boy.
A short monologue told to Maegs on the way to the Capitol to pick up our tickets: You know, Joe Biden is like the Pras of this outfit. For a long time, I've said that Pras is one of the luckiest mofos on this planet. Selling mad albums because he was Wyclef's cousin or something. Look at Joe Biden, he's reaping similar benefits, yo! I'm saying, if Obama '08 was The Fugees, that nigga would be Pras. Think about it.

THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR: HOW TO GET INAUGURATION TICKETS WITHOUT REALLY TRYING

2009-01-22T12:23:00.006-06:00

what's my motivation?

Let’s be clear. I (Sum) didn’t do shit to get inauguration tickets. I didn’t even vote for BHO. (It’s not easy being Green.) I didn’t volunteer. I didn’t go to an Obama rally. I didn’t register anyone to vote. I hung up on the lady from the campaign who called me to wax about him. I wasn’t in the “Yes We Can” video. Hell, I was too lazy to vote early. All I’ve ever done is talk shit about him, and purposely rain on any supporter’s parade. So how did I end up with a pair of the hottest tickets in black history? By being a homie, homie! By being a homie.

A few days after I wrote a lamen t about election night, I got a special request from Maegs, who is also my boss. At work one morning, Maegs asked me if I was really her homie, to which I replied yes. She then asked me to phone my representative and request inauguration tickets. I grumbled, but I did it. Friends do for friends. (Spread love it’s the Brooklyn way.) I called them up; they took my information. I told Maegs if I got tickets, she could have them. I forgot about it.

Then, a few Fridays ago, I received an email from one of my rep’s staff members informing me that my name had been drawn in their lottery, and if I wanted them, I could have tickets to the inauguration. I laughed for a good ten minutes. I showed Maegs the email. She hated. I flaunted. I called my mama. She told me I didn’t deserve ‘em. I wondered what I might get if I decided to scalp something apparently way more valuable than a steerage pass on the Amistad, er, Titanic. Moms said selling them would be bad karma. Unfortunately, I still listen to my mother.

I emailed my rep’s rep, and told her I’d take the two tickets, that I’d pick them up from my local office. A few days later, I got an email from her telling me that they wouldn’t be sending tickets to Chicago because of the blizzard warning. This meant that I’d actually have to go to D.C. – something I hadn’t planned on doing – for Maegs to get in on black history. Friendship can be some bullshit.

By that point, I was thoroughly convinced that this might go down as one of the more impressive practical jokes I’d ever heard: get a non-Obama supporter to think she won tickets to the inauguration, and see if she gets geeked. Ok. I’ll bite. I tell the rep that I still want the tickets, email my homeboy, Dennis to see if he’s rented out his floor. In the meantime, Maegs’ whip has been rear-ended, so if Dennis comes through, I’ll have to drive Octavia. And since Octavia is a five-speed, I’ll have to drive the whole way both ways. Nice.

Dennis does come through. I download each podcast of Gordon Gartrell radio, buy a camera, pick up Maegs, and by 9 am Sunday morning we’re heading from -17 in Chi City to the balmier temperatures of the Mid-Atlantic region. That’s free state to slave state – that means Chick Fil A. That means practical joke or no, I’m mad excited about a 12-pack of chicken nuggets, waffle fries, and all the sweet tea my bladder can handle. Plus, they hook your shake up with whipped cream and a cherry. Besides, after the trip I might have more bad jokes about blacks than an entire season of Chocolate News and DL Hughley Breaks the News combined. And maybe, just maybe, Maegs will remove that wack ass Obama montage from her work computer. One can only hope. Right, Obama?

Either way, I’m getting some chicken nuggets.

I'd apologize to all those BHO supporters who earned their tickets by knocking on doors and making phone calls and such, but I'm really not sorry. What can I say? It's good to be black in the '09!

I need to go play the lottery.

WWSSD or Kang Day Our Way

2009-01-19T21:35:00.005-06:00

President-elect (at least for the next few hours) Obama declared today a National Day of Service in honor of Martin Luther (the) King. And conceptually, the move makes a lot of sense. Dr. King is a man that died serving his people and his country, really. But I'm going to be the one to say it. Niggas don't traditionally do the whole community service thing. So expecting them to spend the last day of a long weekend stacking canned goods or some shit is a stretch. I'm sure most niggas would feel like they performed a charitable service if they went outside and fetched the family paper from their snow-covered lawn. But I digress.

His "people" may not be as philanthropic as they should, but at least the President isn't one of those "do as I say" type nigs. He painted walls and hugged strays at Sasha Bruce Youthwork, an emergency shelter for teens. He did his thing. And looked cute as a button doing it, in his stone-washed, straight-legged black jeans--all I heart the 80's and shit.

My heart is warmed knowing that Obama is for the children, that he luh the kids, like Marty-Mar, the Wu, and so many other activist nigs. But I think if he was going to perform a service, he should have taken care of something a little more urgent that the renovation of Sasha Bruce Youthwork. There are definitely some fires in the black community that need to be extinguished. And I'm thinking that now that a black man is the most powerful figure on the planet, they should finally get the dousing they deserve. So here's my list of services Obama should have performed today...

He should have had the MPAA create a new rating for bullshit like "Madea Goes to Jail"--NB-24-7 i.e. niggerish bullshit 24-7. For movies that contain cooning, shucking, jiving, extraneous ass shaking, pointless rapper cameos, Mo'Nique, Martin Lawrence, and/or Tyler Perry in a foolywang hairpiece and/or drag. Then, he should have the MPAA levy heavy fines on theaters that allow people under the age of 35 to view movies with this rating. Viewers under the age of 35 run the risk of being improperly influenced by the gross misrepresentations of black folk featured in these films.

He should have raised the minimum wage to $10/hour so the BK bitties can stop 1) fucking up my order, 2) withholding condiments as if to punish customers for requiring them to work, and 3) buy some groceries so that they don't have to live off the shit they serve. I haven't seen a chick working at McDonald's that weighs less than 350 lbs. since I got back to Cleveland from Chi in '05.

He should have broken up the monopoly that is Radio One. According to its website, Radio One owns 54 radio stations located in 17 urban markets; it is the largest radio broadcasting company targeting nigs. Maybe if a broader spectrum of MFs owned and operated these stations, with a broader spectrum of interests, niggas may be able to hear a song that came out before November of last year. Or maybe just something that isn't Rihanna, Beyonce, T-Pain, T.I., Lil' Wayne, Jeezy, or Yeezy--the only mutha fuckas you'd think are making "urban" music nowadays if all you fuck with is Blazin' Hip Hop & R&B.

He should have "impelled" the FCC to pass a law that limits all TV stations--network and cable--to only %5 reality programming. I like my "Hills" like the next bitch, but enough is e-damn-nough.

He should have passed an executive order requiring Oprah to chip off a hunk of her massive fortune to provide for reparations for black folk. For one thing, we did what ol' boy asked. We got out and voted and got him in office. So now I'm like Nas, nigga. You owe me. Second, Oprah loves to take care of mutha fuckas. That's her thing, right? Give, give, give. Well, if she can give a fucking studio audience of dumpy white housewives brand new cars, she can give each black household in the country at least a couple thousand. We'll all sign an agreement to use $15 of the shit to subscribe to her magazine as thanks. That's a hell of a return on her investment, if you ask me.

And finally, he should have appointed Sum-n-Saf to his cabinet as Secretaries of Black Progress. That would have been doing the ultimate service to the Community (the capital-C is purposeful). Nobody keeps it realer than us when it comes to telling black people about themselves. And if we ever hope to become a truly post-racial society, then we need to get off our collective nigga shit and get right. That's our mission. To help black people wean themselves from their unhealthy addiction to self-abasement.

Anyhow, even though I think he wasted a wonderful opportunity to create some true change, I still give two snaps up to BHO. You did more for the people painting that youth home than W. did the entire eight years he was on the Hill. God bless you.

Golden Age: Nonchalant

2009-01-16T09:38:00.001-06:00

Sum's Theme

2009-01-14T07:11:00.002-06:00

Jean Grae's Hater's Anthem

Throwback Sum-N-Saf: Black Star Line [Deluxe Edition]

2009-01-14T02:09:00.011-06:00

for all you readers out there who are not friends or acquaintances of sum-n-saf (all three of you), i thought i might give you a little history and also a look back at some vintage shit. a little contextualization (see--i used to be a grad student) for that ass (i.e. an excuse to reminisce over chi-my god).

sum and saf (how pretentious is it to talk about yourself in the third person? oh, probably as pretentious as believing people actually give a fuck what you think about the state of the world, so...) met at the u of c back in '04 (i think--shit is a little hazy--all that weed and shit). these stunningly brilliant english doctoral students took a seminar together and wowed each other with their wit and intellect. along with mutual friend and mentor maegs, they began hanging out and dubbed themselves 'personality chicks' (not to be confused with quirky black girls). they solidified their bond at one of the last coherent lauryn hill performances in the continental u.s. (sorry you missed that shit--it was raw), and took their friendship to the next level when, during a historic smoke-out in saf's crappy student apartment (the clubhouse), they discovered that they were two of the only nigs they knew that would openly admit they had no desire whatsoever to return to africa.

this revelation inspired them to start blogging. it explains the premise of tte. nigs have an aversion to certain truths. sum-n-saf don't. they think nigs need the truth, all of it, in all its ugliness. it's good for them. and so we give it to 'em. you. i know you're feeling feverish and shaky from the last few joints but don't worry--the shit is like heroin. soon you'll be hooked.

o.k. so moving on from the bio...here's the director's cut of one of our first blog entries. this appeared on our respective individual joints--the legendary fecundmellow and one of the many incarnations of my eponymous blog safire--back in march of '07. we actually did this over email and the phone. sadly, i had left chicago by then. but that just goes to show. sum-n-saf is like collard greens and cornbread. nothing can fuck with the combo. here it is--the black star line deluxe edition...with commentary...

oh yes, kids, sum-n-saf are back like a bad case of genital warts. (you can't freeze us off, suckas!) if our previous ignorant yet intellectual irreverence wasn't enough to hold you down, we got another list for that ass. this time, we yet again pummel headwraps and neo-soul sympathizers with a list of why neither one of us is going back to africa. please note: we're spitting dy-lan-like venom (comma) yo [this is an old inside joke about saf's bd--how his black talk is so contrived at times you can hear him tacking on the 'yo']. saf's hormones are all out of wack [saf was pregnant at the time this was written], and sum, well, sum is just empathizing with saf.

[the reasons...]

nigga, it's hot.

who wants to mine for their own diamonds?

i doubt i can throw some d's on an elephant, camel, or giraffe [dated and kinda weak in retrospect]

too old to get into the oprah leadership academy [in light of the sex scandal, we probably would have said something about having to fight off the dorm mother or some shit. 'cause we're ignorant like that]

if i wanna catch the hiv, i'll just go to baltimore.

i like my white oppression in house [this sounds clever, but i think we needed to elaborate on it]

nigga, for real... it's like equatorial shit, not just down south, family reunion hot...

i take enough intra-racial bullshit off american blacks ('you're just a jigaboo, tryin' to find somethin' to do...')

i don't even like the beach, nigga, so the fuck i'ma do with a desert?

monkeys like to hurl their shit and shit, and i just paid $40 for this touch-up [this is a saf jab at people that like to lecture me about my relaxed hair. madam c.j. walker was a black woman. this shit is heritage, you self-righteous mutha fuckas]

if i want a sankofa experience, i'll just go back to the mcdonald's in my old neighborhood and ask for my high school job back.

the only thing more testy than a nigga with a gun is a famished nigga with a gun.

i don't have to have my meals life-flighted in the u.s.

malaria may be manageable nowadays, but it still ain't no hoe.

i have to imagine that a bunch of women that haven't had a clitoral orgasm in, i don't know, their entire life are not going to be the friendliest bunch of beyotches you'll ever meet.

honestly, i don't even really fuck with niggas all like that.

I ain't dancing around topless for anybody unless they got some dollars for that ass.

i don't care what anybody says--gnu meat does NOT taste like chicken.

no, seriously, nigga. it's hot. like wear a palm frond over your crotch hot.

nigga, i saw the last king of scotland and the only bitch worth fuckin' was kerry washington-an american negress. you can say it's self-hatred. i call it a sincere appreciation for the miscegination that has created the western aesthetic [god bless america]

listen, i love lionel richie as much as anyone (the nigga had hits), but for memyselfpersonally, i don't ever wanna be a part of nothing that prompts niggas to get together and make a tribute album. not voluntarily, at least.

you call it famine, i call it compulsory anorexia. tomato...tomah-to [if i had it to do over, i'd say something like, 'i can just join dr. ian's diet program and shit. i don't need no fuckin' famine to lose my spare tire.']

true story: at heathrow airport this nigerian chick got stopped by the dogs because some of some food she had in her luggage. now, if this dog is trained to sniff out weapons of mass destruction and shit, and he stopped her, what the fuck am i s'posed to eat over there?

let me reiterate, i don't fuck with niggas like that.

my mom's dog's name is nala; what else do i need to prove my authenticity? get james earl jones to read me segments of roots as a bedtime story?

i still think that this shit is nick cannon (i.e. hilarious). i would tweak it in spots, but the tone is pitch perfect. the sentiment is felt. and i remember how hard we laughed when we were working on it. that's really the point of all of this. making ourselves laugh. we're narcissists like that. if you laugh, it's a bonus. it's really about proving to ourselves that we're not on that ivory tower shit. a feminist can think dave chappelle is funny. a black woman can accuse oprah of colonizing africa. we can say whatever the fuck we have the balls to say. and that shit is raw (comma) yo.

saf

Saf's Theme

2009-01-14T02:01:00.005-06:00

Santogold - Creator from Jesika Novoa on Vimeo.

I AM SEAN BELL

2009-01-13T11:32:00.002-06:00

I AM SEAN BELL, black boys speak from Stacey Muhammad on Vimeo.

Irreverential Pardons

2009-01-13T01:05:00.007-06:00

With every channel -- even Fox News -- reminding us that we're merely a week away from an historic inauguration (even though that shit happens e'ry four years), we've been feeling pretty presidential here at The Tuskegee Experiment. Along with a plane, a job one surely won't be laid off from, and a nuke button that can heat much more than Hot Pockets, the gig of president of this sweet land of liberty comes with several other really dope benefits. Yep. Copping at least 270 electoral votes gives you the opportunity to see your version of Nas' "If I Ruled the World" (I love 'em love 'em babaaaay) manifest.

Though there are a gang of presidential perks we could examine (like, which ex-lovers would we send the G-Men to fuck with just because we could), for this entry we'd like to focus on the presidential pardon. Bush43 got the thang started by letting John Forté off the hook; it's our duty to keep the party going. Hell, if a judge can allow Bernard Madoff the privilege of house arrest (in a $7 million Upper East Side penthouse, mind you) surely we can issue a few of the homies a symbolic hall pass.

Here's who Sum-n-Saf would like to pardon:

Bill Clinton. We get it, Bubba. You'd been getting mad love from black folks, and here this nigga comes. And he was straight giving it to your baby mama with his zip coon smooth talk during those debates. Sorry if you didn't get the memo, but melanin trumps southern roots on most days. (We could give a shit about that welfare reform et cetera you passed.) Next time, please remember the rules of the game.

Terrance Howard for that conk. Didn't you almost have it all? Light-skinned. Green eyes. You look tall. You should have good hair! Vanessa Williams has the same beef, dude. The same beef! But at least you're not stuck peddling Proactiv on the far-end of a nasty divorce from Rick "Eric Benet of the NBA" Fox. Shine Through It, nigga. Shine Through It.

Every black dude who played the president and/or a positive role model on television and/or in the movies for taking credit for "preparing" the United States for a black president in reality. (Yes, we're talking to you, Dennis Haysbert.) Y'all niggas are swearing you were the fictional engineers of the Change Express before there actually was a Change Express. Such ideas have got to make you feel better when you cash those checks from Allstate. The same Allstate that won't insure homes in "certain areas." (Ask Sum's mama about this.) Apparently, only some of us are in good hands.

Janet Jackson for putting her career into the hands of the nigga she's fucking, never mind the fact that those hands managed the illustrious careers of Kriss Kross and Da Brat (incarcerated). Take advantage of this second chance, Penny. Call up Jimmy Jam and Terry. They gave you mad hits despite your flimsy-ass vocals. Jimmy Jam still has that ponytail extension in a drawer somewhere, just waiting to be combed out and clipped on.

Mariah Carey for marrying (hilaaaarious) Nick Cannon. Since he's playing May to the Emancipated Mimi's December, we don't have to watch him wildin' out, nor pushing up on Zoe Saldana. ("DR. LEE AIN'T MY DADDY!") This might be some near-sighted vision of love for that ass, but it's a vision of love nonetheless. Thanks!

Will.i.am for believing we're actually in a post-racial moment. When you need to justify putting a white girl in your group, political arguments like this definitely trump an American Express Black Card. Besides, it'll totally justify the babies you have with whichever white woman you impregnate.

The media and white gays for that whole Prop 8 b(l)acklash. 'Cause if you can't oppress us, blame us!

Dave Chappelle. We've seen Chocolate News. If we didn't know why you quit before, we definitely know now. Fuck Comedy Central.

T.I. On second thought, never mind.

Thandie Newton for that horrific-ass turn as Condoleezza Rice in W. Frankly, we're giving you a pardon because Sum likes black people with British accents.

Toni Morrison for writing another slavery novel because until we get 258 years of emancipation behind us (slavery lasted from roughly 1607 to 1865), mutha fuckas need to be on their atonement like Ian McEwan.

Michelle Obama's stylist. It probably is hard to find the right cut and color to offset that "angular" (i.e. tran-tastic) jawline.

Will Smith for continuing to act. Better you than Cuba Gooding Jr.

Kanye West for 808's & Heartbreak. You're grieving, dude. We get it.

Oprah for gaining back all that weight. 'Cause we actually prefer Fat Oprah. Sort of like Fat Luther.

Roland Burris. Two words: hook up. You ever known a nigga that could resist?

Diddy for kicking Aubrey and D. Woods out of Danity Kane. It is hard to keep working with bitches after you quit fucking 'em. It's like saving a used condom. What for?

LOGO Channel for canceling Noah's Ark. The cost of lipglass for all the members of the cast alone was probably killing the network.

Beyonce for a second album in two years. 'Cause after you pop out that first kid, your ass is gone have to put a lapband on it.

Lil' Wayne for all 800 of the songs he made in '08. 'Cause it's not like homeboy could have made those millions of dollars modeling.

Superhead for that second book. With all these young niggas making the hits, and Levert and Luther gone, things just ain't the same for old ass video hoes.

John Travolta for lying about his son's autism. We know. The aliens made you do it.

America for its obesity epidemic. With gas prices high as hell and your refrigerator in foreclosure with the rest of your shit, who can afford to buy organic out this bitch? It's dollar menu or die.

Who would you like to pardon?

Golden Age: Bahamadia

2009-01-09T11:41:00.004-06:00

"True Honey Buns" (1996)

Nightmare on My Screen: How BHO is Ruining Will Smith’s Acting Career

2009-01-07T16:12:00.003-06:00

First things first: Jazzy Jeff has made some great mixtapes over the years!

At some point during Seven Pounds, I (Sum) decided that only two people other than Will Smith could play the tortured Ben Thomas: Barack Obama or some white matinee idol. Let’s face it, IRS Agent or no, Rosario Dawson ain’t letting just any Negro up in her crib. Neither she nor the audience would buy it. Black Hollywood sex symbol Morris Chestnut? I don’t think so. Samuel “I’ll take any script you throw at me, just let me wear a hairpiece” L. Jackson? Hell to the naw. (Besides, he played a crackhead earlier in his career. That’s automatic disqualification. Ain’t nobody, black or white, gonna trust a nigga who smoked rocks onscreen.) Denzel Washington? Doubtful. He more than likely passed on the project. No moment in the movie called for a resounding monologue. I just proved my point. I imagine you’ll trust me hereafter.

Frankly, when you think about it, the resemblance between The Fresh Prince and BHO is pretty uncanny. Both have noticeably large ears that white chicks find adorable (I took an informal poll); both were blessed with that non-threatening golden hue of brown skin and thousand-watt smile that make white folks feel really warm inside, and remind us of the benefit of braces and good dental hygiene. Will Smith doesn’t have to cuss in his raps to sell records. Barack Obama also seems to lack rap skills, or is at least unwilling to speak in rhymes the way so many of our other black leaders are. Both have lovely wives that Mr. Charlie and Miss Ann have learned to tolerate in spite of it all. Will Smith is the inventor of “Jiggy” and BHO’s dance moves are only suitable for that song. (Enough with the hips already!) Will Smith denies being a Scientologist; BHO says he ain’t no Muslim. Both men have two daughters who are somewhere in that 10-year awkward stage, but we say they’re adorable, nonetheless. [Correction: Jaden Smith is a boy.] And, at one point or another, enough white people have been convinced that either man can save the world.

Though Will Smith will probably play the adult Obama in the inevitable biopic (and young Jaden will make a powerful turn as Sasha, despite the above correction), the fact remains that ever since the president-elect stepped up to the plate, Will Smith has been giving us bullshit at the movies. (It should be noted here, that although he has the racial pedigree, Shemar Moore is just too damn pretty to play anyone’s future president.) Yes, yes, Agent J may have given us crap before 2004, but I contend that the last four years have been egregiously crappy. I can’t blame the Bush Administration for this. But I do know that the American mainstage just can’t support two Negroes. You know, two Negroes who aren’t bouncing basketballs for a living.

As a race woman, I am compelled to support Will Smith at the box office. His rise from corny, wise-cracking rapper from Philly to the BIGGEST MOVIE STAR ON THE PLANET is pretty friggin’ freaky. Untethered by the two strikes of black womanhood, The Prince didn’t have to subject himself to certain stereotypes his peers (is there another black man close to his level? I can think of only women – Berry, Latifah, Winfrey – anywhere near his universe.) have for the love of the masses. Outside of that Bagger Vance hiccup – which he totally did for the handsome white suit wearing Jay Gatsby, Robert Redford – since Independence Day, Big Willie has been the fucking man. Until 2004. Sure, the box office returns have remained stellar, but the movies have been straight boo boo. Let’s examine.

Barack Obama makes America swoon over the idea of interracial harmony in August 2004. The first movie Will releases after this event is the animated Shark Tale. Bullcrappeth. This wackness is followed by Hitch. Sure, this movie might have been a decent addition to the romantic comedy genre, but I have a personal problem with black people (yes, even Will Smith) teaching white (rich) people how to get it together and/or be cool. Further, Hitch also solidified Smith’s move to onscreen Latina, or at least non-black woman, love. Next, Willard hits us with The Pursuit of Happyness. Though I didn’t see it, my mom did, and she said The Pursuit of Happyness was some bullshit. I also don’t know why “i” was replaced with “y” in the title. Probably because I didn’t see the movie.

I really wanted to like I Am Legend. The first part was pretty good, but everything after that was a snoozefest. Which leads me to Hancock. I learned two things from Hancock. 1. Superheroes with publicists simply become Will Smith. 2. White women weaken black men, and the latter’s only hope for survival is to live as far away as possible. This last point reads like a PG version of that one section of Soul on Ice. And that brings us to 7 Pounds. It seems that since Ali, Mr. Smith has demanded at least one shirtless scene for each of his subsequent movies. That said, all I really wanted to do was punch Smith in his “serious actor” face. This was the first time I really wanted my money back from Will Smith. No, seriously. I want Will Smith to write me a check, and send it to my house. I need a refund on tickets and the snacks I snuck in with me.

How can I explain Smith’s semiannual offering of shitty movies these last four years? Barack Hussein Obama. No, Will Smith. We don’t need you to save us from space aliens. Obama just took a shit and gave a speech. No, Will Smith. We don’t need you to sacrifice yourself for the world. We voted for Obama. No, Will Smith. The government no longer taps our phone. The government is Obama. Will Smith has no other choice but to pitch us cinematic nap inspirers where he takes that whole heart icon on the front of his driver’s license a bit too seriously. I NEED WILL SMITH TO KILL SOME FUCKING ALIENS!

Oh, well. What’s Tyler Perry releasing in ’09?

The Racial Progress Two-Step

2009-01-03T12:17:00.006-06:00

Instead of getting it crunk at a party like the woman in front of me at the liquor store (Yes, I’m assuming. Why else would you buy 8 bottles of Moet?), on NYE I worked towards insobriety while watching Vh1 Soul. I brought in the new year philosophically — shit talking would be a more accurate description — arguing that Common is, in fact, a vacuous conscious rap sect whore, that Big Daddy Kane is one of the greatest emcee names ever, and that I really need to stock up on the canned goods and such. The end soon come.

That said, I’m glad my fellow smack spewing homie, Saf, has decided to get this site going in 2009. The election of the nation’s first black president — and I use the term black promiscuously — among other things demands our racial antidote, which Saf so bravely started administering with her entry. Since I’m not into resolutions, I’ve taken a page from our girl, Maegs, who took a page from Jody Watley’s (go figure) blog. Below, I’ve supplied two lists. The first: 5 things Negroes accomplished in 2008. The second: 5 things we should want to get done in the ’09. Here goes:

5 Things Negroes Accomplished in 2008

#1 –Voted (for the black guy). This past Christmas, I visited my dad in red as Kool-Aid Indiana, and we went to his sister’s house for the traditional family dinner. As I slid across her front lawn (courtesy of the previous week’s ice storm), I noticed several Obama placards taped to her front windows. I know, I know. The image of a black dude in the front windows of a black-owned home in a black neighborhood isn’t saying that much. But a picture hanging of a black dude who is neither (Black) Jesus, nor Martin Luther tha Kang is an accomplishment. Besides, in all my years, I’ve never known my aunt to be politically active. You know, if you count hanging posters in your windows as political activity. Hell, it’s more than I did. Surely this must be a trend, right? Let’s see…

Last year, black voter turnout jumped a whopping two percentage points from 11.1% to 13%. Nice, Negroes. Very nice. Then again, who can trust (CNN) exit polls these days? Nix this.

#2 –Almost made Jesse Jackson obsolete. Sometimes, the enemy of your enemy is your friend. I’m not really into castration, but if anyone needed to be dephallused in 2008, it was Jesse Jackson. Jesse Jackson is more harmful to black people than eating chitterlings every week. (Doing that is harmful, right?) So, I was glad that our civil rights foster father wasn’t being periodically interviewed by our white social workers (e.g. the “liberal” media) for an update on our status. In fact, I think his parental rights got got, and next thing I knew you and me and the Fresh Prince (whatup, Will Smith?) were all headed to live with Uncle Phil ‘n’ ‘em. What’s more, when a microphone was around, it always seemed to catch him stepping in some shit. Though, I must admit that I vociferously agreed with him when he said that he didn’t like the way Obama talked about/to black people. That said, I still have horrific flashb(l)acks of his crocodile tear moistened face on election night. Damn, Rev. Jesse is an ugly crier. Moving on.

#3 – Got within eyeshot of the Promised Land. Oh, wait. That’s just Oprah’s Santa Barbara estate. Nevermind.

#4 – Restored USA Men’s Basketball to world dominance. Though our reign as the kings and queens of the track and field sprint events has seemingly ended, the Redeem Team did their thing during the 2008 Olympics by capturing gold in international competition for the first time since 2000. (See what happens when you teach Europeans shit? Remember our Native American brethren, black people!) Though the team was all black, the coaching staff was 75% white. Sounds about right.

#5 – Got us a Bravo reality show. It’s about time I see color on Bravo beyond random contestants on Project Runway and Top Chef and Jeff Lewis’ maid. Ah, yes, the mess that is The Real Housewives of Atlanta. Then again, the black blogosphere put nearly every cast member on blast about everything from bankruptcies to fake diamonds to foreclosures. And, the major conflict of season 1 was a fight between two black women over the allegiance of a tone-deaf bootleg blonde Barbie who thought it prudent to place her wig solely on the crown of her head, and wouldn’t eat guacamole because the waiter had prepared it with a “rock.” Moving on.

5 Things Negroes Should Aspire to Accomplish in 2009

#1 – Raise their standards. No, you won’t be naming no buildings after me. What’s that (one) I hear? Proposals for Obama streets and schools? Barack Obama Day? It used to be that a nigga had to get shot before they named a street—on which niggas shot each other—after him. Can he at least be sworn in and subsequently devastate us before we elevate him to living legend status, and start printing the Obama family picture on funeral home fans? Besides, Obama Homes doesn’t have the same ring to it as Marcy Projects or Cabrini Green. I can't imagine hearing such a shout out in rap songs.

#2 – Stop watching B.E.T. and buying R. Kelly albums. Sure, I like Smart Guy just as much as the next one, but this shit has got to stop. Add young Mowry to your Netflix queue. And though I admit that “Step in the Name of Love” is the jam, Kels should be in jail. But since he’s not locked up, we have to stop him somehow.

#3 – (Symbolically) convert to Islam. If you don’t understand the racist component to every tentacle of the so-called war on terror, then you’re a sucka. If we’ve overcome, or at least are coming over or about to come up, then maybe it’s high time we bond with other folks of the world constantly getting the bozack of American Imperialism. Or, we could possibly make Mr. Obama accountable. You know, before we protest Macy’s for not holding a sale in his honor. And, no, occasionally buying a bean pie and bootleg dvd’s do not count as symbolic conversion.

#4 – Fuck put a ring on it. Put a Jimmy on it. Very simply: Black people are dying of HIV/AIDS. White supremacy doesn’t have to work as hard when we kill ourselves. Knowing might be beautiful, but protecting yourself is the most beautifullest thing in this world. Magic Johnson is not passing out the cure at any of his ‘hood establishments. Protect your t-cell count, playa.

#5 – Go see something other than a Tyler Perry movie. Call this one an extension of Saf’s ghetto lit point. Oh yes, if Mr. Perry teaches us anything, it’s that coonery—and maligning “insubordinate” black women—will still get you C.R.E.A.M. in the new millennium. Yeah, yeah, Daughters of the Dust might have been boring as fuck, but how did this nigga get on Oprah? (Nevermind. I figured it out.) Frankly, I’m sick of black men getting paid by dressing in drag. Shouldn’t that act be played by now? Geraldine? Wanda? She Ne Ne? And ladies, stop tricking yourselves. Like Lil Wayne, Tyler Perry is a gay homosexual. If he wasn’t making movies for you, he’d be doing your hair.

To put it differently, many of us will see Notorious. Will we catch it on bootleg, though?

Happy New Year, kids. Sum-n-Saf are back.

Not Happy Yet

2009-01-01T22:10:00.005-06:00

So the nigga Sum and I put this blog up months ago, and have never gotten around to posting. But after the whole Obama thing, I think that it's clear. We are as needed in the colored section of the blogosphere as we suspected. And so here goes...

Generally, I like to consult my PIC (partner in cynicism) before posting. Actually, our process had been writing our posts together (i.e. over cell phone and email). But since I am sitting at the computer with some shit on my brain, and my baby is waving her dog-eared copy of Goodnight Moon in my face, demanding I read it for the 10th time in a row, I am going to go ahead and tack up a little list I've been turning over for the last few days.

Sum, feel free to make any edits or additions you see fit.

So last year was supposedly "historical" for black people because we got our first black president. But as Sum so succinctly put it, dude is not eggs cooked in bacon grease, and so his election does not necessarily redeem Black America. We still have some other shit to do.

That brings me to my list, and the explanation of the title of this post. It is the new year. Unlike millions of niggas looking for an escape from the dismal, economically-downturned reality, I didn't get drunk last night. I chilled with my baby-daddy for the first time in, like, six months. We talked out some of the dysfunctional shit that went down last year as we attempted to "co-parent" our beautiful baby girl. And we came to a much needed, if tacit, understanding.

We ended the night not by fucking each other in the front seat of my Kia (like old times, my ass--nigga, I'm old as fuck), but by wishing each other a Happy New Year. And I drove home feeling content. My thinking was being honest about shit--mine, his--had gotten "us" to a better place. I didn't get any dick, no, but at least I won't have to fight the impulse to slam the door in dude's face when he comes to pick up the baby Saturday morning. I know the real now, and am working toward accepting it. Believing the bullshit was killing me.

So I think it's time for black people all over the US to accept the real. The bullshit doesn't make us better people. Our inability and unwillingness to be honest about ourselves is, like, our biggest hangup IMHO. So here are a few things I think black people should admit and/or accept in the new year. When they do, that's when I'll be "happy" with my people.

#1 -- Obama only got elected because his mama was a corn-fed white chick and his daddy was an African. If his mama had been an Alabama black chick and his daddy had been from the D or some shit, he would have gotten assassinated at the Democratic National Conference. It's his perceived lack of a grudge over slavery that got him over. Period. So don't think that his election means that white people have come to some profound understanding of black people's existential plight. Even if this nigga checks the African-American box on the census form, I am willing to bet that more than half of his white supporters mentally class him as "Other" (and I don't mean that in an academic racial discourse way).

#2 -- Lil' Wayne is a gay homosexual. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But his acceptance by the so-called hip hop community shows its homophobic code for what it really is--a bunch of bullshit posturing. So the next time you wiggle into your skinny jeans and bounce to your boy's crib to watch pornos together on the couch while you smoke l's and reminisce about your days as high school gym class heroes, cogitate on how "gay" your shit is. The only difference I see in a homothug and a straight one is the homothug has bigger balls. He doesn't front on his shit.

#3 -- Big is not beautiful. Now, before people get all crazy, let me clarify. I am not talking about my sisters that can still shop at LB. A size 28 is thick to death, but you are probably still below the 300-pound mark. Not my cup of tea, but it's livable.

Anything over 300, though, is--first of all--not thick, not voluptuous, not heavy, full-figured, or any of the other euphemisms that black people love to use to cover the sin that is morbid obesity; it is not cute; and it is not acceptable. Obesity is a fucking disease. Look up that word in case you don't know what that means. So people that are obese, and I'm not talking about according to that funky ass chart your doctor has tacked to his/her wall--I'm talking about you can't fit into a commercial airline seat, not even with the belt extension--have a medical and/or psychological problem that needs to be treated. We have to stop telling them that they look O.K. They're O.K. people, yes. But they don't look O.K. They look unhealthy. And in spandex--let's keep it all the way funky--they look gross.

By the by, I am not a skinny bitch. I am '5"3 and weigh 200 lbs. And I will be starting fitness bootcamp on Saturday.

#4 -- It doesn't matter that you're in a book club if all y'all read is ghetto lit. That shit is ignorant and reinforces negative stereotypes of black people and behavior. So reading it cannot prove or improve your intelligence. Stop patting yourselves on the back, black women especially, because you and your girls sit around somebody's living room every 2nd Saturday of the month, smashing on spinach dip, and discussing the finer points of Big Spankable Asses.

#5 -- Black kids are woefully undereducated out here. I teach them, so I know what I'm saying. And at this point, it doesn't matter whose fault it is. If we don't start teaching them, they're all going to end up in fucking prison. And that's going to make it so much easier for T.H.E.M. (The Historically Established Masters) to reinstate slavery when the time comes.

#6 -- You can talk shit in classrooms, on blogs, and through the pages of books all you want to, black middle class and so-called intelligentsia. You're not doing anything real or on a large scale to help poor black people. And no matter how far you get from the crab bucket, as long as so many of your people are still trapped in it, you are not going to be able to wrest enough power to effect any real political or economic change, and there is no other kind of change that matters more than political or economic change. So you do the math.

In the immortal words of Dinco D, that's my 2 times 9 on the scenario. Sum, please weigh in. And anyone else for that matter. We welcome discourse and debate. That's, of course, why we do this.