Burning Question: Do you remember the first time someone said they were proud of you?

Do you remember the first time someone told you they were proud of you? I don't. Although, I am very familiar with the concept and feeling of pride. I have always felt that I was surrounded by outstanding people, people who inspire pride in me.

My father in his younger days was a hellion and a lady's man. He joined the original Black Panthers in San Francisco even though he's from the backwoods of East Texas. After raising hell against the local racists in Texas he joined the Navy. In the Navy(song cue), he was such a pill to the brass he was forcibly volunteered for a special training program that would eventually become the preparation course for the Navy Seals. The direct result of this training on him was unexpected: he became one of the relatively few Navy sailors qualified for frontline and behind-line ground combat. For mutliple tours he carried a Browning Automatic Rifle(BAR) through the worst fighting The Vietnam War could bring. He was never injured and came home to his wife and son, my older brother. Stateside he gained employment with a local paper mill factory and stayed there as a master welder through all the buyouts, racist practices, and impossibly long shifts. He did this to provide for family that eventually included a daughter and another son. He also did this because he was proud of his abilities, his strength, and his own judgment. All the hard labor and hard to earn paychecks fueled his pride. Growing up I didn't see him as much as would've liked because he always seemed to be working, but when I think of him, the first thing I always feel is pride. I'm proud to be the son of a former hellion and race activist who was a tower of strength and reliability for his family. I'm proud to my name which is the exact same as his.

My mother was a former gang member who loved her mother and seemed destined to marry a certain hellion and race activist since she first met him as a little girl. Even though she was attracted to the wildness, she was not and is not the type to put up with such foolishness. So after my father's adventures beyond the international dateline and a short stint in Hawaii, she forcibly moved him back to the hometown in Texas and rooted him there firmly. She obtained a job at the local Social Security Office and stayed there. She moved up the ranks steadily, maintained a beautiful house about 6 blocks from her childhood home where her mother still lived, and raised her three children with the mix of abundant love and abundant discipline that all those who have experience with black mothers are quite accustomed to. Over the years she took care of her children and several others as they would come to us from time to time. She also became the rock the older generation could count on to handle things when they finally became to advanced in age too handle it themselves. A part of me was always a little resentful that she moved her man back to Texas from someplace exotic like Hawaii. I was slightly miffed that she tamed the wildness. It wasn't until I was much older that I began to understand how truly incredible she is. She protected us from the pain my father brought back from the war. The drinking, the much harsher than we were used to discipline, and the rampant philandering never really touched us as kids. It's now, in hindsight, that I'm able to feel the full measure of pride in my mother's strength, her loyalty, and good sense. I'm proud of her.

My wife was born without a middle-name and always describes herself as unremarkable. I first met her in 10th grade but, as happens in these small Texas towns, I had actually had a class with her in 7th grade, we just never seemed to cross paths then. We locked eyes in health class for the first time, and truth be told, neither of us thought much of the other. She sat down next to me because I happened to be near the Italian exchange student she to whom she was actually interested in speaking. Despite that we struck up a friendly conversation that gradually became more intense until she asked me out, a fact that she will NEVER let me forget. We became an item at the age of 16 and have been through the ringer together. We went long distance during college where she graduated early. We married, moved back home, hated it, moved to Virginia for seven years, and had our first kid. During this time she maintained full-time employment and gained 2 master's degrees. We moved back home where we had a second kid seven years after the first one all while she earned her doctorate degree. Throughout it all she has supported me and our girls in every way possible but remains almost pathologically humble about her accomplishments. Very few people would even be able to attempt a THIRD of her a rear-viewed goals, and I am unapologetically unabashedly proud of her every day my life.

I had/have great potential. I attended university on full-scholarship which I lost after the first year. I have a degree in physics which I barely used in the workforce and a near-completed master's degree, I did not complete a thesis for reasons I'll have to write about another time. Since my wedding day I have been gainfully employed sporadically at best by comparison to my parents and my wife. I have had bouts with alcoholism. In my thirties, I did manage to buy into one business and start another, both of which are still alive but neither of which pays me a dime today. I have had accomplishments. I have set goals in my life and attained them but I take almost no pride in these. I can't. In my opinion my life to this point is still a study in, what is now, near-wasted potential. While I'm certain my wife will tell me she disagrees with me, I don't really think anyone else is particularly proud of me either. I'm not sad about it. I'm not mad about it. I'm numb to it. I'm writing this for the world to see because I don't think I'm the only one who feels like this. In fact, I would wager there are quite a few of you out there who feel that the promise of their life was deferred at some point and no one seemed to care. We feel without purpose at time. I also suspect there are people around you, like my wife, who would be quick to disagree with the idea that you don't have anything to be proud about. I propose, my brethren, that we choose to believe these people instead of our own cynical selves. I think that perhaps, at least for some, the pride has to come BEFORE the purpose. Maybe if we start having faith in ourselves the way we have in others, we can finally tapped into a bit of that limitless potential we know is still there, just under the skin. I don't know if that's true. But I'm willing to try something different now.

The "N-Word" and You

I don’t want to just to fill this blog-space with racial stuff, but lately I haven’t filled it with anything at all so...

Here’s the deal: I really don’t care if you call me a nigger. Is the word offensive? Yes. If you tweet it at me, will I block you? Yes. If you say it to my daughter, will I END YOU in retaliation for compromising her innocence? Fuck yes. However, the word itself can’t hurt me.

Like all black people in America, I’m conditioned to respond automatically to the word nigger when said by a white person with incredulous indignation. When I hear it, I feel a completely reflexive stab of anger that is the product of my father’s tales of racial strife in the 60s.  This is a feeling rooted essentially in hearsay and largely disingenuous. However that initial white-hot sensation is always quickly replaced by my genuine feelings, fatigue. That’s it. It just makes me feel tired. I’m just tired of racism, all it represents, and all the problems it causes, but there’s no real anger there. My inability to drum up any real vitriol in response to this particular racial trigger is a constant annoyance to bigots who toss the word around trying to illicit a response, and for that, I apologize. I mean how is a “self-respecting” bigot supposed start the conflicts upon which he feeds if his primary weapon is useless? Well, there is way, but I’ll save that for the end.

The problem with “nigger” is that it says nothing about me. I’m not a nigger. I have never been a nigger. In fact, I CAN’T be a nigger even if I was so inclined. I wasn’t raised to think of myself as anything but my best self. I received the best education possible in my rather small town and have largely made good on that potential. The willful ignorance that is the stock and trade of the nigger just isn’t present in me. How can I get mad at a word that literally has nothing to do with me? I can’t. I’m just too logical for that.

But the word “nigger” does still serve a purpose in The Great American Race War. Anytime you see a white person and hear them say “nigger”, you know immediately you’re dealing with a bigot. Notice I didn’t say “racist”. If you live in America, you’re racist regardless of your race. I know, I know; you have friends of every color, you’re fourth cousin is a quarter Native American, and your uncle marched on Selma. You’re still racist. You can’t help it. Racism is just a part of our character as Americans, and we will have to accept that if we are going to get passed it. Sorry, digressing...coming back...The word “nigger” is like a billboard over the head of the white person that says it that reads, “Hi, I’m a fucked-up backwards thinking bigot! Don’t bother listening to me as I my thoughts are not worth your consideration.” This can be a real time-saver. Rather than me sitting through long minutes of conversation trying to figure out if you’re a bigot, I can just acknowledge you as a bigot and move on. When you think about the situation this way, a bigot calling you a nigger is almost like a public service announcement.

So how can the well-meaning bigot hope to get a rise out of me if the big-gun is impotent? Simple, call me African-American. I will get angry immediately. To me there is literally nothing more offensive than to be called African-American. Why? Because, the only reason the term exists is so white bigots can call black people something besides “nigger” in public. It’s a whitewash term of insidious power. It allows bigots to hide behind a paper-thin veil of political correctness while simultaneously robbing me of my primary identity. I am not African-American. I am American, and I am black. Black describes my background, because being black in America is a distinct and unique experience that shapes my everyday life. It is my identity, my support, and my pride. I have no connection what-so-fucking-ever to Africa and don’t want any. I’ve met African men in my travels, and we don’t get along. African women and I get along famously, but I’m married so that can only cause trouble. I have no truck with The Dark Continent, and that’s exactly how I like it. So, how can a term like African-American have anything to do with me? It’s not like Italian-American or Native-American because those terms actually describe the people to which they are attached. Italian-Americans are proud of their connection to Italy, and the culture they grew up with reflects that fact, same with Native-Americans. African-American has no value at all as a descriptor of blacks in America and the culture that shapes us. It fact it seeks to essentially strip us of that culture. When you call someone African-American you are saying,” I’m using this term instead of nigger, because that’s offensive. I can’t call you black, but that’s is of course inherently shameful, and I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. So, I’ll just call you something that means absolutely nothing. This way you can’t get mad, but I still get to be superior to you. This is a win-win for me!”

Fuck you. Take your “African-American” and shove it right up your own ass, because I have no use for it.

So, there you have it. Confused? Don’t be. If you have to refer to a black person’s race, calling them black is more than acceptable; all other terms are fraught with troubles.

Our Wild Hopes

I’ve been trying to write this blog for days now.  I haven’t because I actually have at least a dozen blog post I need to finish and put up, but this one is gnawing at me.  Plus the timing is perfect as it concerns both the death of Whitney Houston and everyone’s new favorite Chinese flavor of the season Jeremy Lin.  I’ll start at the beginning.

I was shocked when I heard Whitney Houston had died.  I wasn’t shocked about the fact that she died.  I’m cynical and no stranger to addiction so, in all honesty in the back of mind, I half-expect all addicts to die suddenly.  What shocked me was how deeply affected I was.  As soon as the news broke, I felt heavier.  I’ve been busy lately which is normally a good way to stave off depression for me, but this news floored me.  I didn’t smile for over 12 hours, and if you knew my daughter, you would know how incredible that is.  I was sad and profoundly so.  Why?  I didn’t know Whitney Houston in any real sense.  I was and am a huge fan of her music, but I’ve never been a fan of her personal choices.  I’ve even been known to partake of the odd ‘crack is cheap’ easy swing chuckle ever so often.  Why after the story’s told and the verdict is in did I suddenly care so much?  I couldn’t put my finger on it; so I went out for Chinese food.  I put my Sirius radio on the new temporary Whitney Houston Tribute station, listened to "Exhale (shoop shoop)" for the first time in a long time, and had to pull over so I could cry and not crash.

I live in a small town and for the past, oh, twenty-odd years or so I’ve gone to the same place in town for Chinese take out.  I know the owners personally, as I went to school with their son, and the food is truly tremendous.  I’ve been to nearly every state in the union and lived in Washington D.C. for three cognac soaked years, so I’ve tried American Chinese food of every stripe.  This place is good.  It’s the kind of place that is filled with Chinese people ordering take-out, ya dig?  Anyway I slumped through the doors and was greeted enthusiastically by the wonder woman who owns the place with her equally affable husband.  They both sat me down as per our established custom and offered me various appetizers and tidbits for free while I waited.  I turned down all politely as I tend not to eat when truly sad.  Then ESPN blared out of the mounted flat-screen something about Jeremy Lin, and everyone focused on the screen.  When the story ended my friends turned to me and another customer and began regaling us with the tale of Lin.  How he slept on his brother’s coach and had an inadequate contract and...Of course we both knew the story as it was the biggest sports story of the week, but I was willing to indulge their excited ramblings.  The other customer, a white man, quickly made an excuse and left the premises.  I immediately thought he was rude, and then just as quickly wondered why I thought so.  In fact, why was I bothering to listen to all this myself?  But as I looked in those shining Chinese eyes, I understood why.  They were on actually on the same emotional spectrum as me, just at the opposite end.  Both their excitement and my misery were both rooted in racism.

It’s hard to be a minority in America, largely due to racism.  I don’t mean the stupid overt racism like some mouth-breathing redneck shouting “Nigger” from the bed of a truck.  That shit just makes you feel tired.  I’m talking about the institutional racism; racism with the force of law.  What laws?  Start with most redistricting laws and go from there.  I have a whole ‘nother blog post to dedicate to the subject; for now, just trust me that it’s hard on us.  But to tell you the truth, racism is so much a part of our America, we don’t really hope to get rid of it.  We can’t afford to hope for fairness, but we can’t help but hope for understanding.  Even if we can’t get reparations, it would be nice to know White America can at least see that point of view.  It is this hope that keeps us struggling against the tide even as Newt Gingrich calls for “Black people to demand paychecks not handouts”.  Side note: Republicans are disgusting.

The personification of this hope for black people, at least THIS black person, was Whitney Houston.  There have been other candidates.  I suppose Michael Jordan and Tiger woods came close, but they inspired jealousy where Whitney established a connection. When Whitney first came out she was an instant sensation, and it wasn’t just because of her amazing voice.  She sang pop music which really doesn’t require a good singer in order to be successful, but Whitney’s songs made people feel differently about her music.  You heard her sing and wanted to dance, to shout, to hug your neighbor, etc... It was feeling many in White America had never felt before, but Black America knew very well.  Whitney was actually singing a blend of pop and gospel.  Gospel had been inspiring us to sing, dance, shout, convulse, etc...for two centuries.  We already knew it’s power, but it had never been given such a wide ranging appeal on a massive stage before.  Whitney brought that feeling to the masses, and we instinctually understood the significance.  They were feeling how we feel.  They were understanding us, just a little bit.  If we could come together on the fact that we all loved Whitney Houston, we could find common ground elsewhere.  After all back in the 60’s music with it’s roots in Black culture helped spark the civil rights movement.  It could be done, but it was a wild hope and not a conscience one.  I never thought of the music of Whitney Houston as some sort of cultural turning point in my conscious mind, but I believed in my soul.  I wanted it to be true, and performance after amazing performance, be it lifting us all with the definitive version of our national anthem or turning a little known country song into her own signature showcase, she made the wild hope more real, tangible.  Even when she proclaimed her addictions in front of the world, I felt sure she would bounce back and unite us.  Again, this isn’t a conscious thought, just a feeling.  A hope.

Jeremy Lin is something akin to Whitney Houston to my Chinese friends right now.  He has come from obscurity and captured the imagination of the nation, and he’s one of theirs.  They too have the subconscious powerful hope that by understanding him, America can begin to understand them as well.  In the restaurant that day I saw that hope clearly on their faces.  Two days ago I went back to the restaurant and the aforementioned restaurant owner, asked me if I had seen that ridiculous scandalous ESPN headline.  I said I had and it was terrible.  She looked at me and I understood that the hope and been dimmed.  Whitney Houston is dead, and my wild hope has died with her.  I mourned that death and cried days before, so I understood that my friend understood that her hope was likely to land alongside mine eventually.  But that’s the magic isn’t it.  She understood me and I understood her, and we both could stand there not saying anything and share our thoughts.  Together.  United.  So, I shook my head in a helpless fashion and smiled, and she shook her head and smiled back.  I took my food home, sat down at the computer and wrote this post.  More to come.