Nigerian Boy

स्टाइल प्लुस

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 13:40:00 +0000

Love it.

Lionel

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 15:36:00 +0000

Is this considered cooning? got this from Daily Dish

Sexy Dictator

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 16:08:00 +0000

I'm still in the boat, it is rocky, the water's a bit choppy, but I can still see land despite constant reports to the contrary. Some passengers look weary though, and every once in a while someone jumps overboard with that depressing, blank look on their face. I wonder if they don't see the land. It's all about the land for me. But a lot are starting to insist that it is all about the boat. "Hope," in bright white letters is written on our stern and painted beside it is the insignia of an abstract rising sun in red, white, and blue.

A friend of mine, a masters in journalism student at Columbia University, called me in distress recently. He and a fellow reporter had waited in the cold for an hour, and just at the moment Barack Obama stepped out of his car, making his way past, they implored "could we ask a question senator?" They got the political cold shoulder. "Columbia, great school." Obama efficiently repeated, and made his way into the breakfast fundraiser. Obama was then trailed by a perpetual guest list of the well-off. As my friend put it, "you've never seen these kind of rich people before. The kind only ever poorly imitated in the movies." But that wasn't the point he said, the point was, Barack Obama is a jerk! Here I needed to take a step back and agree, but only for a moment. As I ceded to him, being a politician, Barack could have handled dismissing two young Black, male Columbia students, waiting in the cold, with a little more finesse. But 'jerk' was a stretch for me.

Eventually Barack came back out and answered some questions, but my friend's faith was already shaken. The incident for me crystallized two visions; the president America has, and the president America seems allergic to. George W. Bush is a result of a distinctly delusional American desire of familiarity with greatness. Americans I find, don't just want the best president. They want a best buddy; the kind of president who would stop a press conference just to go around the corner with you and your friends for a few beers. And you would maybe play darts and laugh, he would win of course, either by luck, or by that air of inexplicable cool. This is the president America wants, and this is the president the rest of the world despises. Actually, the rest of the world has no idea why you would want that guy running the country. That guy screwed up a lot of things before he ran for president, and while he is amusing to the rest of the world, he only gets a special section on the cover of Okay Magazine, not an oval office.

The president in a non American arena is the smartest kid in class (Maybe this was the case before FDR, but I don't even believe that!). He is the geek. He is that awkward kid that just didn't make sense in any other context, except president or perhaps law professor, or 'the distinguished senator from Illinois.' This president of course brings along his own baggage, and can illicit pointless hero worship just as easily as the best buddy guy (see my wonderful/creepy photoshop creation in this entry), but in the long run, he is obsessed with a functioning system. He is obsessed with being the solution to a broken system, and it pains him to be otherwise. It is this obsession that kept JFK up nights, and I used to think JFK's popularity was based on an attraction to that obsession. I am finding myself wrong. America it seems is obsessed only with the image of the Playboy President, because at the end of the day he's the guy you can convince to have just one more beer.

On a Bill Maher with Russian politician Garry Kasparov recently Chris Matthews said this; "you ever get the sense they're playing chess and we're playing checkers?" Yes, I do. I believe Barack is trying to play chess, the only game in town with any possibility of handing him a victory. He could easily be the type of "Black candidate" who runs on that rarity alone. It would be a good show, cameras would show up, maybe he would have a few rock star moments, but ultimately, he would be,'that Black guy who ran for president in 2008.'

I will vote for Barack Obama because at the end of the day he is the president America needs, if it has not yet realized it wants him. So he wasn't nice to my friend who waited in the cold to interview him for an hour, I don't care, I am not afraid of intelligent dictators, only the foolish ones. At least for today.

HARD COVER: A MODEST READING

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 16:48:00 +0000

The culture of reading books is designed very much as an elitist institution. It still shocks me the amount of pretense, which surrounds the simple object of a book. First comes the hardcover, usually endowed with the removable backing, because the elite, above all else, must be in control of their visibility. “You will know what I am reading, only when I decide you should, if I decide to show you.” All this to say that in the way books are packaged, as an object, and as a culture, it is only truly respectful of those who read hardcover. Those people who can afford these ridiculously expensive instruments of glamour, which is to say, hardcover is reading for those who want to ‘read and think,’ not ‘read and do.’ Black folks cannot afford to ‘read and think.’

I come upon this mode of thinking; or rather this mode of thinking has been crystallized, by my recent first time reading of Lerone Bennett Jr’s ‘The Challenge Of Blackness.’ The role of the oppressed in any society, Bennett asserts, is to continually fight against his situation with all the tools he has acquired with his personal and communal history. So when I get on the subway, it is my duty to discomfort the white man in his two-piece Armani, on his way to work for ING Direct. It is my job to make him read the cover of my book and see the words ‘The Challenge of Blackness.’ Not only must he read these words, but he must see brother Bennett on the cover with his afro, beard and pipe. He must see these things and he must in the moment, question his whiteness and question all the active decisions he makes for that day to live as a white man in America. Whether or not this action will achieve all those lofty goals, it is my duty to carry it out.

But my edition of ‘The Challenge Of Blackness’ does not allow for such “revolutionary” action. In order to preserve the value of my book (value based completely on aesthetics, which is completely counter productive as it only protects the books contents as a secondary goal), I must remove the cover; I must be the modest reader. I say ban hardcover, print it all in paperback, leather bindings and hard, illusive backings are for bibles and theology, mysteries. Social education, which I consider anything written outside all the scriptures of all the religions, cannot be a mystery. I’d like to see what everyone is reading on the subway so I can, in the least, judge him or her for being ignorant. (But in earnest that is not my primary concern). I’d just like to make my mark as the guy on the subway reading ‘The Challenge Of Blackness,’ because it says to a sleepy world, ‘there are Black people out there, average Black people, reading important things, so sleep with one eye open because come morning, they might be holding congress hostage and demanding your very soul be washed clean.’

As I write this entry, it disturbs me that I cannot now find this book’s cover image on the internet to share with you, heaven only knows the luck that thrust the book into my hands. I’m all for starting a reading circle, each one teach one, read it and then mail it to the next person in the circle, I’m sure Bennett would appreciate that attempt at unifying a community, even on such a local level.

I Think Y'All Should Stop Hatin'

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Tue, 20 Mar 2007 14:59:00 +0000

So there is no lack of negative reviews for Chris Rock's latest escapade into movie making, "I Think I Love My Wife," Rock's re-make of a French outing entitled "Chloe In The Afternoon." While I am yet to witness the latter, I was and am still, absolutely confounded by the never-ending barrage of bad reviews. It is one thing to dislike a stupid movie in my view, but it is another to hate a movie simply because Chris Rock isn't doing his crazy negro routine for you.

Now as a disclaimer you should know that I actually am not a big fan of Rock's comedy, he is often too heavily scripted and lacks any real comedic instincts of his own. I didn't walk in hoping for a comedy routine. However I think a lot of people walked in expecting something seemingly benign, but totally sinister in reality - The Black Comedy. It's that movie you're sold on because it's set in a barbershop, in your community, and it's supposed to speak to you, for you - that movie that in the end is completely shallow, lacking of any complex definitions of the Black experience, and makes you wish writers needed a 'Black' card before they were allowed to write movies about Black folk.

I guess my first hint at the fate of this poor film was the previews, not one single title based on a barbecue, gospel singing or a black man in drag. And not a single rapper turned actor in the mix. For the most part the trailers were for "chick flicks," (the return of Molly Shannon, thank god!) you know the derogatory term we give to those films which try a little too hard to remind us that European filmmaking is ages ahead of us. This film, although about being Black, was not, for a Black audience, because all we want to see apparently is 'Cookout.' So yes, 'I Think I Love My Wife,' is not a 'Black Movie,' as most Americans would eagerly expect it seems, but a far from perfect, brave attempt at adult conversation as it regards to marriage, and not even essentially Black marriage. It seems though America would rather Rock be at his old high-pitched-voice-punch-line tricks.

Don't get me wrong if I tried hard enough I could show you flaws in this movie, but something about the film's attempt at uniqueness is completely charming to me. (I mean, honestly, someone's got to get back to making funny movies about real things since Woody Allen decided to retire to London and make crap.) I am beyond over the generic Black comedy, and it's a shame that not many people are going to see this movie because of racist, yeah I said it, bad reviews. It is light but adult, flawed but entertaining, and for those who'll say I am lowering the standards for Black entertainment, fine here's this one criticism, just for you; no matter how cute the concept, Chris Rock really shouldn't try to sing, ever!

Fear Of A Black Candidate

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 22:29:00 +0000

It is amazing to me how many Black folks are tripping over themselves not to support Barack Obama; this is where I say, 'I understand we do not want to fall into stereotypes of blindly following the color of our skin.' But I'm definitely not interested in saying that, not today. As far as I am concerned, here is a smart Black man, yes, 'articulate and clean,' as some idiot has noted, but of course he is so much more than his media image. I am greatly concerned that Black folks, in an effort to spite 'the man,' are not giving this guy a fair shake.

I believe the fear here is that he represents the white man's choice of Blackness (he's not even Black according to some, don't get me started on that front actually; this is the only country in the world where a dark skinned man isn't automatically a Black man, I say ridiculous!). I believe a lot of people fear that by supporting Barack, white folks will be dancing in the streets congratulating themselves on being progressive -- of course they will! But that should not stop us from supporting the man. If Barack Obama was a pimp, some drug lord named B-Daddy, white folks would still be gushing with pride saying, I'm voting for a Black man. We are so far beyond the days of taking our cues from the White majority -- support, or lack of support for Barack, should spring from our own determinations of his fit for the position, not with one eye on the master.

The problem here is Black folks have gotten very accustomed to listening to a narrow list of "black leaders." I'll put them in facetious quotes, but I think I'll be gentlemanly enough not to name names, we all know who they are. So when these guys don't get in line, with their perms and mustaches, to say Barack is the messiah there is hesitation in our footsteps. "Well if the Right Reverend Whatever is waiting to see what Barack does, I'll wait too." Problem is the Right Reverend Whatever might not be thinking about your future while he waits, all he might be thinking on is the fact that once we all love Barack, well, his photo ops and marches on the 6 o clock news, will no longer be front page.

I'm being particularly hard, but that is because if I come across one more Black person who gives me 'the face,' when I mention Barack, I'm going to scream. You know the face, it's a reactionary cringe at the man's name, maybe they look away, but finally they say, "well, we'll see..." WE'LL SEE? What the hell does that mean, and what the hell does that have to do with anything? I believe it is finally dawning on a lot of people that the last six years was a vacation in hell we all blindly signed up for, question is, are we so deep into that hell that we don't know what hope looks like?

President, Or Dead

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Fri, 19 Jan 2007 16:29:00 +0000

A few months back a friend and I nick-named 2007 "the year of the young Black man," we do this, name years, because sometimes themes are apparent. We named 2007 so because of Barack Obama, and the hope I believe he inspired in both of us. Recently I blogged a prediction about Obama's presidential run rumours, and of course I always knew his announce would come with backlash, but I honestly could not have predicted the variety and the sheer nastiness of that variety.

http://mediamatters.org/items/200701180010
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=559kCaH1Shw
http://www.crooksandliars.com/2007/01/02

It is official, watching out for the lies about Obama is a full time job. If I were getting paid to do it, I'd probably make a living. It is ridiculous that these insidious jabs can keep coming with such speed, it would seem Obama has made the wrong enemies in Washington, the special interest kind. The kind that wants to fund your campaign, the kind that gets really mad when you refuse their handouts, the kind that can kill you. Take nothng sinister from that, I'm not suggesting some mass conspiracy (at least I can't without becoming an 'enemy combatant'; as an aside, a friend joked about making an Enemy Combatant T-shirt the other day and I earnestly begged him not to, it's not funny, especially when you're Black and male).

So when I say that in this race which will occur for 2008, Barack Obama finds himself with two choices, President, or Dead, I'm referring to the fight he MUST undertake, because he cannot deny himself that fight, he cannot deny me that fight. Win or loose, in a Barack nomination, the politics of America will lie naked for our inspection, for the first time in a very long time. From that display - the name calling, the cocaine jabs, the inevitable 'scandal' seeking - we shall learn what makes us a democracy, is it the few or the many? Can a man be president because he is the right man for the job? Will the people for once truly elect their leader, special interests be damned?

One of the recent Fox News jabs at Obama, listed in the links above, showed guest John McWhorter spouting trivial phrases like, Obama is "considered such a big deal simply because he's Black." Did I mention McWhorter himself is Black? So this question goes out to Brother McWhorter, why the f*** do you think FOX NEWS, chose YOU to be the mouth piece for that ridiculous statement?

Blood Diamond

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Mon, 18 Dec 2006 15:23:00 +0000

Issue - when will it be OK for Black people to tell their own stories? And here I do not speak of authorship, or even representation, I speak of access to truth. If you have been to the latest Hollywood-loves-Africa spectacle, Blood Diamond, starring Djimon Hounsou and Leonardo DiCaprio (yes, I switched the order), you will understand one thing - no matter how much time has elapsed, it seems the Black man's story is not worth a damn without the White man's stamp.

Blood Diamond is the story of a fisher man in a small village in Sierra Leone who looses his family, unwittingly finds a most valuable and rare diamond which he soon tries to use for the benefit of reuniting his demarcated family. Or at least that is what Blood Diamond should have been. In reality it is the story of how one White, apathetic, diamond smuggler struggles to get sympathy from anyone who will listen, falls for a white journalist (because Black ones don't really exist) and learns to forgive and love himself by loving the red dirt of Africa - GAG!!

Now I have no issue with Leonardo, trust me I don't, the boy acts when he has enough meat to chew on. I only take issue with the string of "Africa stories," told through the White lens. I would not even make this entry except that it was just such and obvious fact that Hounsou's fisherman was the better lead, however his journey was perhaps 40 percent of the movie's scenes - with a kidnapping of his son by rebels, and his son's transformation into a child soldier, reduced to mere montages - while DiCaprio's smuggler gets to parade through a multitude of pointless scenes (faking appalling pidgin English in one scene) apparently being witty and brooding and proclaiming fowl acronyms like 'T.I.A' - This Is Africa. Give me a break! Don't even get me started on the Black female voice in this story - it doesn't exist. The only Black women we see are, wailing, screaming, or prostitues. Accurate depiction right?!

Perhaps the fault lies in the simple fact that out of a movie with more substance, a buddy cop flick was constructed. Some will say, so what, this is a story in Africa right? That should be enough. Well it isn't enough, Hotel Rwanda was a story in Africa as well, and it was honest and told from the right perspective - then again no one was rushing to go see that gem of a film. (Side note: If you're not in love with Sophie Okonedo by now, please begin to fall). The story of blood diamonds is a story deeply integral to Africa, and I am deathly afraid that if you can turn even that into a white-washed Hollywood film, we will never see in popular culture anything better than we have already been subjected to, over, and over, and over again.

The President We Deserve

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Thu, 19 Oct 2006 00:10:00 +0000

I was thoroughly livid to see my favorite politician on the cover of TIME magazine; with the bold title 'Why Barack Obama Could Be The Next President.' I was disturbed because the first stages of absolute demise in this culture begins with attention, which no matter what the truth, will always be seen as unwarranted. All this to say that I would hate to see the best candidate for the job overexposed so early on in the race.

But then I woke up and said, damn! Obama's on the cover of TIME magazine! So obviously I am of two minds. I am glad that the next savior of this our free world - I'm not mincing words, trust me, I've looked to Washington, and he's it - can be seen in the visage of a Black man, but I am also held back in my evangelism of the Obama Gospel, by the fact that this man is but a babe in the oh so shrewd world of politics, and disregarding my 'gut feeling,' of his absolute rightness for the role, there will be those who disregard him entirely because he is so inexperienced.

Joe Klein's article, while trying very hard to be fair-minded (as is the senator's platform), nevertheless comes off extremely judgmental; placing very high stakes on Obama's lack of 'bold,' which he defines as the ability to say loudly, proudly, if slightly obnoxiously, 'I am the savior, because...' It made me uneasy to put this man under so much pressure so soon, but what made me even more uneasy was my own instinctive cringe at some of the senator's more 'centrist' ideologies.

I consider myself fair, centered, but it is a testament to the state of social discourse in this country - whether in reality or as portrayed by the media (which in earnest comes to the same thing as we are all so quick to internalize) - that I suddenly saw this senator, this savior as I proclaimed, as 'weak' after the article's profiling. He came off as unsure of his goals, which after a second read, I saw as wholly untrue. What I took for weakness on first glance, was just his fair-minded-speak, slightly twisted in Joe Klein's hands.

So this is my fear, how many second reads will the senator get when the time is nigh? Very few I suspect, as most will get their news on the go, in flashes of images and loud newspeak. And if this country is now so polarized that a call for fairness gets no heed, are we ready for a good president? Perhaps George W. Bush, and whatever extremist comes after him, red, blue or green (hold your scoffs), is the president we deserve.

The moral of the day? Always read it again! This is my small attempt to spread that often said, rarely practiced gen-Xism - 'question everything,' and I would add, 'even yourself.' For when the faith of the free world is literally at stake, again not mincing words, it would not kill us to think critically.

The New CW Network: "Free" To Be Together?

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 20:32:00 +0000

So this was probably the case with only a percentage of people living in America, but who was offended by the new, excessive, overly-lime-green, dazzle campaign used to launch the new CW Network? - and this is the part where all the Black folks raise their hands, and if you're not raising your hand, well, read on.

If I have learned anything from living in America, it is that you are only as popular as the two sides of your speech; meaning if you're going to give to the people, give to all the people, without favoritism for color, creed, etc, etc, etc, at least this is the theory that is "America." I am all for that, but honestly, sometimes you need a UPN. When, you ask? Well, when every commercial you see on your television does not represent you, when the shade of the folks in the TV ads echo your own only when the product for sale is chicken (because, well...Dave Chappelle did the chicken joke better so I will not tread upon his territory). My entire point is that the "new" CW will only be as successful as its ability to please both constituencies it is playing to - or rather, pretending to play to.

Issue, "free" to be together? - their new slogan. Should I be clapping hands and standing in ovation to parent companies CBS and Warner Brothers simply because they put some Black faces next to some White faces? Was this previously against the law? Why did it take them so long to achieve this goal? - I'll tell you why, from day one, the television set was created to sell products, everything that came after was incidental - and to whom was the sale being made? White women who happened to have the television on while ironing; and to some extent, this is still how television marketing has evolved, which means, unless that woman in her A-line 50s dress, let us call her Margaret; unless Margaret approves of the programs being brought forth, they a) never see the light of day, or b) become relegated to some ungodly scheme of distribution, aka, the UPN - and now you think I'm employing doublespeak. Well, I had nothing against the UPN, nothing other than the absolutely putrid shows they chose to represent Blackness with, ("Cuts," come on!) but at the end of the day, I could turn to UPN and see a fancy car commercial with some Black faces, you know the kind, the ones with the sleek effects that say 'we're trying so hard to get your money because you're worth it.'

Well, you can forget those days, the new CW Network (does that stand for Colored + White?) will not be catering to the Black man seeking, or aspiring to buy that brand new Jaguar, scratch that, they will not be advertising to any Black person who does not happen to crave some chicken at the moment. And now you say why is it so important that we are advertised to. Well, if I had to explain that, I would not know where to begin, suffice to say as money is power, and power is action, if the powers that be believe you will buy that Jaguar, what stops them from respecting your city, fixing your sidewalks, caring for your children's future, respecting you as a person?

Look to the new CW's weekly line up and you will find that any semblance of Blackness, with the exception of Ms. Tyra and her forever fierceness, have been relegated to Sunday, you know "Sunday," church day, might as well call it Black folks day, right? OK, so now I'm being facetious, but if this isolation of Black shows tells you anything, let it tell you this - the new CW Network is anything but freedom!(anything but new). We, and I mean Black folks, are being duped, yet again, and as Baldwin said, "Americans misinterpreted desegregation to mean integration...I'm not sure I want to be integrated into a burning house" because integration is a dirty word. Give me back my UPN, bad shows and all, as long as at the end of the day, I feel heard, wanted, even if only by the Ad man and his million-dollar campaigns.

"40 Million Dollar Slaves"

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Mon, 07 Aug 2006 22:20:00 +0000

I don't do reviews, not on here anyway, but this is a special occassion. This is in celebration of my enlightenment thanks to William Rhoden's "40 Million Dollar Slaves." I enjoyed every second of reading this book, not only because I learned so many things I was previously unaware of, but because at its very core, it's not even a book about sports, or money, this book is about what it means to be Black in America. This book is about the Black Promised Land; its ever changing definition and the ever-shifting, unsteady, journey toward it.

The book is lovingly littered with a lot of gems of sports-knowledge, but the most important thing I walked away with, was a strong sense of William Rhoden's voice - he was clear, concise and entirely unapologetic. A rare find when most books one picks up about race is either filled with instantly apologetic double-talk, i.e 'so sorry if you're white, please buy my book;' or otherwise unneccessarily verbose academia - both approaches escaping accessibility to the average reader, and to be honest if the revolution will not be televised, I'm gonna at least need a TV Guide whilst I march in unison with the struggle. This is not to say that Rhoden's book is over-simplified, far from it, only to say that it is what it needs to be; a conversation between reader and author, a conversation that progresses with such ease that you cannot help but wonder why you never connected the dots yourself.

Rhoden takes a few quality shots in his book; 'Be Like Mike?' - not so much - Bob Johnson/BET also gets its fair share of criticsm, and that is why this book is so important, it ignores niceities, to articulate a core issue that surrounds Blackness in America today - the lack of communal direction - where some see Rhoden's words as anti-integration, I see them, and so does he, as pro Black success, which if we all believe James Baldwin's words, is pro American success. You need only to read of the demise of the Negro Leagues and the tragic later years of its visionary, Rube Foster, to long for a business landscape in America today where Black-owned businesses can compete fairly with their White-owned counterparts.

This book should be a required read for any Black child who decides they want to pick up a basketball, and also this book is for the parents of those children, but most importantly, this book is for every Black athlete with as many BMWs as there are days in the year - don't stay on the plantation, only you can lead yourself out, and would it not be wonderful if you took us all with you.

But of course if this book is about anything, it is about self-sufficiency, finding where you fit in the struggle, without waiting for Shaq to tell you, and applying yourself to helping define that Promised Land because 40 Acres is so wholly inadequate now.

First of course, you have to understand that the struggle never ended, then you can understand where you need to be headed.

Hair Day

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 20:20:00 +0000

I'm all for curiosity, honestly I am. I bath in its glow often enough; my job on the New York City subways solely consists of looking at any and everyone until they notice and consequently think me strange or "interested." That said, there exists a sort of morbid curiosity when Black folks are the subject, a curiosity centered often and rigourously on our hair; nappy, straight, curly, dreaded, natural, whatever. I for one am tired of people wanting to touch my hair - it was excessively pronounced when I had dread locks, but even now I get into a conversation about my hair an average of once a month and that's too much. This is not a new frustration, it's just one whose day in the sun is seemingly never-ending.

My brother attends Bard College in upstate New York, their claim to fame being an alumni list of rich and famous, and a professorial residency by the Nigerian literary geniuses Chinua and Christie Achebe - both being the select few residents of color on campus, well count my brother and his Black Student Organization and you get maybe twelve Black people out of about 1500. So to be fair, a small school, but disproportionately colorless to say the least. Perhaps that explains the recent faux pas in a suggestion emailed to all campus clubs of color. In consideration apparently for the lack of access to grooming facilities on campus, the Office Of Multicultural Affairs offers this solution:

...the idea of having a Hair Day where the office will pay for hair stylists, hair braiders, a barber to come do the hair of melanated/of color/descendants of the enslaved and colonized students for free. The idea is that the office will pay for them to come, and it will be a day for Bard students of color, with priority given to Black and Brown folks to get their hair done...

So am I being touchy when I say WHAT?!!@#@#!@ Of course not, the plain fact being that one simple consideration never crossed the minds of those who thought up this ridiculous idea of Hair Day; no one wants to be put on display.

It is granted that it might be difficult for students of color to get their grooming needs met in far off places such as Annandale-on-Hudson, heck I had the same problem in Manhattan when I went to NYU - "Super"cuts, I think not - the problem is, when it comes to Black people, everyone wants to give us what we "need," but no one ever considers the ramifications, the end result being, a polarized set of opinions in the mainstream. Where someone else sees here an attempt to include students of color in the mainstream, I see an attempt to exclude and put on display. The title of this email might as well have been "Hey Colored Folks, You Ain't Looking So Fresh!"

I don't know about you, but a free hair cut, while a bunch of morbidly curious folk stand gawking at your "exotic" hair, is not far removed from placing me on stage and paying for the priviledge; well at least then there would be some revenue sharing involved - maybe 70% for me, 20% for the barber, and of course 10% for the organizer, thats you Bard College, I'm not greedy. So I'm up for it, if you would like to watch this Black boy get a hair cut, the charge is fifteen bucks a show, and you can touch it and everything, and that's no joke.

Ridiculous!

Crying At The Cape

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Thu, 20 Jul 2006 20:42:00 +0000

I wanted to ask the White girl why she was crying. I wondered what sadness she remembered, longed to know who she saw in chains when the tour guide gave his descriptions. We were standing, feet on cracked and not-so-ancient concrete, beneath us the foundation of the Elmina Castle, on the Cape Coast in Ghana. I saw my mother there, naked, wet, and used - my mother in distress usually gets me going - but I had no tears, none. I thought of this for several days after, blaming myself at first for a lack of connection to the grief of my people, but then it hit me that I was not in the wrong for not crying, this history was not news to me; then I hated her for crying. What was this salty theatre display? Was she entitled to weep for this pain? Is this my pain alone?

There come many times in this life when one is asked to put his theorizing to test. I was standing in one of those times - in theory I believe that this history of racism, fear and mistreatment is a stain on all humanity - and I could not seem to escape her red-blue-green eyes dripping with salty redemption. I scorned her in my glare but she did not notice. Soon there were gatherings of wailers, as sadness tends often to breed itself in quick succession, and I noticed them to be mostly White. There was a silent reverence with most everyone else, and maybe this says disconnection to some, but to me it acknowledges the true magnitude of the evil surrounding you - the chains, the stench, the darkness - crying is an attempt to make yourself feel better, within the moment. It is a vehement refusal to imprint on your soul anything longer lasting than the last tear wiped from your face with your handkerchief. Crying is a cop out.

I didn't cry because crying says 'this is a catharsis, this is the end, and oh how long we've carried this burden! We can now lay it to rest.' I am not an unemotional person, just to give some perspective, I have cried at ridiculous things; when Adam Sandler took Emily Watson's hand for the first time in 'Punch Drunk Love,' when, to protect her from a horrid machete death, Don Cheadle tells Sophie Okonedo that she has to commit suicide with her children on his death in 'Hotel Rwanda,' and every now and then when my sister's voice cracks on the telephone and in her sadness I cannot hug her - so yes, I am a softy, but I did not cry at the Cape. I refused to join the show, here a sniffle, there a sniffle, mostly from pink noses in distress, running from the truth of the moment, as plain as the sore noses on their faces - some will not now, or ever, understand the true tragedy that was and is slavery. And here I am, all of twenty-four, and an elitist in the shouldering of this pain, but maybe it will be different tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I will understand why she cried, maybe tomorrow I will believe that we can all cry, tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow...

The Only Best American

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Thu, 13 Jul 2006 02:21:00 +0000

I was on the bus the other day and a Black man was insulting a Black woman, she was giving it to him just as good if not better; he was getting that rotten look, you know, the one that says, You've Got Me Pegged and I Hate You For It. In any case, he got so mad that he soon began a rant against Americans and right then it occurred to me that he wasn't American, he had a thick West Indian accent, what made me miss it? I don't know. He began to go after his "opponent" with some pretty furious stereotypes 'welfare queen, junkie, baby-mama, etc' and soon it was clear that his rant was not directed to the woman with whom he was speaking, at least not exclusively. He was livid, hurt and I believe had we not all been staring at him, a tear would have fallen. He seemed to have taken all his frustration over an unfulfilled America and poured it toward this woman, I never found out the cause of their tiff, but I've seen this man's hurt before. I have heard many of my relatives express the same sentiments; they seem offended by Americans they believe are throwing away their "blessings," Black Americans, and they use this to explain their own lack of upward mobility. Why is this their gut reaction? Why is the failure of America, to the man on the bus, and to most my uncles, to be blamed on the only people in the country who looked just like them?

Another Black man on the bus soon interrupted the fight in a tone I assumed chivalrous but soon discovered was a certain hurt patriotic pride. He retorted with 'if it's so good where you came from, why don't you go back there?' I was strangely hurt, of course he wasn't speaking to me, and might have meant only to hurt the West Indian man, but it was disheartening to see how close to the surface his xenophobia was. I am reading now a book called "Real Black," by John L. Jackson Jr., a field-study on racial sincerity with a quote from an older Black male Harlemite which I believe illuminates this topic further, he states: "just because somebody's got dark skin, doesn't mean they deserve to be here...people fought for this community...people come here and buy cars and homes, and live the lifestyle we say we want...they take our destiny." The entire plot of "Real Black" pivots on the question of racial sincerity vs. authenticity, the latter of course being at the very center of this Black on Black divide - authenticity of Americanism, who is more American. America being never of course the place, but the dream.

All this to say that my greatest fear is nationism - not nationalism, that at least embraces a history and includes other people in its big picture. I define nationism as the single-mindedness that both sides of the above debate have in common, albeit unknown to them. Nationism is wanting to be the only best American, nationism is wanting to have, for yourself, all the ideals that the history of red, white and blue has promised (implicitly and otherwise) - nationism is distracting, not to mention an absolute waste of time. If the realization of my dream or "destiny" creates your nightmare, we are both trapped in nothingness, the moral of the tale being? When you dream (even when you dream the American dream), do dream your neighbors in it too, be they black, white, native, foreign, purple, green, Australian, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Latino...well, you get the point.

Jigga And Me

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Mon, 03 Jul 2006 16:13:00 +0000

So I never thought it would happen, Hip Hop and I on the same page, I sat in my ivory tower and I looked down on the over-sized posturing that seemed to be all Hip Hop music could offer me. I was proved wrong the other day as I read a news paper article on none other than Jay- Z, Jigga as he is often known to friends and fans alike - one of Rap's elite, the King some argue persuasively.

I was more than thrilled to read that Jay-Z had decided a boycott on the alcoholic beverage Cristal, known through the rap circuit and actually through the world as a whole, as the drink you imbibe when life is just that good - Rap Star good. The favorite swill of the rich and ostentatious, and as a result I am sure sales of this drink were sky high as it was purchased by the rich and the credit-card rich alike. So why on earth was it just OK for Cristal's managing director Frederic Rouzad to step all over the best free advertising any product has ever received in the history of product placement? Why was it just alright for him to disregard the countless millions who would of course read his comments and understand them for the racist epithets they were: "We can't forbid people from buying it. I'm sure Dom Perignon or Krug would be delighted to have their business." THEIR BUSINESS?! WHAT?!

I am not Mr Hip Hop obviously, but this is beyond a question of what lyrics one finds offensive, this has gone into the financial arena, and there is nothing more disconcerting, infuriating, rage-building, than hearing someone say, 'I dislike your self so much that even all your money could not change my mind.'

I am a fan of Jay-Z, I may know absolutely nothing about what his music is, but he has proven to me sufficiently that he knows what his power is and he can effect change. Like many of course he has his string of press-kit ready philantrophic pursuits, but through the attention his revolt against Cristal has received, the question then becomes, when will he decide to turn that power against 'the game' itself as they say. When will his evolution reach a level of promoting a face for Hip Hop that evolves the entire industry to a level of social and political awareness that reaches into the hearts of all his millions of fans, white (many there are I am sure) and black alike. Aside from Jigga vs. Cristal; when will it be Jigga vs. Negative stereotypes of women in media? Jigga vs. the hyper-masculinity syndrome? Jigga vs. violence? And I am not talking about writing a song that says violence is wrong, I am talking about serious action like his boycott, real world action.

Swagger And The Original Gangster

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Tue, 13 Jun 2006 14:36:00 +0000

I came across a young black boy on my way home the other night. There was nothing extraordinary about this particularly, but his walk enchanted me; there was a steady gait, there was a swish in the swagger and every now and then he would lightly trace the edge of his oversized baseball hat with a steady finger, he was maybe eight-years-old. I myself do not swagger, at least I don't believe I do. When every young black man I knew - both in Nigeria and when I moved here to the states - was placing an identity, often excessively 'masculine,' into their signature walk, I thought it was silly, and actually still do. One can say many a thing with his footsteps, but there are not many things that need to be said with them.

Watching that eight-year-old make his way down the street in front of me, got me to considering the fact that perhaps there was something unnatural in my, often absolute, rejection in mimicking the ways of established manhood; my story of course being the story of the ages; I do not want now, or any day soon, to become a mirror of my father. Does that boy want the opposite? Does he want to become what he knows to be his father - absent or present? Did I once want to become my father, and if so, when did the tide turn? Questions many, answers yet to be reached.

I suppose the entire reason I noticed the boy was because I was jealous, he seemed so sure in his steps. Here was this truth he had found, and he was showing it off to the world, ever so boldly. Here was this conviction deep in his heart, 'Man,' and he was here to showcase its true facade. Perhaps in the belly of youth arrogance, conviction and truth are all the same. Perhaps the boy had earned his swagger, but all that aside, another question popped into my mind, would I care how he walked if he was white? What is the measure of white masculinity? Perhaps that is not my question to research, actually I know it is not. My young cousin, about eight himself, recently told me he wanted to be a gangster, and upon a small reprimand he told me he wanted to be a gangster and a doctor; this way he could shoot people and help them - 'gangster heal thyself,' I suppose.

All this just to say, why is there such a hyper-masculinity attached to black maleness? Why is it just OK to dress your eight-year-old, forget that, your baby as if he were already, in his infancy, an OG as we say, Original Gangster? I grew up wearing mostly church-wear in public, shirt, tie, slacks, and when I wasn't wearing that I was wearing some ridiculous matched pair of homemade clothing with my brother thanks to our mother, no complaints (it's just that those pictures haunt you forever). So I guess my perspective is a little skewed, but here's my two cents: please do not allow your children to put on any clothing that deems them part of a larger conversation they do not even understand yet. The child's body should be a neutral zone, free of politics, agendas and certainly 'masculinity.'

So You Work At Club Monaco

noreply@blogger.com (BoiAfrica) — Thu, 01 Jun 2006 16:00:00 +0000

My brother is a sweet soul, I'm often paternal to all my siblings but him especially because he is the last born. He's a character, takes less bullshit than any other person I know, often surprises me, his spunk, because we are often a calm clan, at least on the surface. He's home for the summer holidays and yesterday ventured out into the city to continue a job search he has been adamant about for months before the summer began, several offers he has received, but one often does not want to spend the entire summer herding other people's children around ridiculous stretches of man-made nature at Camp "insert-pseudo-native-american-name-here." Alternative? Well, retail of course.

Who knew it was such a serious affair? Who knew selling over-priced khakis and striped shirts was something to be snotty about? The forty year old queen, and I use this in the most derogatory sense, not to set the struggle back, but to emphasize that this bitch was, well, bitchy! The conversation unfolded something like this 'So what do you know about Club Monaco?,' a callous eye roll, taking my brother in as though he were America's regret, and finally a yawn...Did I miss something? What the hell is there to know about Club Monaco? You sell clothing! Or is it the fact that you cloth the gentrified masses that makes you so special?...please. And at this point I am officially the angry black man, but why not? Who in their right mind looks down on an 18-year-old coming to you for employment, would you be more comfortable if he was on the corner where you can ignore him? Is he more familiar to you in thug-gear? Can you more easily digest him in sexual mandigo fantasies? Why is it just alright to pour your fear and despise on him alone?

I was livid when my brother recounted this to me, he was indifferent, found it funny even. I was angry not because I give two flying f**** about Club Monaco, but because this country will do something sinister to you when you accumulate enough of these, miniature disasters; it takes my proud brother and makes him confused; it takes his self-esteem and places it underneath over-priced loafers, or maybe worse, it takes his zest for life and magicks it into apathy, and it turns my rage into constipation that slowly eats me dead. This country will dissolve you if you have the misfortune of being born black, and male. New York City is no exception, he who tells you different is a fool and should of course be pitied.