You may have noticed that I’ve been AWOL lately. My posting schedule has gone from erratic to practically non-existent. Rest assured, it’s not without good reason. I’ve been busy.

For one thing, I’ve been named the Editorial Director for The Good Men Project. You can read my collected contributions to GMP here. I’m also now the Editor of the Love & Relationship channel for the Elephant Journal. You can read my collected contributions to EJ here.

But what’s really kept me busy is: I’ve launched a company. Specifically I’ve launched a liquor label. The company is called–appropriately enough–Jack From Brooklyn Inc. The premiere release will be a modern twist on a Caribbean classic, named Sorel.

There will be an official corporate blog, detailing the trials and tribulations I’ve endured with my business partners in bringing this to fruition, as well as a regular feature on other libations we enjoy. You can keep up with latest events and news, and even buy swag.

I will continue to tell stories of sex, heartbreak, and my personal path to become a person worthy of love. The only difference will be: now we can share a real toast at the end of a story, instead of a metaphysical one.

It’s F*cking AND Drinking, in Brooklyn. What’s not to love?

© j summers 2012

“Are any of you cantankerous? Ill-tempered? Surly? Irascible? Querulous? Then you want my job.”

As a proud alumni of the High School of Art & Design, I do what I can to give back to the institution that did its best to educate me. Part of the way I do this is by participating in “Career Day” twice a year. As a (former) Director of Production for a glossy consumer magazine, my job had both the six-figure income and apparent status required to inspire a bunch of unruly teenagers.

When asked why such seemingly undesirable qualities are required for my job function, I tell impressionable young minds:

“Well, somebody’s gotta be the asshole.”

Almost immediately after I make this statement, invariably some kid–in a misplaced attempt to be PC–asks why being an asshole is a good thing. It’s at that point I launch into the following joke, much to the chagrin of the faculty.

The Boss of the Body
One day the body was having an argument about who should be in charge, and each part of the body offered passionate testimony as to why it should lead. “I make all of the decisions” said the brain, “so obviously I should be in charge. “I pump the blood” said the heart. “Should I stop beating, we’d all cease to exist.” “You may pump the blood” said the lungs, “but I provide the blood with oxygen. See how long you last if I stop breathing.”

And so it went, each body part voicing its personal and entirely valid reason why it should be in charge. Finally, the asshole spoke. “Actually guys” it said flatulently, “I think I should be in charge.”

There was a moment of silence. And then the entire body burst into collective laughter. “Put the asshole in charge?” it ridiculed. “That will be the day. You’re full of shit. Shut the fuck up.”

A sensitive creature, the asshole took its hurt feelings and heeded the body’s advice, shutting tighter than a clam.

After the fifth day with no bowel movements, both the stomach and large intestine conceded. After the seventh day, there were toxins backed up into the blood stream; the heart cried “uncle.” After ten days the brain could no longer think clearly, and so joined the rest of the body in capitulation.

“The moral of the story” I inform the children “is: sometimes, in order to be the boss, you just have to be an asshole who won’t shut up.”

♦◊♦

There are four types of people who work in traditional magazine publishing. Those that write and/or edit, those that design, those that shoot pretty pictures, and those that sell. Like the arguing members of the body, each of them think their job most important. Creatives receive accolades. Salesmen receive commissions.

A Production Director receives neither. They’re simply responsible for making sure the final product is representative of the hard work that everyone else has done. If (s)he’s done a good job, you don’t notice; there’s perfection, and there’s “you’re fired.”

If anyone doubts the validity of this maxim, please read the biography of the most venerated asshole of our times, Steve Jobs.

This requires the sort of tenacity necessary to–on occasion–pull rank on your superiors. Diplomacy–the ability to tell someone to go to hell in such a manner that they thank you and request directions–is often required, but not always efficacious. Someone has to handle the unpleasantries, hopefully in the most expeditious manner possible.

During my last ever interview for a corporate position at one of the most popular magazines on earth, the editor in chief wanted to know if I understood the dynamics of this relationship. I demonstrated my perspicacity by telling the following joke:

A Creative Director, an Editor-In-Chief and a Production Director are walking down the beach. One of them stubs their toe. When they reach down to recover the offending object, they retrieve from the sand, an ancient lamp. As they rub the lamp free of dust and debris, a djinn appears. “You have freed me from my prison of ten-thousand years” the djinn yawned, stretching it’s mighty arms. “To display my gratitude, I will grant you three wishes, but as there are three of you, you’re each allowed a single wish. Begin!”

The Editor-In-Chief rubbed his chin. “I’ve got a masters in literature. I’ve always wanted to write the great American novel,” he lamented “but never had the time. What I’d like is a million dollars and a house in the woods, where I can write in peace.”

The djinn snapped his fingers and poof! he vanished, his wish fulfilled.

Seeing this, the creative director spoke next. “I’ve a masters in fine arts. I’ve always wanted to paint masterpieces, but never found the time. What I want” he said “is a million dollars and a house on a beach somewhere, so I can focus on making art.”

The djinn snapped his fingers and poof! in a puff of smoke, his wish was fulfilled.

“Only you remain” spake the djinn to the Production Director. “Tell me your hearts desire, and it will be fulfilled.”

After careful consideration of the circumstances, he spoke. “I have deadlines on Friday” he said “and both of those guys still owe me pages. Could you please bring them both back here, right now?”

♦◊♦

The wonderful thing about “asshole” as a personality trait is: much like charisma, you only need a tiny bit to power the entire mix. Sometimes, just knowing someone has the potential to be an asshole is all that’s required to keep a situation in check. Once, while working on an important presentation, the Advertising Director of the magazine where I was employed stood over my shoulder, impatiently tapping his foot. He and I enjoyed a terrific working relationship, based on mutual respect. This, despite the fact that I’d seen him shred underlings like a pulled pork sandwich.

“Is that going to be ready in time for the meeting?” he snapped. I paused, just long enough to “placate” him. Very carefully, I removed the blade from the exacto-knife in my hand, and placed it inside my mouth, between my cheek and gum. “During my first week of high school I learned how to have a conversation with a razor blade inside my mouth” I said, smiling. “I mention this only to say: your standing over me as I try to concentrate is probably not helping me finish this any faster.”

“If that’s your version of intimidation” he said, retreating to his office “it’s working. Call me when it’s done.”

♦◊♦

I’m convinced similar hierarchies exist in every field of endeavor. However unpleasant and inglorious, a minimum amount of assholery is required. If you doubt this, imagine how inconvenient it would be if even for one week, your asshole decided to stop doing its job.

This singular biological function which allows society to operate with a modicum of civility is: sphincter control. Fortunately, after infancy, this is largely involuntary. One can only imagine how quickly civilization would disintegrate, should everyone simultaneously lose control of their bowels. Everybody poops, but voluntary control over where and when you poop allows us to maintain the illusion of propriety. Few things are as noxious as someone who’s lost control of their sphincter.

Verbal diarrhea is equally distasteful.

Conversely, the inability to discretely and voluntarily dispense with “crap” makes life uncomfortable at best, and in a prolonged scenario, impossible. The fifteen or so seconds a day your asshole voluntarily opens to perform its sole job function makes life grand.

Therein lies both the power–and the ethics–of assholedom. You’ve got two ears, two eyes, two arms and legs, etc., but only one asshole, which–when working properly–only does one thing for a few seconds a day. Anything more or less would make life unmanageable.

♦◊♦

Now that I work for myself, the ethics of being an asshole are more relevant than ever. While my business partners are far more competent in their respective areas than myself, the most unpleasant tasks are, by default, assigned to the “designated asshole,” namely: me. It’s now an inside joke among us; we don’t play “good cop, bad cop.” We play, “good cop, bad cop, suspended cop.”

Suffice it to say I’ve learned to be succinct.

Similarly, when entering into negotiations with a potential new vendor, I’m quick to identify who the asshole in an organization is. I’m not entirely sure I trust someone who doesn’t have the potential to be an asshole, and look for discretionary use of this very important ability. I need to know that a person has the capacity to say/do unpopular things, if that’s what is required. This explains–at least in part–why historically, most of my heroes have had a bit of asshole in them: Michael Jordan, Ernest Hemingway, Picasso, Prince, Ghandi, Baltasar Gracian. I’m convinced that in this world, no great feat is ever accomplished without someone who’s willing to be an asshole, when required.

So thank God for assholes. Just remember, one is enough.

© Jackie Summers 2011

* This essay was originally published on The Good Men Project 11/15/2011

It is impossible for CK to enter a room inconspicuously.

At six feet four inches tall, he towers over most people. His expertly custom-tailored three-piece suit hides–but just barely–the kind of musculature that might make a panther jealous. If I didn’t know him personally, I might find him intimidating.

Fortunately for those who do know him, his imposing physical presence belies his gentle demeanor. At 33 years old, CK is happily married, with no children–yet. The warmth and intelligence behind his smile betray any hint of the menace the media has taught us to expect from a black man born and raised in the South Bronx, during the crack riddled 1980s.

You probably will never see CK in the stands at Fenway Park, despite him being a vociferous baseball fan. Partially, this is because if you’re born in the Bronx, you root for the Yankees; it’s mandatory. Attendance at day games is virtually impossible, as he’s an officer at a major financial institution. A dual-degree undergrad, night games are also unfeasible, at least until he completes his MBA in January of 2012.

Education has always been his pathway to success.

This is not to say that, at some point, like most boys, he didn’t think about playing professional sports. A naturally gifted athlete, his parents struggled to make sure there was always someone at home to help him finish his schoolwork–a prerequisite before going out to play. His mother worked days and his father worked nights to put and keep him in a private school, as the local high school–Stevenson, in the Soundview section of the Bronx–was infamous for (at the time) having one of the highest incidences of violence in the nation.

Sports was a reward, not an end-goal.

The same could be said for CK’s friends. Both publicly and privately schooled, his childhood cronies eschewed crack vials for bats and gloves and street corners for baseball diamonds. Associating with kids who–like himself–had parents who valued education over athletic achievement, helped him steer clear of people with nefarious intent.

With loving, hardworking parents, CK needed only to look across the dinner table for role models. He modeled his baseball game–but not his life–after Darryl Strawberry. One of the few people to play on championship teams for both the Mets and the Yankees, Strawberry’s prowess on the diamond could not be overlooked. His personal life, however, was unworthy of emulation. Darryl was plagued with drug and spousal abuse problems and their inherent legal issues, diminishing and shortening what might have otherwise been a Hall of Fame career. CK’s father made it clear to him: separate the person from the action. By all means, imitate his sports acumen, just not the lifestyle that came along with it.

If you ask CK, he doesn’t consider himself the exception to “the rule.” He knows a plethora of black men who–like himself–have never been incarcerated, are happily married and spiritually grounded. They’re not on drugs and don’t have scores of illegitimate children they don’t care for. They are successful family men: bankers, doctors, lawyers. He even has one friend who–after finishing his education–is expected to sign with the NFL. My question to CK then was: if you’re not an anomaly, if you know so many educated, successful, hard-working family men like yourself, why do I never see you represented in the media?”

CK shrugged his enormous shoulders. “Because” he sighed, “it doesn’t sell.”

♦◊♦

Let’s play a game. Name five black men with a net worth of over $100m. You’ve got ten seconds. Go.

Who’d you come up with? Jay-Z? P-Diddy? Shaquille O’Neal? Tiger Woods? Kanye West?

Now let’s play the same game, but with one minor qualification: Name five black men who aren’t professional athletes or entertainers, with a net worth of over $100m.

You’ve got ten seconds. Go.

Who’d you come up with this time? Alphonse Fletcher Jr.? Quinton Primo? Kenneth I. Chenault? R. Donahue Peebles? Ulysses Bridgeman, Jr.?

Congratulations if you recognize any of those names. Generally speaking they aren’t mentioned in “mainstream” media. If a rapper farts into the wind it makes the 11 o’clock news, but when’s the last time you heard an interview from the CEO of American Express?

You haven’t. Because it’s not sexy. He’s one of the wealthiest, most influential men in America. And yet, like CK, he’s invisible.

“People don’t pay to see a black man get their MBA” CK laments. “They pay to see someone put a ball through a hoop or over a fence, or to see a concert where someone preaches a licentious lifestyle. I don’t sell anything; my path doesn’t sell anything.”

Having spent the past two decades in advertising and publishing, respectively, I understand what he’s saying. Sex sells. Scandals sell. And if you’re trying to maintain race-based income disparity, it’s especially useful to sell the idea that black men are lazy, illiterate, and socially irresponsible. If your only exposure to people of another culture is how they’re portrayed in the media, it’s easy to believe that black men come in only two categories:

1. hyper-aggressive physical phenomena, who are rewarded for their ability to entertain, be it as an athlete or performer, or
2. hyper-aggressive, shiftless, thugs, with their pants sagging below their asses, who’ve decided that the former path is inaccessible, and so pursue criminal activity.

To be clear, the minstrel show that is professional sports should by no means be a gauge of the intelligence of anyone but the individual performer. The collegiate system makes hundreds of millions of dollars by selling tickets, merchandise, and viewing rights to their sporting events. At best, this is a modern day form of indentured servitude. The players–largely minorities–are entirely uncompensated, and aren’t truly required to educate themselves as to how to manage the money they might make, should they be among the 1% that actually turn professional–or how to provide for themselves should their careers end abruptly, as happens frequently.

Also, to be clear: the 1% of collegiate athletes who turn professional are not wealthy. As Chris Rock so aptly put, “Shaquille O’Neal is rich. The person who signs his paycheck, is wealthy.”

♦◊♦

None of this is to say, of course, that the fault is entirely the media’s. “You can’t claim you want to be judged on the content of your character” exclaims CK “and then feed into stereotypes. You have to do your part to uplift.”

There’s accountability on the part of the individual. There’s responsible parenting. And there is the privilege of the media to choose to represent individuals that are actually worthy of imitation.

“My parents worked literally day and night to provide for my education” CK says. “I paid for my own school. I pledged Kappa Alpha Psi because their motto is: honorable achievement in every field of human endeavor. As an alumni, I give back to the community. I mentor youth and help them to see they have choices. I tell them it’s okay to admire athletes, but know that education is a far more viable road to success. I use myself as an example: I could have easily slipped into being a statistic, but I kept my nose clean; I didn’t give anyone a reason to arrest me. I tell the kids: edify yourself; if you’re going to choose a role model, pick an athlete that’s a Rhodes scholar.”

♦◊♦

After he attains his MBA, CK is looking forward to completing his CFA certification, and then becoming a portfolio manager. In the very likely event that he becomes successful–by his own definition–both in a familial, spiritual and financial way, it’s still highly unlikely you’ll see him in the stands at Fenway–he still hates the Red Sox. He’s also likely to stay invisible, because the only people who see him–and men like him–are those that want to. In sports, we deify or vilify individuals based on personal performance. Maybe someday we will progress as a society to the point where we judge individuals based on their character, and not just their race.

Education is the best pathway to success, both for people trying to better themselves, and for the society that doesn’t acknowledge their existence.

© Jackie Summers 2011

*This essay originally appeared on The Good Men Project on 11/8/2011

During a car accident, everything happens in slow motion.

♦◊♦

I had always wanted an American muscle car. They were built in a time when there was no shame in speed and no embarrassment in excess. It came as no surprise that the first time I laid eyes on Veronica–Ronnie for short–I fell madly, deeply in love.

She was a ’72 Buick Skylark custom convertible, canary yellow.  350 V8 engine, white leather bucket seats, canvas top, and a deep, throaty growl every time I hit her accelerator. The twelve miles I got per gallon were well worth the rumbling thunder of her idle, and the roar of power vibrating up my spine every time I hit the gas.  Ronnie was 3,000 pounds of pure American steel and arrogance.

With the help of Louie, my mechanic, I’d spent the better part of two years restoring her to showroom condition. Louie spewed a contiguous stream of curses so rank it could singe your ear-hairs, but he was honest, reasonably priced, and trustworthy. With the top down and the wind in my hair–I had hair back then–I left my parents home in Jamaica, Queens, and enjoyed the warmth of the summer sun, setting on my face.

Someone ran a stop sign.

Time dilation has been described as how the perception of time changes in the eyes of the observer, relative to the events occurring. “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour” according to Einstein. “Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT’S relativity.”

Being in a car accident is like watching a Michael Bay action sequence unfold at 1,000 frames per second. You rational mind can’t wrap itself around the concept that it’s actually happening, much less that it’s happening to you. The events of the next several moments seemed to stretch out into forever.

I saw the car run the intersection; I tried to swerve out of it’s way. For those of you who have never been in a car collision: there’s an earth-shattering kaboom, complete with the sound of metal wrenching, tires screeching, the smell of rubber and oil burning, and the clanging of parts which were once connected, now clanging into each other impotently. I felt my amygdala shut down my frontal lobes and flood my brain with dopamine, snapping instantly into crisis mode, as the offending vehicle slammed into Ronnie’s passenger door. Had anyone been sitting in the passenger’s seat, they would have been killed, instantly. If I wasn’t surrounded by two tons of American steel wrapped in canary yellow paint, I would have been killed too.

I remember spinning backwards and headlong into oncoming traffic, instinctively, desperately-and ineffectually-trying to steer out of the spiral. I remember the look of panic on the driver’s face as he slammed unavoidably into Ronnie, the force of gravity doubling and then doubling again as I screeched to an abrupt stop.

I hopped out of Veronica miraculously unscathed. I checked to make sure everyone else in the accident was unharmed–including the moron who’d hit me. And then, I turned my attention to the mangled hunk of metal that moments ago had surrendered her life to protect mine. The damage was catastrophic. I removed her fuzzy dice, sat on the street where she bled transmission fluid, and cried.

How I survived without a scratch is God’s own private mystery.

It didn’t take long for the police to arrive. They made sure no one was in critical condition, wrote down stories, and ran checks on licenses. It was at that moment I discovered my license had been suspended, due to an unpaid ticket.

A first-time, misdemeanor offense, the officers had the option of writing me a $75 fine, along with a summons for a court appearance: the minimum penalty for this particular offense.

I’d just survived a major car accident. I was shaken but generally unharmed. I was lamenting the death of my beloved Veronica when the pendulum of law swung about as far from justice as I believed possible. I was handcuffed, shoved into the back of a squad car, and taken to central booking.

♦◊♦

In prison, everything happens in slow motion.

♦◊♦

Being arrested is a lot like that slow-mo Michael Bay action sequence, expect instead of watching, it’s happening to you. My mind couldn’t wrap itself around what was going on, but I wasn’t given much of a choice. The events of the next several days seemed to stretch out into forever.

The next 127 hours of my life might as have well have been 127 years. I’d had a previous–entirely unwarranted–encounter with central booking once before, having been incarcerated for 12 hours without being charged. I knew to be extra careful not to mouth-off to the officers entrusted to my care, as I’d no desire to repeat the Abner Louima incident. The eternal descent to the holding cells known as “the Tombs” were an unwelcome memory I’d hope never to repeat. It was a Sunday, which was good only because it meant I didn’t have to rot the entire weekend in a six-by-six room while awaiting trial. I used my single phone call to tell my parents where I was. I wasn’t given the opportunity to post bail, or hire a lawyer.

I was given five minutes to talk to a court-appointed attorney–who reeked of cheap cologne and hair dye–prior to standing, handcuffed, before the bench. I was never given the opportunity to speak for myself. I watched helplessly as my parents, who were present in court, watched a judge dole out my sentence. I received the maximum possible penalty for my first-time, misdemeanor offense: a five-day sentence at Riker’s Island, a maximum security prison. I couldn’t believe my ears. “What just happened?!” I asked Mr. Grecian formula 16.

“What just happened?” he snorted. “You got fucked.”

♦◊♦

A small, unmarked road in northern Queens leads to the two-lane bridge that is the only way on or off Riker’s Island. The largest prison in the nation, it’s daily population–about 20,000 inmates–is the size of a small city, and about as expensive to run, at a cost of about $850M per annum. It is also infamous for being one of the most dangerous penal facilities in America, with at least 4 inmates a day being slashed or stabbed. Despite–or with the collusion of–the army of corrections officers, bad things happen here.

To a casual observer, it would be easy to mistake prison transport for a school-bus. This bus, however, isn’t yellow; it’s blue and white, and the reinforced steel cages that line the windows and doors serve as a constant reminder that a different kind of education is taking place. Hands and feet are handcuffed, and then a waist-chain is attached to the adjacent prisoner, which is daisy-chained to the prisoners in front of and behind you. Movement is slow, quiet, and awkward.

In a receiving room, you’re cataloged. You are stripped naked and an incredibly thorough cavity search is performed, which I discover after my release, is illegal (in the case of non-violent misdemeanor offenders). You are divested of your clothes and personal effects, interviewed, and then given a full medical examination. Blood samples are taken; your DNA is put into a national registry.

As I watched blood drain from my arm and fill several carefully annotated vials, I silently vowed to myself: never again would I ignore a ticket.

♦◊♦

There are actually ten separate jails on Riker’s Island. There’s a permanent infirmary. Two are juvenile detention centers. There are two facilities for women, although they place the transgendered among the general populace, at great peril. There’s gay housing and there’s a mental health center.

At the time of my incarceration, I knew none of this, nor did I care. My only thought was: survive.

Once they determine your housing, you’re outfitted with a jumpsuit, and given a blanket, a pillow, a toothbrush, a bar of soap–sans rope–and three changes of underwear and socks. You’re hand and foot-cuffed again as you’re escorted to your destination. Actual barred cells are reserved for historically violent offenders; most of the housing at Riker’s is dormitory-style: 100, 2′ x 6′ cots, one foot apart, in one gigantic pressure-cooker of a room.

Although I was assigned a cot in a “dorm,” I knew I was surrounded by individuals of nefarious intent. I recognized gang tattoos: Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings. The population is 90% black or hispanic, and factions form almost immediately. Being born and bred in New York City, I somehow knew the unstated rules: respect everyone, fear no one. Look everyone in the eye. Know when to look away but never drop your head. I’d never been more terrified in my entire life, but I knew I couldn’t let it show.  I heard people talking about what they were in for: rape, homicide, assault, armed robbery.

I wondered if I should invent a better story.

♦◊♦

While my cot was comfortable enough, you never really sleep in jail; at least, I didn’t. You hear the things that go on after the mandatory lights out. People were having sex in close proximity; not all of it consensual. That’s when I realized how to tell short-term people, like myself, from folks with longer sentences: the latter actually slept. A five day sentence meant–in theory–that I was just passing through. Clearly, some of my neighbors were at home.

In jail everyone wakes at the same time. Everyone showers. Everyone lines up to be chained together for meals, although you can’t by any stretch of the imagination call what they serve, food. No one complained and everyone ate fast, or went hungry. Hierarchy determines where you sat in the cafeteria; I made a decision early on to move about quietly, but not to isolate myself. The light was entirely gone from some of the eyes that met mine, and when a person with everything to lose meets a person with nothing to lose, it’s like the force of heavy stones on eggshells. The last thing I wanted was to unintentionally antagonize a resident; any incident could either prolong your sentence or shorten your life.

Boredom is a serious problem among inmates. After breakfast I found a chess game, being careful not to win more than I lost. There was a phone, but there was a pecking-order, and I didn’t rank high enough to use it. I watched violent arguments break out over how long a phone call went; even though I didn’t see any, I knew there were weapons in that room.

It takes one hour for everyone to line up and be chained together for the one hour of sunlight allowed, per day. Once outside, everyone separates quickly. When all you have is one hour a day of “freedom,” every second counts. Hardcore bodybuilders hit the weights and their bodies defy everything Men’s Health told you about nutrition; based on their diets, building muscle should be impossible. Baseball, football and basketball games form; it’s clear that in order to participate, you need to have a pre-existing club membership. Transactions take place. Deals are made between corrections officers and inmates. Things and people are bartered, bought and sold. It takes another hour to line up, to be re-chained, after the daily allotment of “fresh air” has passed.

There’s one other way to tell those with short sentences from those with long: time dilation. I was given a five-day sentence. Every second took an hour and every hour took a day and every time a corrections officer showed up at the gates with a stack of papers, I desperately hoped that it would be my name they called. For inmates with longer sentences, time had lost all meaning. It didn’t matter what day of the week or what week of the month or what month of the year it was: they weren’t going anywhere. I tried–ineffectually–to erase all signs of hope from my eyes, as I didn’t want to give someone with no fear, no good intentions, and no hope, a reason to remove mine.

♦◊♦

How I survived a week at Riker’s Island without a scratch is God’s own private mystery. The damage was not catastrophic.

After serving my sentence without infraction, I was released. The bus ride back to freedom over that interminably long bridge was even longer than the one that brought me there. I knew it wasn’t over until my feet hit the pavement.

When they finally released me from detention, It was five o’clock in the morning and I had no idea where I was or where I was going; I just wanted to run until my lungs burned and my legs collapsed, and feel the warmth of the summer sun, rising on my face. I’d survived an entire week in America’s most dangerous prison, and I was shaken but generally unharmed.

♦◊♦

While it is true that laws are meant to be “race neutral,” those charged with dispensing the rule of law, are not. I always believed the severity of my sentence was directly related to the color of my skin, but until a week ago, this was all emotional and circumstantial. Jennifer Adger, a PhD candidate at Columbia University, is originally from Alabama, a state with one of the highest incidences of death penalty sentencing. Her thesis proves statistically that, counties which historically had a high incidence of lynching retain the highest rates of capital punishment.

As Lisa Hickey pointed out in her essay “You Do The Math“ there is great disparity in terms of minimum and maximum sentencing. While it’s easy to scream “racism,” a study published in the American Journal of Sociology AJS Volume 109 Number 3 (November 2003) by Angela Behrens and Christopher Uggen of the University of Minnesota, and Jeff Manza of Northwestern University actually present historical argument behind institutionalized racial disparity in criminal sentencing, and their insidious reasons:

“Disproportionate criminal punishment of nonwhites constitutes, in part, a reaction to perceived racial threat. The most common formulation traces racial threat to economic relationships between racial (or ethnic) groups. Levels of racial hostility may therefore be greater in places where a dominant group has higher levels of economic marginality. The racial composition of state prisons is firmly associated with the adoption of state felon disenfranchisement laws.

“The expansion of citizenship to racial minorities, and the subsequent extension of suffrage to all citizens, threatened to undermine the political power of the white majority. By restricting the voting rights of a disproportionately nonwhite population, felon disenfranchisement laws offered one method for states to avert “the menace of negro domination.” The sharp increase in African-American imprisonment goes hand-in-hand with changes in voting laws. Felon disenfranchisement provisions offered a tangible response to the threat of new African-American voters that would help preserve existing racial hierarchies.

“It was not until the 1965 passage of the Voting Rights Act (which effectively eliminated state voting restrictions that undermined the Fifteenth Amendment with the intent to diminish the voting rights of African-Americans) that near universal suffrage was finally assured.

“We conclude that racial threat is reflected in the composition of state prisons and find that such racial disparities in punishment drive voting restrictions on felons and ex-felons.”

♦◊♦

In a free society, ethical progress is the slowest motion of all.

© j summers 2011

I’m seventeen years old. I’m visiting the home of my friend Chris, in Staten Island. We read comics and his mom makes us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cut diagonally. The next day, someone paints ”nigger lover” on his garage, in big red letters.

This is not the most racist thing that has ever happened to me.

♦◊♦

I’m twenty-eight. I’m working on Wall St., in the energy sector. It’s 10 A.M. and I’m just settling into the stack of reports requiring my attention. The news sweeps through the office like a tsunami: OJ Simpson, not guilty. The Senior Analyst of the Oil and Gas group comes up to my desk and asks “is it okay for white people to start looting now?”

This is not the most racist thing that has ever happened to me.

♦◊♦

I’m thirty years old. My date looks like she put on her dress with a spray-can. We’ve finished playing pool and now we’re having a drink at a pub. Her mouth is writing sweet, filthy promises, that I believe her body has every intention on cashing. The large burly gent next to us seems to be having a good time as well; so good in fact that he–quite accidentally–bumps into my date. Her gin and tonic splashes all over her new dress, ruining it, and the mood.

I tap “Burly” on the shoulder. “I see you’re having a good time with your friends” I say, “and I don’t want to interrupt. But you–accidentally–bumped into my date, and spilled her drink all over her new dress. I’d appreciate it if you apologized.”

“You goddamned, stupid, fucking nigger” he spews. “Do you have any idea where you are!?” He’s drunk and angry and looking for trouble. It’s clear I’m about to get some action, just not the kind I had in mind.

A minute later and the five of us are outside: myself, my date–who just wants to go home and is cowering behind me–Burly, and two of his friends. “Okay you stupid fucking nigger” he shouts, “what are you going to do now? There are three of us, and one of you.”

“This is easy” I say, pointing at his friends. “I can either beat all three of you up, or I can just beat HIM up. You two are free to go.”

His friends–who’ve clearly been pressed into “take-care-of-our-drunk-loudmouth-friend” service before–apply the better part of valor, and leave. While I’m taking off my coat, Burly throws a haymaker in my direction. My martial arts training kicks in; thirty seconds later and I’m sitting on his back, his wrist–agonizingly twisted the wrong way–in one hand, and a fistful of ginger hair in the other. He’s spitting venomous epithets at  me when it occurs to me that, despite not being the aggressor, should a police officer wander upon the scene, I’m likely going to jail. I end the fight, and leave.

This is not the most racist thing that’s ever happened to me.

♦◊♦

I’m thirty two years old. I’ve just left my car–a canary yellow 1972 Buick Skylark convertible–at my mechanic in the Bronx. I’m walking to the subway when three police cars screech to a stop around me. Six officers jump out of their cars–guns drawn–and suddenly I’m trying to think clearly enough to answer the questions that are being yelled at me as my legs are kicked apart and my face is shoved into a wall.

I’m calm. I’m polite. I think of the (then) recently deceased Amadou Diallo, and curb my genetic tendency towards sarcasm. The officers check my identification and make sure there are no warrants for my arrest. After it’s been determined that my story checks out, I ask the officer closest to me why I was stopped. He tells me that I “matched the description of a suspect,” and as he answers, he notices me taking note of his badge number.

Without explanation, I’m handcuffed, unceremoniously stuffed into the back of a police car, and taken to Central Booking, otherwise known as “the Tombs.” I descend a staircase deeper than the pits of Avernus and am placed into a holding cell. It’s unclear if I am being arrested; in fact I’m never told what’s going on. There’s a phone but it’s out of order. Four hours go by. I’m surrounded by genuinely dangerous people, who for reasons beyond my comprehension, are leaving me completely alone.

Eight hours pass. By now I’ve missed work. Twelve hours after I drop my car off at my mechanic, an officer comes down with a stack of papers and begins to call off names. I’m being released; apparently no charges were filed against me. My property and my freedom are returned. I receive no explanation and no apology.

This is not the most racist thing that’s ever happened to me.

♦◊♦

The wonderful part about the experiences I just described is their overtness. Once, racism was men in hoods burning a cross on your lawn. It was separate entrances and separate water fountains and the back of the bus, and if people didn’t know their place it was okay to remind them who’s in charge. The great thing about those folks was: at least you knew where you stood. A man with a noose has clear intentions, about as easy to spot as a harvest moon on a clear autumn night. In a best case scenario, with a bit of discretion, you could avoid these people entirely. In a worst case scenario, you could at least defend yourself.

The problem with today’s racism is: nobody ever actually admits to being a racist. Refusal to acknowledge a problem is in fact, tacit compliance.

Modern racism is the insidious undercurrent that keeps classism aloft. It’s city planning that isolates certain neighborhoods, depriving them of civil services. It’s public schools in “low income neighborhoods” with overcrowded classrooms and dangerously outdated facilities. It’s the bank loan for the new business that you don’t get even though your credit is good, because you’re “high risk.” It’s using Jay-Z, Oprah and Michael Jordan as examples to prove race-based income disparity no longer exists.

If overt racism is a noose, institutionalized racism is carbon monoxide: just as lethal but more pervasive and far harder to detect.

♦◊♦

My best friend in the world happens to be an insanely wealthy, drop dead gorgeous blonde. Not long ago, I was conversing with her husband about a recent case in Auburn Washington, where a (black) man was arrested for attempting to deposit a bank check made out to him. “Your wife” I said, “has walked into a bank, kindly explained to a teller that she’d forgotten her identification, and walked out with pockets full of cash.”

“That’s true” he said, “but you can ride the subways at 3 A.M. and not have to worry about being attacked.”

“That’s probably true” I conceded. “Want to trade?”

♦◊♦

Touré, a novelist, journalist, MSNBC personality, and contributing editor at Rolling Stone, currently has an essay on the Atlantic entitled “The Most Racist Thing That Ever Happened to Me.” Unsurprisingly–at least to me–when 105 interviewees were posed this question, the most common response was, “the answer is unknowable.”

I’m wont to agree.

A brief perusal of the comments sees the vitriol this topic provokes rise to caustic levels. The (perceived) anonymity of the internet emboldens cowards; opinions are frequently expressed online that would otherwise never see the light of day. Personally, I try to avoid engaging such individuals in pointless argument. As my Mom would say, “never wrestle with the pig. You both get filthy, but the pig enjoys it.”

Instead, I’ll simply ask: what’s the most racist thing that’s ever happened to you?

© j summers 2011

* This originally appeared on The Good Men Project 9/21/11

“What did you do?”

Singularly, this is the question I am asked most frequently when I tell people I am divorced, as if mere possession of the Y chromosome automatically means the dissolution of my marriage was intrinsically and entirely my fault.

I respond with what is–in my mind–the primary reason I’m no longer married to that particular individual. “My wife was abusive, physically and emotionally. In four years of marriage, I was kicked, punched in the face, she’d fly into a rage and destroy my things.”

This is usually the part where the initial question is repeated: “Why, what did YOU do?”

Implication: her unconscionable behavior must have been predicated by some even more loathsome act, perpetrated by me. In other words: clearly you deserved to be punished, it’s your fault, what provoked her to such uncontrollable anger?

I am trying to imagine the scenario where a wife describes her husband kicking her and punching her in the face, which is not immediately followed by righteous indignation, and a call to 911. None exist.

I go deeper. I explain that my ex-wife was massively insecure and venomously jealous. Once again, instead of assigning ownership of behavior to the individual responsible, my character is brought into question. “Well, what did you do to make her so insecure?”

Insecurity is a toxin of the soul; a condition that issues forth from the inside out, not the reverse. While you can do many things to–attempt to–reassure an insecure individual, ultimately these are doomed to failure, and may even backfire.

Example: About two years into my marriage, my best friend of twenty years moved to Atlanta. After moving beyond the initial despair, I decided that no matter where he was in the world, he was going to be my friend. I decided to visit him twice a year.

I waited six months before I went to visit him the first time, and I wanted my wife to feel special before I left for a ten day trip. The day before I was scheduled to leave, I got up, got dressed like I was going to work, drove her to the bus stop, and kissed her goodbye, like any other day. Then I turned around and drove home.

I cleaned the house from top to bottom. I went to the grocery store and got everything I needed to fix her favorite meal. And then I went to the florist and bought a pound of rose petals.

When she got home from work that day I greeted her at the door with her favorite robe and slippers. I undressed her at the door, as her favorite CD played; the scent of vanilla candles wafting through the room. Rose petals adorned the floor from the front door to the bathtub, where I had a bubble bath run. I helped her into the bathtub, bathed her from head to toe, shampooed and conditioned her hair, and then fork-fed her her favorite meal as she relaxed in the tub. I pre-warmed the towels, dried her off from head to toe, and allowed the path of rose-petals to guide her to the bedroom. After a full body massage and several hours of love-making, we fell asleep.

When I awoke it must have been almost midnight. I got out of bed; I had a seven A.M. flight the next morning and I hadn’t packed. Apparently I woke her as I arose, because the comment she made upon waking was:

“Well, I see we got ‘fucking the wife’ crossed off the list.”

♦◊♦

The idea that simply being the male in the relationship meant that I bore the brunt of the blame for the deterioration of my marriage was–(un)surprisingly–also implied by our marriage counselor. During one counseling session, the therapist asked us each to state one thing about the other that bothered us.

“He’s sarcastic” she said.

“That’s true” I responded, “but she hits.”

Before I could continue, the therapist turned to me and said “you know, sometimes words can hit like a fist.

Dumbfounded, I looked at her. “That’s true” I said, “but sometimes fists can hit like a fist, and she hits.”

I left that session promising not to be sarcastic for an entire week. By the third day, my wife asked me why I was giving her the silent treatment.

“I’m not NOT talking to you” I replied. “I am trying to live up to my promise not to be sarcastic, and I can’t even answer this question without breaking my promise.”

♦◊♦

My ex-wife grew up believing that any and all problems in a marriage ultimately stemmed from a husbands inability to be trustworthy. In her defense, she was reenacting behavior she’d observed as a child; her Dad had cheated on her Mom–repeatedly–and when he did, she beat on him. In her mind, the second you truly trusted a man, he was going to betray you. I wasn’t an asshole per se; I was an asshole waiting to happen.

For what it’s worth, her parents are still married; they just hate each other.

Are some husbands assholes? Sure; husbands are people, people are assholes. It’s not gender specific. Either sex is capable of lying, cheating, poor communication and any number of anathemas to a happy marriage. Ultimately it takes two to make it work; it only takes one to fuck it up beyond all recognition. In the case of my marriage, the absolute inability to own responsibility for her poisonous thoughts–and the resultant heinous acts–proved too corrosive to overcome.

The idea that owning a penis makes you wrong by default is sexist; as outdated a social meme as any still plaguing modern woman. The sooner we dispense with the idea that simply being male means you are wrong in any scenario, the sooner we can address real problems in a meaningful way. Contrary to what fairy tales and rom-coms want us to believe, love is not enough to sustain a relationship, it’s just a good place to start, and a great reason to try.

© j summers 2011

* This essay originally appeared on The Good Men Project on 9/15/2011

Tarel Coleman was always too pretty for his own good.

Bronze skin, square jaw, hazel eyes, and that wicked grin–the one where just the left side of his mouth curled up–that let you know he was up to no good. My nephew Damon introduced me to Tarel when we were all twelve years old. I knew right from the start: Tarel was a special kind of  ”I want this guy on my team” crazy.

Tarel was over-the-top passionate about everything: women, poetry, women, music, sports, women. Even as a teenager you could tell he was trying to focus his indefatigable energy in a positive, “run-into-a-burning-building-to-save-a-kitten” direction. He was an heroic son-of-a-bitch from the day he was born. I didn’t always like Tarel, but I loved him. He was someone I knew I could count on.

♦◊♦

One of the selling points of the Brooklyn waterfront apartment I called home were the spectacular postcard views of the lower Manhattan skyline. I’d wake each morning to majestic man-made mountains of glass and steel, defiantly scraping the sky. On the morning of September 11, 2001, when the first plane hit World Trade 1, I was sound asleep.

From across the East River, the explosion shook my building. I lumbered out of bed, curious to see who–or what–dared disturb my slumber. At first, as I looked out of my window, nothing struck me as unusual. Then I noticed the gape-jawed crowds gathered on the street below.

I climbed out onto my fire escape, to be greeted by my downstairs neighbor. “Did I imagine it, Megan” I asked “or did the whole building just shake?”

“Jackie” she said, without making eye contact, “look up.”

There in front of me was the World Trade Center, on fire.

♦◊♦

The crackling of my then state-of-the-art 52k modem struggling to connect my PowerBook with the internet intermingled with the frenetic newscasts. I called my Mom. Emails and instant messages were flooding in from friends around the globe. I went back upstairs and back out onto my fire escape, the apparent serenity of a perfectly azure sky besmirched by the billowing pillar of smoke emanating from the South Tower. As I stood there trying to figure out what I should do next, the second plane hit.

From where I stood in Brooklyn, I could feel the fire blast on my face.

♦◊♦

Right around that time, inside WT1, people were being evacuated. Elyse, who worked on the 102nd floor, was the second to last person in line to get into the elevator. Michael, her boss, insisted they switch places.

“Mike” Elyse said, “you go. You’ve got a wife and two kids. I’ve got a cat who destroys my furniture.”

“Don’t be silly” Michael said. “You get on this one, I’ll be right behind you on the next elevator down.”

♦◊♦

By the time Squad 252 in Williamsburg got the call, the mass exodus from Manhattan had begun. No one really knew what was going on, but no one was taking any chances. One plane hitting a building was highly unlikely; two meant for sure we were under attack. Subways were shut down. Cabs were packed four and five deep with customers headed to similar locations. Tens of thousands of people were walking home across the Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges.

Squad 252 was among those first responders to answer the call.

♦◊♦

I remember standing on my fire escape, feeling a sense of… defiance. As both Towers belched smoke and fire, I remember thinking to myself: we’re still standing. You can hit us but you can’t knock us down. We can take a hit. Look at us, you threw planes at us and we are still standing.

And then, the first Tower fell.

♦◊♦

There’s a true story about the first time Tarel knew he was going to be a fireman. He was five years old, and he’d stuck his head into the incinerator in the Queens apartment building where his family lived. John, his brother, said no one had noticed, until they got upstairs, and saw that he had no eyebrows, no eyelashes, and no hairline.

On September 11, Tarel Coleman was 32 years old. He’d been nicknamed “Prozac” by his team, not because he took the mood-balancing drug, but because “sometimes he just needed to calm down a little.” He’d married his childhood sweetheart, Michelle Brown, and had a teenage daughter.

Tarel was inside of the South Tower when it fell. He died the only way he would have wanted: saving others.

♦◊♦

The fact that “Never forget” became the mantra for the 9/11 terrorist attacks always seemed ironic to me, as if anyone ever could. Like a port-wine stain, it’s a permanent blemish on the American psyche. Historians will debate the causes and effects for centuries. Anthropologists will look back and recognize cultural and socioeconomic shockwaves.

I will remember Tarel.

I’ll remember the kid I grew up with who was always too fast for me on the football field. I’ll remember how good it felt knowing that any trouble we got into, I knew he had my back. I’ll remember Tarel, not for the way he died, but for the way he lived.

They say everyone dies twice: once when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time. When your time comes, what reason will people have to keep your name alive?

© j summers 2011

A Qualitative Analysis of The Exclusive GMP Survey

I had no idea I was black, until my first day of first grade.

In 1953, when my parents first moved into their home in Jamaica, Queens, they were the only black family on the block. At the time, segregation was still legal. By 1964–the year the Civil Rights Act was passed–only one white family remained in the neighborhood.

In 1967–the year I was born–interracial marriage was still illegal.

In 1971, more than a dozen years after the infamous “Little Rock Nine,” the Supreme Court upheld busing as a means of achieving public school integration. The decision was met with violent opposition.

One year later I began attending public school in Bayside Queens. My bus was late, and my arrival disrupted Mrs. Schulman’s speech; I assumed this explained why everyone was staring at me. With my name-tag properly affixed to my favorite Garanimals t-shirt, students were encouraged to wander about the classroom and get to know our fellow classmates. For as long as I live, I will never forget doe-eyed Valerie making a bee-line to me, gape-mouthed and looking me in the eye as she ran her fingers gingerly across the back of my hand, as if to see if I was real.

I looked at her as if she was crazy.

My confusion registered as offense to her, for which she was immediately contrite. Her response to my shock may be the singular most innocent thing anyone’s ever said to me:

“I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’ve never seen a black person before in real life, only in the movies and on TV.”

When I got home from school that day, my mother asked me what I’d learned. “Guess what Mommy” I said. “I’m black. How come you never told me?”

My utter lack of racial identity was not because I was a dullard–I’d actually entered public school reading on a twelfth-grade level. The youngest of five kids, I had one brother and sister lighter than myself, and one brother and sister darker than myself. I just assumed people came in all shades.

Color simply didn’t matter, being a good person did.

You can imagine my surprise at finding myself in the principal’s office in my first week of school. In my eagerness to make friends, I’d offered a student Tic-Tacs; he told the teacher I was trying to give him drugs.

I was six years old, and had no idea what drugs were.

Equally as enlightening was the reaction the first time I changed for gym class. “Dude, you’re black all over!” was the exclamation. Apparently, little Jimmy expected me to have a white underbelly, like a monkey.

Ultimately we shared the same source of ignorance: our parents. To me, my blackness was incidental; it didn’t grant or deny me any special privilege. I was as unaware of my own pigmentation as I was of everyone else’s.

To others, the color of my skin was fundamental; a factor that could determine with a precursory glance my social status, intelligence, and whether or not I was a potential source of danger.

*****

What Tom experienced on safari is not dissimilar to my experiences in corporate America, except without the warm welcomes in hope of a good tip. I’ve been dependent on the kindness of strangers in a potentially hostile environment where no one looked like me. From my Wall St. days to my time in advertising to the many years I spent in magazine publishing–not including the guys who delivered my mail or worked in security–I can count the number of times I’ve worked with another black male on one hand. On the rare occasions I did work with another person of color I felt obliged to challenge them to a duel; as Highlander taught us, there can be only one.

A black male in the upper echelons of corporate America is far more rare–and harder to spot–than any leopard in the wilds of Africa.

While there have always been some with the innate ability to see beyond my color to my qualifications, reality has proved them a minority. Once, after spending several hours on the phone with someone who was clearly impressed with my resume, I was asked to come in for an interview. Suit and tie, I waited patiently in the lobby for my potential employer to arrive. She made no attempt to hide her chagrin upon seeing me for the first time. “My god” she gasped “I had no idea you were black.”

My first response–in my mind–was to reprise the classic scene from The Jerk starring Steve Martin and assure her that I was not going to stay that color. My second response–again in my mind–was to express equal shock and disappointment at her not being black. My actual response was: “I hope you’re pleasantly surprised, and that it won’t have a bearing on this interview.”

Needless to say, I didn’t get the job.

Then there was the time, during my tenure on Wall St., when a white co-worker waited until after hours to go into my desk to retrieve a copy of my resume. He then cut the resume up into pieces, taped the cut pieces of my address to an official business envelope–terrorist-style–and mailed threatening letters to my home. When I reported this to my human resources department I was asked to take a week off—with pay—while they attended to the situation.

By the time I returned to work, my antagonist had been fired. When I asked the director of HR–a Latin woman–why they’d wanted me off premises, she closed the door and spoke candidly: they were afraid of me.

Apparently the potential for an angry black man was a greater threat to security than a clearly psychotic white guy.

As you climb the corporate ladder this problem is exacerbated by being given authority over white subordinates. Many have never had occasion to associate with a black man in their daily lives, much less take directives from one. Never was this more obvious than the day one of my employees at a glossy woman’s magazine attempted to circumvent the chain of command, choosing to address my superior instead of me with a matter which clearly fell within the realm of my jurisdiction. When in closed-door meetings she was asked why she tried to undermine my authority, she confessed: she simply didn’t feel comfortable having to answer to me.

“You claim it isn’t easy for you, but you’re unaware of all of the advantages you have in this industry” I told her “simply for being a white female. Look around you” I said “and try to imagine how I feel. There are forty-seven people in this office, forty-three of whom are white females. Let’s turn it around: what if you were the only white female in an office full of black males–how comfortable would you feel then?”

“Totally uncomfortable” she mumbled. “But still more comfortable than having this conversation.”

*****

One of the reasons discussions on race have become increasingly difficult is homogeneity: there are certain questions you simply never bother to ask if everyone around you looks just like you. Too many people who were born on third base actually believe they’ve hit a triple. It’s like trying to explain water to fish.

As I grew into the awareness that there would always be people who would make assumptions about the nature of my character based sheerly on the color of my skin, I came to understand that their preconceptions spoke far more about them than they ever could about me.

Twenty-five years of working within the system taught me that nothing diffuses the discomfort surrounding race relations more than having a good sense of humor. Candid discussions on race make grown people squirm, and since the subject is considered taboo, everyone simply tries to ignore the elephant in the room.

That’s usually about the time I pop out a (metaphorical) elephant gun.

“What is your exact title?” the thin blonde asked in a thin drawl. “I’m placing an order for your business cards today.”

“Director of Print and Digital” I replied to my new assistant. “Or you could just call me ‘That Black Guy.’ At least that way, everyone will know who you’re talking about.”

Translation: yes, I just started working for a company with over twelve hundred employees in six cities, and yes, I happen to be the first person of color appointed to the office of Director in the history of this company. Now that we’re beyond that, how about we have as much fun as we can with this job without compromising the seriousness of our work?

Of course, this technique is more effective with subordinates than “superiors.”

“If you’re going to make a black man work on Martin Luther King Day” I proclaimed as I entered my office on the holiday “someone better be buying me a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Extra crispy, with biscuits, and gravy.”

The large cowboy who considered himself my boss laughed nervously. “If I said something like that” he bellowed “I’d be fired.”

“If you said something like that” I shot back “it’d be about the least offensive thing you’ve ever said in these offices.”

I’ve always believed a fair measure of character is the ability to laugh at oneself when the joke’s on you. Sadly, the big cowboy did not share my sentiments.

*****

My mom still lives in Jamaica, Queens, in the house I grew up in. From my apartment in Brooklyn I have to take two trains and a bus to visit her. Recently, when returning from one of my  visits, I took a seat on the subway, only to feel my well honed instinct for trouble tingling. I looked immediately to my left; there sat a large, intimidating black guy. We’d made eye contact; I couldn’t look away without appearing cowed. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded his head in my direction: the slightest token of respect: I responded in kind. Just to my right sat another equally menacing looking black guy, who repeated this ritual of acknowledgement; again, without breaking eye contact, I returned the most meager of nods.

Safety secured, I relaxed and looked straight ahead, to see a black man in aviator glasses, a black bandana, a hooded sweatshirt and Harley-Davidson motorcycle boots.

It was my own reflection in the window.

That’s when I realized: I’m a big scary black guy. This is people’s first perception of me. No one sees my Scottish grandmother, or my half-Italian grandfather. No one sees an artist, a musician, an entrepreneur, an autodidact, a devoted son. To those that know me, the idea that anyone (who didn’t have a legitimate reason to be afraid of me) could perceive me as a threat, is laughable.

To everyone else, I’m just some black guy.

*****

Today my social circle is comprised of a veritable smorgasbord of ethnicities. Equally diverse are my taste in women: I married (and divorced) a black woman. Subsequently major relationships were respectively with Israeli, Venezuelan, Dominican, Filipino, Austrian, and Egyptian women. In between serious relationships, the palate of women who’ve adorned my dating life has had more colors than a bowl of Trix cereal.

I’m simply more concerned with the quality of your humanity than the color of your skin. Like everyone else I’m not without my prejudices. If I’m playing pick-up basketball at Marcy projects on a Sunday morning, and I have to choose between teaming with a tall, muscular black guy and a short white guy, the choice is obvious: I pick the short white guy, every time. He’s clearly the biggest bad-ass out there, or he wouldn’t have bothered to set foot on the court.

My specific prejudice is against assholes. Fortunately no one segment has managed to corner the market on being an asshole; they still come in every gender, sexual preference, creed, and ethnicity.

I don’t claim to speak for all black people any more than I claim to speak for all men; the human experience is too unique to be encapsulated by any one individual. I believe it’s important to think of race as a social construct; an idea designed to justify maintaining economic inequality. From a world-view, whites and blacks are a minority; even combined, Asians still outnumber us two-to-one. People of color are a minority in the same way that women are a minority: in power, not in actual population.

By coincidence, the Good Men Project is–despite the best intentions–a microcosm of the disparity that still exists. The mission behind GMP is to discuss what it means to be a good man. Of the over 120 regular contributors, only two are black: myself and Damon Young. Is this because there no good black men, or are good black men either unwilling or unable to discuss intelligently the innate nature of goodness? Whether by default or design, the determination of what is good is still being made by white males.

The difference in melanin from the whitest white person to the blackest black person is less than 1/10,000 of one ounce. Tom, the next time you’re in town, come to Harlem and we’ll hang out. Better yet, come to Brooklyn: we’ll bring our laptops to Bed Stuy cafe and swap stories. I’m willing to bet we have more commonalities than superficial differences: we both believe in and want to live in a meritocracy. If a world where racial and gender equality is ever going to exist, it will begin with conversations like this, between men like us.

Because ultimately, color doesn’t matter; being a good man does.

© j summers 2011

* This originally appeared on The Good Men Project on 8/8/11.

Are highly sexual individuals by definition promiscuous?

Five.

According to AskMen.com, that is number of sexual partners which magically transforms a woman from saintly to scandalous.

Really?

Like my good friend over at Dirty in Public, I took umbrage with this factoid. At best, it lacked context. Surely the same standard of expectation shouldn’t apply equally across the generations: an active twenty-one year old is unlikely to have accumulated the same number of sexual partners as someone twice their age. Shouldn’t there be a sliding scale of salaciousness?

At worst I found this number not just facile and unrealistic, but sexist and misogynistic. In the year 2011 A.D., could such Victorian attitudes on sexuality still permeate our collective consciousness?

From some of the comments on yesterday’s article, apparently the answer is: yes.

From the latin word prōmiscuus, the original definition for promiscuity carried a base meaning of “indiscriminate (sexual) choice.” This would imply that (at least originally) promiscuity was meant to apply not so much in the quantitative–the actual number of people engaged sexually, as in the qualitative–a lack of careful choices regarding sexual partners.

As a point of reference, my best friend is married to a rockstar, and before matrimony, he behaved as celebrities are wont to do. Rockstar privilege allowed him to explore the kind of opportunities that are reserved for precious few, but despite wanton indulgence, circumstance allowed him the ability to be extremely discriminating when choosing bedmates.

Does his behavior still qualify as promiscuous? By the above definition, I’m unsure.

Which raises the issue of the double-standard. Despite the (seemingly) universal desire for sex, society still lionizes heterosexual men for the same licentious behavior women are stigmatized for. This creates a cultural paradox: a premium is placed on female sexuality which is meant to be admired but never enjoyed. The resultant conflicting messages create a culture of confusion: be sexy, but don’t actually be sexual, or you’re subject to public lampoon.

While I’d like to believe we’ve made actual progress towards gender equality, the scientific method dictates that first you collect data, then you form hypothesis. So what makes someone, male or female, promiscuous?

Take this exclusive, anonymous Good Men Project survey, and tell us. We’ll report back on our findings in a week.

© j summers 2011

*This post originally appeared on The Good Men Project on 8/1/2011

How to Stop Trying to Be “THE Man” and Just Be A MAN.

Happy Hardaway was born in Brooklyn in 1940 under unassuming circumstances. Like his older colleague, sometime antagonist and lifetime friend Daffy Duck, his youth was wild, turbulent. No one, including his creators could have predicted he would become an American icon, an international star with more than 175 films to his credit, an Academy Award winner, and the acme of calm, collected cool.

Every so-called self-help guru on the planet will tell you to “believe in yourself” and every self-appointed relationship “expert” preaches the value of confidence, but exactly how does one acquire it? How do you go from being shy, maladjusted and socially awkward to suave, debonaire and sophisticated?

You become Bugs Bunny.

Beginning in the spring of 1939, the hare who would become king appeared in a number of shorts where, despite his character being largely undefined, he became wildly popular. In the summer of 1940, he starred in “A Wild Hare”  assumed a pseudonym that was simultaneously tough yet cuddly, and “Bugs Bunny” was born.

In his first of many co-stars with Elmer Fudd, many of the hallmarks we recognize about him are already present: the carrots, the white gloves, the signature tagline “What’s up, Doc?,” and above all, the ability to utterly infuriate an opponent. But this is not the Bugs we know and love. He’s brash. He’s obnoxious. He’s annoying and LOUD. He’s melodramatic.

And his acting skills are questionable, at best.

Like many of the Greatest Generation, Bugs was called into military service. His civic duty began in 1942 when he made a vaudevillian request to buy war bonds. In 1943, he joined the Marines and was appointed an Honorary Master Sergeant. A wrong turn at Albuquerque landed  him in Nazi Germany instead of Las Vegas, where he met (and humiliated) Hitler.

Bugs returned from the end of the Second World War a changed rabbit. He’d become self-aware. He realizes his world exists inside a cartoon, and frequently breaks through the fourth wall. It’s the beginning of his evolution.

Veteran Bugs encountered all manner of antagonists, assembling an impressive rogues gallery. Hunters, cowboys, martians, witches, monsters, mobsters, djinn, wrestlers, pirates and even The Yankees opposed him. None of them stood a chance. His  understanding of cartoon physics made him indomitable: he could alter reality at will. If provoked, Bugs acts with the petulance of an immature Godling. He is cruel and sadistic, frequently torturing his adversaries.

This abuse of power reaches its pinnacle in Duck Amuck, 1953, where he demonstrates his mastery over time and space by changing (in rapid succession) the scenery, props, music and even the actual frames in which Daffy Duck appears.

To his credit, Daffy shows his acuity as an entertainer, moving with ease from one characterization to another. He’s a Musketeer. He’s a farmer. He sings and plays ukulele. He’s a cowboy, a sailor, an airplane pilot.

It is Bugs at his most unsympathetic.

Something changed in Bugs after this over-the-top display of superiority. His bravado is replaced with genuine self-assurance. He’s got nothing left to prove. He knows someone’s writing the script; he’s done it himself. He’s unconcerned with the outcome. You can point a double-barrel shotgun in his face and he doesn’t act; he reacts, casually, with grace and humor. From this point on he uses his omnipotence rarely and then judiciously. He’s outgrown the need to overpower his opponents; he realizes he can simply out-smart them.

This Bugs is kinder, gentler. He’s got some experience under his belt and he’s learned from it. He’s unassuming, gracious, and self-effacing. He reeks of unstated power and oozes confidence.

This newfound aura of insouciance manifests in the classic Duck Season/Rabbit Season Trilogy, 1958. Displaying a mastery of pronouns (and cross-dressing), he deceives Daffy into convincing Elmer to shoot him, repeatedly.

Incidentally, unlike Wile E. Coyote, Elmer has no desire to eat either Bugs or Daffy; he’s a vegetarian and hunts simply for sport.

It’s worth noting that Daffy Duck also served in WW2, going as far as smashing Hitler in the head with an oversized mallet. He also comes home a changed duck, albeit not in a good way. He’s bitter. He’s arrogant. He’s massively insecure and jealous of the affection slathered over Bugs.

Although he’s older and has similar experiences, he never matures. Whereas Bugs becomes self-aware, Daffy remains self-conscious. He’s as talented as Bugs and equally smart; maybe smarter. Sadly, unlike Bugs he craves attention, acceptance, and validation. We pity Daffy for the same reasons we admire Bugs.

Never is this more evident than in Show Biz Bugs, 1957. Although their performances are identical, the audience can smell Daffy’s desperation, and they despise him for it. Daffy is so overly ingratiating, so desperate for approval, he commits a stunt of self-destruction so heinous it is banned from American television. The live audience loves him for it, but (un)fortunately, suicide is an act that cannot be repeated.

The stark differences drawn over the decades between these anthropomorphic cartoon animals are a valuable (and entertaining) lesson in building self-confidence and the science of attraction. The process of becoming self-aware takes time. All of your life experience, good and bad, contributes to your becoming a whole individual. There is no skipping ahead, no fast-forward, there are no short cuts or quick fixes. How you process your experience determines whether it remains knowledge or transforms into wisdom.

Wisdom: the practical application of knowledge acquired.

The evolution Bugs experiences is circular, as he goes from being unaware to self-aware and finally back to unaware. He grows into a person who genuinely cares for others and is mildly detached from concern over his own well being. The confidence he exudes isn’t manufactured and so doesn’t feel disingenuous. He’s unfazed by mundane concerns and unflappable in the face of danger. He’s not looking for trouble but he’s not going to let anyone screw with him, or his friends.

We trust in Bugs because he trusts in himself. He accepts himself fully for who he is, huge buck teeth and all. He’s sexy because he doesn’t care if you think he’s sexy.

Unlike Daffy, Bugs stopped trying to be THE man and decided being A man was sufficient. Effortless cool, the difference between Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny, and a defining characteristic of attractiveness.

© j summers 2011

* This originally appeared on the Good Men Project on 7.6.2011