Representation, Re-Presentation, and Resurrection

"I left America because I doubted my ability to survive the fury of the color problem here. (Sometimes I still do.) I wanted to prevent myself from becoming merely a Negro; or even, merely a Negro writer. I wanted to find out in what way the specialness of my experience could be made to connect me with other people instead of dividing me from them. (I was as isolated from Negroes as I was from whites, which is what happens when a Negro begins, at bottom, to believe what white people say about him.)…It was Bessie Smith, through her tone and her cadence, who helped me to dig back to the way I myself must have spoken when I was a pickaninny, and to remember the things I had heard and seen and felt. I had buried them very deep. I had never listened to Bessie Smith in America (in the same way that, for years, I would never touch watermelon), but in Europe she helped to reconcile me to being a ‘nigger.” - James Baldwin

For as long as I could remember, I always wanted to be myself. I wanted to be happy and fulfilled in my being. I wanted to share my very essence with those around me. In growing up, this all seemed to be the stuff of dreams - the things only babies and fools are brave enough to imagine and make real. For almost as long as I can remember the burning desire for finding comfort in who I am, I remember the confrontations I faced.

"Why are you talking about black shit?" "Why do you wear your hair that way?" "Why do you listen to THAT music?" "You are crazy as hell for wanting to go to a black school?" What are you anyway, some kinda Black Panther or something?" "Any bean pies, Brotha Malcolm?"

Some things you never forget.

I thought a lot about these comments over the past few weeks. Many of them came from genuine places or were simply jokes. Others were examples of sincere stupidity. Whatever the case may be I always found it odd that the majority of negative criticism I received over the years concerning my artistic, political, or philosophic inclinations were said by my black friends and acquaintances.

The root of the issue that no one wants to acknowledge is that there are some aspects of the black experience that are just too taboo to discuss or respect. Those who are honest about some of the things our people think, feel, and believe are vilified and marginalized.

They are "militant", uneducated, or "playing the race card".

Everyone else by contrast is acceptable. These are the good niggahs...

"Don't say that! Don't you know de white folks is listenin?" are the words that echo in my mind as I write this, and yet I feel all the more empowered to continue.

It is our destiny to be ourselves completely and without apology.

But here is the catch.

Who are we? Who were we before we got HERE? Who are we? Who were we before he said/she said who we are supposed to be? Who said we either have to sag our pants or conk our hair? Who? Who are we now? Can we separate BET from reality?

At what point do we desire to separate the stereotype from the self?

We can't begin to answer these questions until we confront representation. But somehow we've gotten comfortable with the images. We've gotten comfortable with the effeminization and emasculation of our men, and the roughness of our women who distrust them and have to protect and provide for themselves. Somewhere we got comfortable and thought 13 year old girls pushing strollers was cute and little boys imitating Beyonce' videos was adorable.

We can't resurrect ourselves from the dead until we recognize that these things do not equal the sum of our being and how we ought to live. We can't transcend the cross until we realize that education, not imprisonment is our birthright.

We cannot be reborn until we desire to be fully human again despite the pressure to be slaves to materialism and a culture of death and destruction.

We must refuse to become something created outside of ourselves. We don't need to be re-presented when our voices of truth drown out the lies. We must be resurrected. Our future and our legacy depends on it.

Peace to my beloved professor Dr. Gregory Carr for all of his dedication in waking up the dead.

Stay Woke!

P.S. There are messages in the music!

Current Playlist: "Twinkle" and "Master Teacher" - New Amerykah, Part One: 4th World War by Erykah Badu and "Sincerely, Jane" on the Metropolis Suite I of IV: The Chase EP by Janelle Monae. Give the tracks a thorough listen if you haven't or find and read the lyrics.

Gates, Chappelle, and the Socio-Economic Hitman

Note: Much of this post is stream of consciousness.

Thanks Flo ; )

"He's a banana-eating jungle bunny."

It was just a few minutes past 8am and those were the words I heard as I wiped the sleep from my eyes and tried to make breakfast from a lonely bagel and an egg. There, on CNN, was one of the many nameless commentators making reference to a statement made by a Cambridge police officer.

To be honest, my first reaction was laughter. I simply couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the moment and the rumblings of an "I told you so!" churning in my stomach. I was somewhat glad that it made the news, although it is difficult to discern whether it was said to inform or entertain. With the media circus surrounding celebrity deaths as of late, news and entertainment seem to be seamless.

The night before, I was unfortunate enough to be eating while watching Larry King and celebrity pseudo-scholars, Judge Joe Brown, Larry Elder, and Michael Eric Dyson (No, I am not making this up...) discuss the media frenzied Henry Louis Gates incident.

This incident, coupled with some personal and professional developments prompted me to wait to comment until I was less emotional and could speak with some clarity.

For those of you who have short historical memory due to living in the Twitter era, here is a video about what happened.

Speaking for myself, emotions collide. Being African in America (or however you choose to define yourself) is a constant analytical existence. The experiences of racism and general attitudes toward race here are maddening and at times so much so, that all I can do without losing my mind is laugh, listen to music, or write. Truth is often said in jest, and so I recalled Dave Chappelle. I'd talk more about him, his brilliance, humor, and wisdom, but that is a post for another time.

I am sure this might take devout Al and Jesse fans aback, but, I'm only a little annoyed by the Gates incident. Unlike most negroes and other so-called Americans, I am not shocked by racism in this country. Its in the bloodstream.

Note: (You're only an American, if your rights are protected, and the only people whose rights are protected en masse are wealthy WASP men)

Note 2: A tabloid in Duane Reade alleged President Obama's birth certificate a fake. Some newspapers still allege the same. Post Racial Society my ass.

The Gates incident came on the heels of the failure of CNN's Black in America 2 - a half assed program that allowed voyeuristic white folks to peer into the lives of black folks in poverty without getting too close to us on the street and discussed us as a pathology.

All of it made me think of a book I recently read, Confessions of an Economic Hitman by John Perkins. It helped to tie all of these egregious events together for me. The book is an autobiography about the varying economic, covert, and military means by which the US adds countries to its global empire by giving out massive loans and promising development in exchange for costly contracts and access to natural resources.

After reading it, I couldn't help but make the connection about why my mild discontent with the police officers in the Gates incident grew to fury toward Gates and others like him. He, like many of us have been victims of domestic Socio-Economic Hitmen, and up until now, he has been one as well - at least in a subtle way.

He was outraged for being accosted in his home, not simply because it was his home, but because he thought that despite his unfortunate blackness, his ascent into the white intelligentsia and quiet Cambridge community would make him untouchable by the jackals. Perhaps, he thought, as many desperate upwardly-mobile petit bourgeoisie negroes do, that money, status, and connections somehow buoy one from blackness and the victimization that many black folks fear every day.

Surely, a few doctorates, a black president, and speaking ever so clearly would render the word "nigger" obsolete, no?

Perkins reminded me that Socio-Economic Hitmen exist in our schools, churches, businesses, and even our homes. The idea of having to earn our right to be fully protected by the law and treated equally and justly has infiltrated our collective consciousness. We've dreamt the American Dream and fell into a deep coma. We are tumbling down the rabbit hole where white picket fences, two and a half kids and a dog chase us through Orwellian dramas and yellow brick roads that lead to nowhere.

Gates was arrested in his own home. That means no one is safe. Now what?

Freedom Song

"Maybe you should move out the country or to a (third) world country and see how nice you have it there , if not shut the f*** up and thank a vet for fighting for your freedom that you take for granted everynight when you sleep in peace..."

This was the sharp response a colleague of mine received after declaring that she did not believe in celebrating the Fourth of July. 

"Thank a vet for fighting for the freedom that you take for granted everynight when you sleep in peace..." 

He must not be aware of the ghettos of America, the places stricken by poverty, haunted by the walking dead. He must be unaware of the places where children go hungry, fathers are laid off and mothers worry for sons that may not come back home. He must not know that no flags are flown there. Red, white, and blue herald the sirens of police and firearms replace fireworks. There is no peace there, just hope that tomorrow will come and it will mean something.

"What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer; a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are, to Him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy -- a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States, at this very hour."

- Frederick Douglass

July 5th 1852

What to the African in America is the Fourth of July - 157 years later? Should this day have more significance in the Obama era?

The Persistence of Memory: Dali, Michael, and the Great Negro Tragedy

"I cried today", she said. I tried to respond but all I could muster was an icy "Oh". My sister looked at me confused by my apparent indifference. Little did she know that I could hardly sleep that night, or the next. 

Four days ago, I was on the phone with her while in Chinatown and I overheard a voice on the television confirm the death of Michael Jackson. I quickly got off the phone. 

I spent the evening perusing a gallery of Salvador Dali's artwork, ignoring the sinking feeling in my chest. Instead, I focused on the walls. Dali's work with the surreal was eye-opening. His personality spoke through his work and his iconic waxed mustache. He was a man who spent his life expressing himself as he saw fit and that ethos manifested itself in his art. There, in that gallery, I had a surreal moment all my own. I looked around and saw all these smiling faces. It was as if no one there knew Michael was gone. No one else seemed to feel hollow or gripped with nausea. Michael Jackson was dead. It seemed like a cruel joke. An impossibility. The melting clocks on the wall made more sense than this.

On the way home I thought about being five and wearing white socks with my dress shoes. I smiled remembering the hours I spent skidding across the kitchen floor trying to moonwalk. I remember being in the third grade and my friend claimed that Michael was his uncle. I remember the  lunchboxes, the Moonwalker videotape my cousins never tired of watching, and the dance battles we used to have. My friend Daya took the words out of my mouth when she said she felt as though a family member had died...he was truly a member of every black family.

Though I was young, I also remember the conversations adults had about how Michael was once a little black boy with nappy hair like mine. Vitiligo aside, everyone had questions about his ever paler complexion and his thinning nose and lips. They often shrugged or shook their heads at the sight of him. Despite no longer looking like the cool older brother I wish I had, I still loved Michael Jackson and would change the subject when people would joke about him.  With each accusation, Michael grew more reclusive and I could no longer see the family resemblance. He became more and more difficult to defend and I stopped altogether eventually.

How far do we have to go to be accepted?

In my teens, I had forgotten about all the hope and optimism that I learned from all the good works Michael had done. He was no longer the greatest entertainer on earth, rather he was the court jester on the world stage - the star of a freak show.

The truth is that Michael was no anomaly. We've all at one point or another felt self-conscious about the color of our skin. Who are we to pretend that we have not teased or been teased?  Who are we to pretend that we never wanted to be accepted as equal human beings in America? 

I couldn't help but ask the questions there were no answers to. Could Michael have transcended race without transcending the features of his own? Could he have been as successful as he was if he had remained brown? In my grief and bitterness, I believe that Michael represents what my friend Shamira called our "great negro tragedy", our desire to seek acceptance even though it often isn't in our best interest to do so. I believe Michael wanted to be loved as he loved the world despite its imperfections. Dali's piece spoke to me that day. Michael was the elephant with stilts for legs, existing and believing in something greater than the boundaries of our perception. 

Michael Jackson showed us the persistence of memory. His passion for music and love of peace and hope are woven through the fabric of our lives. He moonwalked across time and space proving that magic was real. He impacted people of all ages and helped to spread awareness of global crises through his humanitarian efforts. Tributes to his contributions have been consistent throughout the weekend. He croons on every radio station, at every bar, and there are people moonwalking in leather jackets in the middle of the street. This is exactly how I want to remember him.

Welcome to L'Aesthétique Noire!

Aesthétique - (French) The philosophy of beauty

Noire - (French) Black

Welcome to L'Aesthétique Noire! 

Black is Beautiful!

L'Aesthétique Noire

What is the Black Aesthetic of the 21st Century? I am interested in having an ongoing conversation about who we are. When I say, "we", I mean the inclusive "we" of the the African Diaspora, but in particular the United States. I believe that we become that which we value, therefore, this forum asks one of the most fundamental questions, "Why?"

Why do we value what we do? What do those values mean for how we define our existence in the world?

This blog will challenge you to be introspective, to learn about yourself and others. This is about love, history, art, fashion, pain, literature, freedom, prose, peace, war, music, and happiness. Most of all, this is about you discovering you all over again. 

This is L'Aesthétique Noire!

Influence

I am fascinated by the African American ex-patriates who developed and explored their art while in Paris. Although, french is indeed a colonial tongue to the African, I believe that some of the most brilliant artists, scholars, and thinkers of the 20th Century wrote in French as well as English. (Cheikh Ante Diop, Frantz Fanon, etc.)

Don't be afraid to tell me what you think. Challenge what you read with a comment! 

Do you think art should play a role in how we define ourselves in the 21st century? Why or why not?

Réveiller et Vivre !

Ceci est L'Aesthétique Noire!