Socioeconomics, Sociopathic Swag, and Our Sanity

I haven't written here in over a year. I wasn't sure what direction to go in or whether my words had any measurable impact on the physical world. When I first began this blog, it was dedicated to examining the role that aesthetics plays in black cultural identities. It has never been enough for me to merely accept something 'as is' without questioning why it is the way it is.
---

Today, writer, poet, mental health advocate, and friend Bassey Ikpi inaugurated No Shame Day. It is a day dedicated to spreading awareness and support for those who suffer with mental illness in the Black community. It almost goes without saying that talking about mental illness among our families and friends is taboo. Though it is important to talk about mental health care and to share our stories, it is equally important to me as a cultural critic to evaluate our behaviors and consider the root causes from a macro level.

The cultural emphasis on swag(ger) is sociopathic. I hate it. Many of the celebrities and people who believe themselves to be celebrities actually fit two or more of the criteria for psychopathy on Robert Hare's psychopathic checklist. Our cultural predisposition to "coolness" has been hi-jacked, manufactured, and sold back to us on steroids. Muhammad Ali had swagger. Malcolm X had swagger. President Obama has swagger. They each spoke truth to power and stood in the face of adversity with a smile. That's swagger. Buying a pair of expensive shoes does not mean you have swagger. Just as we can judge a tree by its fruit, we can see that much of what we see generated in popular media about swagger is a corporate ploy. If you think I'm exaggerating, check this.

Swagger is not a redeeming characteristic for a criminal. Swagger doesn't make you more educated, wealthy, or wise. Swagger does not raise children into successful and productive adults. So why is this every advertiser's wet dream? Its because socio-economics paired with depression and a historical narrative centered on slavery and poverty are a recipe for conspicuous consumption as a means of medicating. We are addicted to the purchase of things in order to perpetuate a fantasy that distracts us from the responsibilities in our realities. According to the State of the African-American Consumer, black people will have a spending power of 1.1 Trillion dollars by 2015. That's 1.1 Trillion dollars that is spent mostly on consumer products mainly related to entertainment and beauty instead of on education, health care, and other critical areas of life. We are buying more and more products that we do not create that reinforce foreign philosophies that are destructive to young people. Teenagers are being bombarded more than ever by media that feeds their insecurities about their not yet developed minds and bodies. The messages are frightening. The goal is to highlight every insecurity a person could face and match it with a product. Your hair is too short? Here's a $500 lace-front weave. Skin too pale? Here's a tanning bed. Skin too dark? Here's some bleaching cream. Want to be in a music video? Inject your behind with Fix-a-Flat.

Our pain is real. No product will fully mend our bruised egos and help those who suffer from depression and other mood disorders. Life isn't about what you wear or purchase. Its about who you are when you are naked and alone. Its about character. Its about who you are beyond your salary or your social associations. We can't afford to mask our battles with racism, fear, loss, depression, addiction, anxiety, and other illnesses with things. True empowerment comes from the bravery of honesty and seeking help. Let's not be so in love with the appearances of things that we neglect who we are at our core. There is no shame in being our truest selves. Indeed, we must be in order to fulfill our highest potential. Our sanity depends on it.

Gil Scott Heron: Peace Go With You Brother

"Black people will make you crazy if you let them." he said. It was a solemn moment. There was a noticeable pause in our conversation. I glanced at his thin grey hands as he casually brushed the chalk dust on his lap. Grey strands began to peek their way in the forest of curly black hair atop his head. He was tired but pretended he wasn't, ensuring instead that I laughed at his jokes and was satisfied with his answers to my questions. I walked away in a daze, surprised by his undying positivity and hope even in the face of disappointment. That day, I prayed for patience and understanding.

Just a few weeks ago, I stumbled into an old record shop and bought a few records I wanted for a long time. Trane, the Wailers, Parker, etc. I played them all except one. The other day, I decided to change that. As Small Talk at 125th Street began to spin and crackle under the record player needle, I heard Gil-Scott Heron's voice and a chill came over me. I nodded my head and tapped my feet to the rhythms and recalled the first time I had been exposed to him in high school. He was kind and forceful all in one record. I went on-line to find some more vinyls of his and found out he had just passed.

I can't say I was shocked, but I'm unsure what to call that feeling. Even now, I'm not entirely sure how to feel or how I ought to respond. I simply felt compelled to write about discovering his genius, his honesty, rage and disappointment in my teenage years. Memories began to flood into my mind of when I first started listening to the beat poets and the Black Arts Movement poetry of Baraka, Heron, and the Last Poets. Memories of reading Angelou and Giovanni began to thunderstorm and leave puddles in my brain. They changed me forever.

As much as it shames me to admit this, tears welled up in my eyes, not for Gil or Abdios Nascimento, or the others who have passed on, but for the loneliness I imagine they must have felt at different points in their lives. Lives so committed to enriching the lives of others only to die in relative obscurity (in the case of the US response to Abdios who is from Brazil) or a few miles short of infamy in the case of the drug addicted Gil Scott Heron. I can't tell you how it disturbs me that many of my peers have no idea or even the slightest desire to know what I'm talking about. There are people who use their talents to give to something greater than themselves only to be met with contempt or scorn. That's pretty fucked up. I think there is probably a clever sentence about the relationship between Rick Ross' cocaine laced lyrics and the demise of the legendary, yet addicted Gil Scott Heron. Unfortunately, I don't have the state of mind to write it.

Its hard to see the things people work so hard to build for the greater good, destroyed by the very same people it was intended to serve and save.

Black people will make you crazy if you let them. The Revolution Won't Be Televised. Especially if we're paying attention to something else. Today, just like back then, I prayed for patience and understanding. Through Gil's words, he lives on.

Rest in Power G.S.H. Peace go with you brother.

Racism: What else is New(s)?

What's Black, White, and Read all over? Racism apparently.

Donald Trump

We witnessed Donald Trump make even more of an ass of himself as he galvanized the ignorant and the racist Birther movement inside and outside of the political arena to pressure President Obama into releasing his long form birth certificate. In so doing, he "proved" what was already known to be true by all people with common sense, only to be poked and prodded by other nay-sayers about other issues. What intelligent people knew all along is that this was merely scaffolding for racism and the fundamental belief that a man of African descent could never be the legitimate leadership or representation of "their" country.

Trump positioned himself with the Birther movement, his ridiculous Celebrity Apprentice show and his history of failed businesses and racist housing policies to assert his idea that he should run for President of the United States. Sadly, he took himself seriously only to later produce a cowardly press release about his decision not to run in 2012. This occurs a little over a week after Pres. Obama announces the assassination of Osama bin Laden in a covert mission in Pakistan much to the celebration of the majority of the American public.

Dominique Strauss-Kahn

Head of the IMF (International Monetary Fund aka Global Economic Vampires & Pimps) and French presidential candidate, Dominique Strauss-Kahn was arrested last week after attempting to rape a hotel housekeeper in the Sofitel hotel in New York. What was not initially reported is that the woman is African. The responses in France have been ones of shock an anti-American sentiment rather than of empathy for the alleged victim.

Satoshi Kanazawa

On Monday, May 15, Psychology Today published an article by Japanese pseudo-scientist Satoshi Kanazawa entitled "Why Are Black Women Less Physically Attractive Than Other Women". No, I am not making this up. Kanazawa drops such gems as

"women of all races are on average more physically attractive than the "average" Add Health respondent, except for black women." and "What accounts for the markedly lower average level of physical attractiveness among black women? Black women are on average much heavier than nonblack women".

Hold on to your seat Monique and Madea fans. Them's fighting words. Kanazawa then goes on to assert that black women are also more masculine than other women and have higher levels of testosterone. This guy gets published in Psychology Today, and all I have is a lousy blog. Hmm...

Thanks to the rage of black women I know tweeting and (more effectively) writing letters to the editors of the magazine, the ridiculous Bell-Curve inspired article was taken down.

Surely, these individuals have gone mad and thinks that black people ought to be the target of their bad days, irrational hatred, and envy. After giving it some thought, I realized there was a central theme in all of this. Entitlement.

Who the hell does Trump think he is? He's a failed business man with terrible hair, who sells cheaply made ties at Macy's and is the carnival barker for a circus of has-beens and never beens on that dreadful show of his. What kind of prick has the audacity to suggest the POTUS release his birth certificate? This isn't slavery. No self-respecting black person should have to showcase their freedom papers in order to go about their business. He thinks he is entitled to have a voice of legitimacy and that is the furthest thing from the truth. America's refusal to deal with racism head on gives rise to people like "The Donald". What a ridiculous man...

Dominique Strauss-Kahn is another racist jackass. What kind of sick person just thinks they have access to another human being in that way? I wonder whether he thought she would just take it and not try to run or complain. For the record, its not the first time this creep tried to rape someone, yet the IMF has kept him there. Perhaps rapists fit in with what the IMF is all about globally anyway.

Kanazawa and Psychology Today should be banned from ever publishing anything ever again. How dare anyone who passes themselves off as legitimate write such vitriol and think that it makes sense to contribute to the academic community let alone the public? Entitlement predicated on racist assumptions is unfortunately all around us.

Post Racial Society my ass. Read it and weep. Then get over it and tell the world we won't stand for this.

For Mothers

My mother never attended my school plays. She never watched my soccer matches or avidly drove me and my teammates home or out for pizza. She always pressed my pants with a seam down the middle - making me the target of far too many 5th grade jokes.

There was always something different about Ma. She only seemed to laugh at things I didn't find funny. I don't recall her reading me bedtime stories, but I could go on at length at the number of times she woke me up with a shrill voice from the kitchen. I never had cool sneakers until I was old enough to buy them myself, and by that time I was apprehensive about spending my last dime on a pair of Jordans.

My summers were spent in study camps rather than in basketball ones and were it not for my father's boldness and encouragement, I may have never learned to swim because of her fear of water. I've always thought my mother to be cruel and unusual - that she gained some sort of strange satisfaction in my being a social misfit. I remember my anger at her not coming to my defense in racial incidents at school and being ashamed that I was the product of working class immigrant parentage - unable to afford the kinds of upper class hobbies and vacations my private school classmates often bragged about.

My mother and I never spent much quality time together. She asked me of my homework and hurried me off to bed, retreating with bags under her eyes or before going off to work again. My spare time was spent doing chores around the house or irritating our tenants by chasing my sister up and down the stairs.

I've spent much of my adolescence in some sort of brooding and harboring resentment toward my mother for all the experiences I didn't have. Only as an adult have I come to accept and truly be thankful for all that she has given me. Without her I may not have been ambitious or kind or generous. I may have never known the importance of having freshly polished shoes. I've been tying neckties since I was about nine years old. Were it not for my prep school education afforded by her countless sacrifices, I may not have ever been introduced to Thoreau or Fitzgerald alongside with Angelou and Wright. I may have never learned to cook or clean for myself. My mother pushed me for greater things and never allowed me to make excuses for my shortcomings or for those who were too shortsighted to acknowledge my skill before my skin. She is my Guyanese Tiger Mom, my motivation shaped in flesh, and the voice in my ear that says "you can do better."

For all of these things and more, I am thankful and could only hope to raise a family with half of her determination and courage. I am thankful for mothers who bore sons and daughters in hope that they would have lives greater than they could imagine. Thank you to mothers who sharecropped and chopped cane and washed clothes and braided hair and bathed other people's children. Thank you to mothers separated from their children by sea or by servitude, by choice or by circumstance, who despite their tears sent up prayers that the world would be kind to their children and never let a day go by without thinking about them. Thank you for the strength of the womb that nurtures us all in tranquil safety until we are borne into this strange place. Thank you mothers, aunts, sisters, wives, cousins, grandmothers and great grandmothers for your hope, your power, your creativity, your sacrifice, your prayers, your persistence, your pain, and your love. To you, we owe something that can never be repaid. Instead we remember your words and your smiles, and your strength and invest in the children to come.

Unexpected Hiatus

Dear Readers,

I have taken an unexpected hiatus and thanks to your love and support as well as some well overdue changes in my life, I have returned.

Expect some beautiful gifts really soon!

-R

Abbey Lincoln becomes an Ancestor

"When everything is finished in a world, the people go to look for what the artists leave. It's the only thing that we have really in this world -- is an ability to express ourselves and say, "I was here."

Jazz Legend, activist, beauty, and icon Abbey Lincoln passed on yesterday.

I am deeply saddened by her loss despite not knowing her personally. My sadness is because of what she represents to me. Beauty, sophistication, boldness, genius, resilience. And her sound! Wow! What a sound! A sound that resonates within our collective consciousness as she called us back to our Source.

While beautiful in her own right, she lent her spirit to inspiring us to fight the ugliness of racism and Jim Crow during the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s.

When she called for Bleek to practice his trumpet in Spike Lee's Mo Betta Blues, she reminded me of my own mother whose shrill voice was always full of good intention and tired from sacrifices.

Who will carry on her work? Who will keep pushing the boundaries of this art that has our history in it?

If we are happy with what we are producing as a people now? What will we be leaving behind?

Ashe' Abbey Lincoln

Resolution: A Love Supreme Pt. Deux

No truly good thing comes without its hardships and challenges. Love is no different. We have been infected with the idea that it will come in a neat and pretty package stamped with a Hallmark crown. Love doesn't always look like an upper middle class Pandora, with a white picket fence, 2 1/2 kids, and a dog.

For me, love was present in Taste the Tropics ice cream after getting As, staying up to watch boxing with my Pop, and action figures from Red's Toy Store.

It was also in getting whooped from time to time. It was in the yelling after disappointing my parents for one reason or another. It wasn't all toys and ice cream.

And some of us know that all too well.

Yet for one reason or another, many of us are lost from love. Perhaps it was a hug that was shunned, a best friend who moved far away, or longing for the embrace of an absent parent. One could argue that the essence of love is found in family. Our families serve as our earliest teachers. We learn to love them because we depended on them to carry, clothe, and clean us. We trusted them with every fiber of ourselves. We grew and had growing pains.

For some of us, the pain was significant enough to negatively shape our perspectives on love well into our adult lives.

We often confuse love with fantasy - projecting our infatuations with our minds' creations onto others. We continuously expect them to be who they are not and do what they may have never been created to do.

It is a tough pill to swallow, but I believe that within every problem is a secret desire to be resolved.

The love we seek externally, must first be found inside. We have to reconcile with our past in order to see clearly into the future. Love won't be found in the bottom of a bottle or in expensive clothes, but it is found in forgiveness. Not just of others - but of ourselves.

Love is an endless dance of forgiveness, and most of us have two left feet. But I'm confident we'll get better at it...one step at a time and one step closer to A Love Supreme.