In The Land Of Strange Fruit

A neighbor on my block has a Confederate flag hanging from his porch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I find it deeply offensive, but there seems to be a “don’t fuck with me, I won’t fuck with you” understanding between us that keeps the peace.

 

As a person from a big city, I’ve seen my fair share of racism and to be sure the North isn’t immune to it.  If you believe certain people in Philadelphia, young black children seem to have an adverse effect on the chlorine levels of public pools and apparently loitering around your own house is illegal in the state of Massachusetts.  That said, the racism in the North doesn’t seem organic, it seems to be more of the empty echoes and not the person doing the screaming.

 

Things are different in the South.  When you experience racism in the South, you’re getting the raw feed, the straight dope, the “Up yours, Nigger!” with no chaser. 

 

It’s stifling and hangs heavy in the air down here.  It’s so thick you can touch it.  Every beautiful open field is weighed down by an atrocity committed there, every bubbling creek has a murder mystery wading  just beneath the surface.  Like the monster from the Stephen King novel, It floats and waits.  It has never been defeated, only contained and content  to lay dormant  for a time and like Pennywise, the clown with the razorblade smile, it feeds on fear and thrives on hatred.

 

At first, I didn’t mind the people with the bumper stickers and t-shirts.  I just figured them for folks jerking off to too much “boot ‘n yer ass” Toby Keith and tuning in to the new attempts to resurrect the “Southern Strategy” by Bill O’Reilly and the Fox News All-Stars.  I couldn’t be more wrong.  The folks down here aren’t drinking the Kool-Aid, they’re the ones making it.

They’re the ones trying to rebrand history, saying that the Rebel Flag is nothing more than a testament to a proud heritage, a symbol of a simple people from the soil who stood up for what they believed in, damn the consequences.  It would be a great sell too,  if you’re willing to overlook the mass manipulation and brutalization of an entire racial group over the course of a century part.

Even if you don’t see the Confederacy as a treasonous conspiracy to overthrow it’s government to maintain the evil practice of slavery and you don’t care that they got their asses handed to them, how can anyone in their right mind and equipped with a good conscience stand under a flag that was a symbol for this:

 

 

 

or this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

or this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is what they’re selling:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is what you’re buying:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not as sexy, is it?

 

There’s blood on that flag, suffering sewn deep into every stitch.  The only reason it should ever be exposed to open air is to remind people of the evil that men do and an opportunity for people to promise that it won’t happen again. 

People like to say “The South Shall Rise Again!” and I’ve got no beef with that, my daughters were born in the South and so shall my son.   The question is, what kind of South will it be?  Will it be a place where my children and the children of others will grow happy, free from the shackles of a dark past ?  Or will it be a place where that dark past is cherished and flies under a banner of fear?  The kind of fear that floats and waits?

Like the clown with the razorblade smile?

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Sick and Tired

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t want to send any prayers out to the family of 16 year-old Derrion Albert.

In fact, I’m sick of all the goddamned praying.

I’m sick of the inevitable “stop the violence” peace marches and candlelight vigils that will take place and the flowers dropped at the place he was killed along with a teddy bear.

I’m sick of the “spiritual advisors” and “community leaders” who only show up when the cameras and reporters do. They’ll say Derrion’s murder happened because of too much rap music and the boys walking around with their pants sagging. They’ll say his death is due to the community moving away from God and the only way to get back to is to come to their church on Sunday (right next to the site where their new mega-church is breaking ground).

I’m sick of the scared white people who lived nowhere near that neighborhood who are going to pressure the mayor of Chicago into making an empty political gesture to calm their fears like putting more police on the street, police who might act as much like a gang as the boys who killed Derrion. So if you’re a young black male in Chicago, you get to choose how you’ll get your ass whipped: by 5-10 boys who think you’re a threat, or 5-10 police officers who think you’re a threat.

I’m sick of the two-bit promoters who are going to throw some kind of “Peace in Da’ Hood” concert and try to snag some big time performers like Jennifer Hudson, Common or Kanye (y’know, cause they’re from Chicago) as a ruse to get their corny MC’s or wannabe Beyonce’s put on.

I’m sick of the talking heads that will psychoanalyze the boys who killed Derrion as victims who didn’t get hugs from Daddy instead of brutal murderers who should be put on the all-dick diet in the worst jail the Illinois prison system has to offer. I’m sick knowing they probably were victims nobody reached out to before they became killers.

I’m sick of the fact that this has happened so many times before everything I said is a well worn cliche. New York. Los Angeles. Houston. Philadelphia. It’s the same sad song being sung over and over again and they all end with a mother crying as she stands waiting at the door for a son that won’t ever be coming home.

I’m sick of there being too many questions and not enough answers.

I’m sick of “charging it to the game”, sick that we’ll hang our heads for a few days about Derrion, moan about the woes of the ghetto and then it’s back to business as usual or the next stupid-assed episode of “Real Housewives Of Atlanta” (who now share a tragic connection to Derrion).

Until it’s one of ours who gets mowed down in the streets by gunfire, or bashed in the head with a 2×4.

Then it’s back to all the goddamned praying.

Hello There.

Come on in and sit for a while, won’t you?

As you can see, things are still unorganized but I’m in the midst of getting things put together most rickey-tick.  I’ll have this place running ship-shape in no time. 

Some of you that will stop here from time to time already know what to expect from this blog:  news of the world and stuff I think about every now and then. 

For the uninitiated, here’s the rundown:

I hate ignorance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love knowledge (He needs to put a rush on that change he’s been promising, though)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love good movies…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…and I despise bad movies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Yeah, I said it!!)

 

 

I think this guy makes great music

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…and this guy makes shitty music

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I listen to people who tell the truth even though we might not like how they say it…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

..And I think there’s nothing more lovely in this world than a beautiful, intelligent woman who knows she’s exactly that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(I would have posted MY wife, but she don’t want her pics all over the internet.)

 

 

Despite what fanatics on the right wing might think, President Obama is not the Anti-Christ trying to indoctrinate the children of America, this person is:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your first visit to my place and hope you’ll stop in again soon.  Until then, Peace.