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Why must I Hate Whites to Prove Blackness

By The Invisible Dragon


In the last seven days, I have been charged with being unconscious concerning race in America.  To say I was surprise would be an understatement.  I was shocked that in the 21st century I could be charged with Mutiny on the “Negro” Bounty.  My accusers were swiftly forgiven along with their flawed reasoning; however they did not drop my charges.  So, with malice and forethought, two felony counts of racial stupidity was read aloud in race court: Count one stated, I was ‘Not Black enough’ and count two said, ‘I lacked the unbridled hate against Whites and as a result could never be considered ‘Supremely Black’.  These were serious charges; I was facing ten years in racial identity prison.  I would need a good racial defense attorney…while watching Roots, I pondered along with a Samuel Adams Boston Lager about my fate.

Forgive my humorously metaphorical expression that must present this utter foolishness.  Race remains one of the most unintelligent topics in society.  Even so, I am serious about being charged as a sell-out and mis-educated because I do not abhor Whites.  Did you know? Blacks can be ‘outed’ for speaking White, having a White wife or husband, or worse, being a Seinfeld fan.  I’m guilty on the first and third charges.  Let me be clear, my accusers’ premise is ‘hate’ and in no short order; they believe Whites are responsible for their predicament in America.  Therefore, as a result, we (i.e., Blacks) should denounce our favorite Starbuck’s beverage and revolt.  Without much effect I warned my racial combatants hate is the most self-destructive human characteristic.

Could you believe one argument from my dissenters was as old as the brakes off Moses’ chariot; (a) Blacks are the original people.  I indicated my trouble with this flawed scheme as motivation for present day racial empowerment, you guessed it; I was labeled lost and confused.  At that juncture, I was assaulted with rebukes like, “Why wasn’t I mad as hell at “White Folks” or “You lack an understanding to (Blacks) misery in America”.  Yada, Yada, Yada (Seinfeld reference).  Hey!  To my distance racial warriors, with all due respect, I will not hate Whites to quantify Blackness, for you or anyone else.

Why I Don’t Hate White People

Race is a social construct (i.e., man-made) and is maintained through defective ideologists’ ramblings.  The color of my skin remains a non-issue in the pursuit of peace and stillness.  I owe this thinking to the biggest influence on my race identity, my parents.  Thus, with much ado, I have a few reasons why hating Whites is not an option.  First, I wasn’t raised in a racist home environment; I never heard my parents use racially insensitive words towards Whites.  My parents never ranted on Whites or slavery being responsible for our racial stratification.  In fact, the first White person I met was my mother’s friend, Diane. I have never forgotten her because she baked me an M&M chocolate cake for my fifth birthday.  I also had a best friend in third grade (Thomas) who was White.  He had freckles. But I never saw anything wrong with my friend.  One could imply I was naïve in that I did not comprehend the world around me, I would say B.S.  The world around me was my reality; thus I loved my improvised childhood, the many Blacks, and two Whites in it.  Kudos, too my uneducated parents and the job they did under the circumstances.

My biggest role model outside my father was Muhammad Ali, a boxer formally known as Cassius Clay.  He had such an enormous impact on my racial identity.  Watching him was one of the greatest adventures of my life.  He was a marvel of spirit and empowerment; his Bronze body straggled with self-confidence and glowed with intense Blackness.  Ali spoke about the unfair conditions Blacks lived under in America, however his premise wasn’t hate. I never heard Ali rail on the ‘evil’ White folks coming to get me or that they could hold me down.  Without question, America’s racism was and is one of the most brutal on historical record and Ali spoke about it with calm.  His message and my parents were to love myself and I wasn’t a nigger and could never be made into one.

Another reason I do not denounce Whitey, I have never bought into the superior inferior skin pigmentation idea. You see, too maintain racial hate you must prescribe to a sort of mythology.  In other words, you must buy into a false social construct that race is genetic.  However skin color means absolutely nothing, biologically.  Unfortunately, however, when some become married to racial myths, they become stuck in time.  As a result, you literally are unable to forward their consciousness one bit in discourse.  Finally, if you use race (i.e., skin color) as a motivating factor to the argument of down with Whitey and up with Blacks, you’re stuck in sort of thoughtless cement, screaming in the mirror.

Personally, and unfortunately, I comprehend racism as a normal process of human evolution.  I come to understand had Blacks had the power we would have enslaved Whites.  I mean just imagine we were enslaving our own people in Africa long before Whites arrived.  However it appears to be a popular misnomer that Blacks had a utopia in Africa until the White man’s invasion, Bullshit.  Whites enslaved us only with the help of African tribal chiefs walking us to those slave ships.  By the way, there exist factual records African tribal leaders knew our fate also, there is no damn excuse, we sold ourselves into slavery.  Without question slavery was a normal function in the evolution of humans.  I fell to believe if the shoe was on the other foot we would not had Whites working in those Mississippi cotton fields.

Later, Haters

Race is a social construct created by humans; it does not have a genetic marker.  In reality, I have the potential to share genes with a White as much as my deceased mother.  If Black supremacy bases their racial debate on pigmentation; “What contrast exists between the White idiots insisting Blacks are less than human because of skin color?”  The individuals who questioned my Blackness are stuck in time clenching to an unconscious methodology.  Also, Blacks who persist on using Whites as their inspiration to return to a mythical life are pregnant with emotional instability.  Sadly, these individuals recklessly throw darts at other Blacks who do not regurgitate their Kool-Aid.  To these (so-called, real Blacks) you either hate Whitey or you cannot enter the “The Real Black” club.  Well, you know what; I do not want to join your (RHA) race haters’ anonymous club anyhow.

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Set my Brothers Free: Young Black Men & Depression

By The Invisible Dragon

Young Black males, as suicide victims, were unheard of growing up in 1970’s.  However, presently, according to the American Association of Suicidology, suicide rates for African-American males ages (15-24) increased 83% in the early 80’s and 90’s.  More importantly, most suicide victims suffered from depression at their end.  Suicide has become a statistical reality for many young brothers.   The sad fact that young males are killing themselves is startling, but the communities’ silence is worse, even tragic. As a result, Black communities face stinging charges of being callous, insensitive, and more importantly, mis-educated. It is my belief; the silent epidemic on Black men and depression must be shattered.

Black men rarely speak about their mistrust of organized healthcare.  One reason for the silence is the mistrust they possess toward the health care profession.  The Tuskegee Experiment is just one example of gross malpractice levied against Black males throughout American history.  I, personally, refused to use White male doctors in the past and frankly all male physicians.  Often, they gave me a sense that my health issues were not as serious and that intestinal fortitude was in order.  In the hood, reputation and the cool pose is everything Black males risk isolation and marginalization if they have a mental illness label.  Despite, whys and wherefores, we must face ourselves and shed the current fear to face depression.  Young Black males suffer from mental illness; we better admit this and speak up.

Unfortunately and fortunately, Black males do not attend church in large numbers.  One reality they face is Black Churches dis-empower them by suggesting only the blood of Christ heals.  Young Black males are inundated constantly with this message from female relatives, girlfriends, and wives.  Usually those loaded theme suggestions fall on deaf ears. Nevertheless, I sympathize with anyone who attempts to sound the bell about males and mental illness. However, in contrast, depression is not a headache that’s erased through pray and aspirin.  It is important Black Christians not marginalize depression anymore; it’s real, get over it.  In addition, we must refuse to endorse the religious-based mythology, “Only the blood of Jesus heals”.  We need the Black church to become a responsible partner in healing our young men.    

If one would solve a problem, the study of the problem is a prerequisite.  In urban communities, often, Black males lead a life of isolation and sequestration.  My own view, education on mental illness is a valid step to our miscarriage concerning mental illnesses.  More directly, to break the silence we must seek education as the only solution.  Although, a controversial issue has been whether depression is real, this by the way is crazy.  The collective illiteracy about affective disorders is the result of such careless thinking.  The mis-education of mental health is important because half-truths may disable the men and communities, rendering them impotent in life endeavors.  Thus only, data driven information will pardon communities and free young brothers.

It is no secret, in urban communities; countless Black males inflicted with mental illness, live in virtual darkness. Sad and disheartened, they routinely live emotionally disengaged existences.   And, we do know, if depression deepens without medical intervention hopelessness may become a reality.  Haeffel, Abramson, Brazy, & Shah (2007) define hopelessness as being convinced the future holds bad results and all efforts are futile.  Our refusal to seriously engage men about their mental health ultimately hurts Black families, children, and communities.  As well, to continue endorsing cultural mental illness mythologies are an even more egregious assault.  We have a responsibility, and duty, to educate ourselves and communities on mental illness:

Shall we not set ourselves free?

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The Death of A Crack Addict

By Robert A. Williams

Jesse held his timid posture inside the project’s hallway, absorbing the rumbling sounds from the apartment.  The loud stench of urine did not drown out the violent voices as he listened silently.  His slender frame, as a ship on bumpy waters, rocked steadily as he decoded the languages.  These evidently hateful sounds came from the apartment as always after multiple day crack binges.  Nevertheless, under the influence of crack, hopelessness, and suicidal thoughts, Jesse with unbridled animosity ignited after hearing the scorning noises.  Pissed, he flushed his clenched fist down his mouth and screamed inaudibly.  While his character received rebuke from inside, he heard a voice say, “Jesse ain’t shit and never will be shit” pierced through the apartment’s peephole, and, as quickly as his rage had imploded; it halted.   The voice’s owner had never been among his naysayers but for this very first time he heard it clearly.  After recognizing the voice owner, his addicted frame collapsed upon the cement, as his emptiness filled him.  For the next two hours, inside the hallway, he furiously rubbed his convicted face, as he whispered again and again:

“I ain’t shit and never will be shit; I ain’t shit and never will be shit.” I ain’t shit and never will be shit.”

Later, in his deepened shallow voice, Jesse asked himself.  ”What the fuck have I done?” He wondered had the addiction cost him his family’s hopes.  He snapped back! “I can’t stop, I’ve tried and not one person knows what I’ve been through.  How can they judge me?  What the fuck do they know; they have not walked in my shoes.”  Jesse invalid arguments from the past however were baseless again, but now because of that voice, he wondered was it true.  He mouth mumbled again, “I’ve never been shit” thus his final decree fell noiselessly onto the cement.  Jesse settled himself atop his size 12 feet; tucked his shirt neatly inside his dirty jeans and headed toward the building’s roof.  His mangled body for hours lay  unnoticed before the sunlight allowed the project spectators to recognized it.  The disfigured mesh of body and bones did not faze them; they’ve seen suicide by roof jumping before. “Cats can’t take it, and they jump the fuck off, it’s called ‘project sky rocket.’  The news reporter nervously listened to the hoodie wearing teen’s account, as yellow police tape restrained both; Jesse was a statistic now.

The funeral was uneventful, as most, concerning project residents. The family had to take donations, it’s a norm, no big deal.  A few friends stood with his siblings wondering why Jesse became a ‘project sky rocket’.  Hell, his sister let him stay with her, but they still wondered.  Sure she got on him about his addiction, “Jesse they going to put me out if they catch drugs in here, don’t bring that shit in here,”  But you know what, after each binge, she opened the door.  Jesse often listened outside her door as she would railed preparing for work, “His good for nothing Black ass”.  Nevertheless, she loved his ‘Black skinny ass’, like most siblings in those situations do.  Yea, she let him come back each time and this is why his suicide hurt her most.  Because, she promised to care for her oldest brother and she failed.  As foul-smelling and cracked out, she took him in, blitzed off some new drug shit, she took him in, fucked up on liquor; she took him in.  The morning of Jesse’ suicide however was different, the voice were different.  The voice convinced him he failed at life and disappointed everyone.  He heard that voice and it made him tired and apathetic.  No more fight in him, he was tired, so he jumped.

After several months, project’s natives produced a theory as they always do.  That early morning, a few residents saw Jesse outside his sister’s door before 4am as she undressed him on the other side.  Jesse and his sister kept their business in the street, like all residents of these prisons.  Nevertheless, most residents, like his sister, wondered aloud; why did he jump?  Well, as theory has it, that morning as Jesse crept up the project’s hallway, he was fine. But, as he gathered himself to enter his sister’s apartment, that one voice came from inside and into his head; thus, he freaked out.   Frightened and confused, he bugged out, as they say.  As such, he was whispering as he walked to the roof a few hours later.  His fellow addicts however warned him: Your mother has been dead ten years.

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Sunday’s Thought

 We would rather be ruined than changed;

We would rather die in our dread

Than climb the cross of the moment

And let our illusions die.

—W. H. Auden, The Age Anxiety

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Tao Verse 64 Interpretation by Stephen Mitchell

What is rooted is easy to nourish

What is recent is easy to correct.

What is brittle is easy to break.

What is small is easy to scatter.

 

Prevent trouble before it arises.

Put things in order before they exist.

The giant pine tree

grows from a tiny sprout.

The journey of a thousand miles

starts from beneath your feet.

 

Rushing into action, you fail.

Trying to grasp things, you lose them.

Forcing a project to completion,

you ruin what was almost ripe.

 

Therefore the Master takes action

by letting things take their course.

He remains as clam

at the end as at the beginning.

He has nothing,

thus has nothing to lose.

What he desire is non-desire;

what he learns is to unlearn.

He simply reminds people

of who they have always been.

He cares about nothing but the Tao.

Thus he can care for all things.

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