Monthly Archives: August 2014

Dr. King’s “Race Card:” What American History Forgot To Inform You

 

“Yes, I am Black and Proud. I”m Black and I’m Beautiful.” Dr. Martin Luther King

In the spirit of playing cards because I love “Spades,” many folks refer to the “race card,” which assume they are “calling a spade a spade” or “telling it like it is.”  But, little do they know that “calling a spade a spade” is a racial slur which dates back to a time of the Aristophanes in 120 AD. 

 
Is It Racist To ‘Call A Spade A Spade’?
 
In a similar fashion as the “race card” and “calling a spade a spade” the “King Card” continues to be misinterpreted and misused.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.
-Martin Luther King, Jr.

 
Colorblindness is a Form of Racism
 
Most people use the “King Card” to articulate the concept of “colorblindness” as if it is a solution to ending racism. “Colorblindness” is a perpetuation of racism.  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was Black and Proud. He does not dismiss the color of people’s skin, but encourages self-determination, skin included, because it is an attribute of their character. 
 
Matthew 7:1-3 King James Version (KJV)
7 Judge not, that ye be not judged.
2 For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
3 And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? 

 

White fLashes

 

White fLashes

 

white light

white words

white bone

white sperm

 

white dress

white egg

white pills

white kills

black girls

black boys

white dolls

 

white teacher

white father

white Christ

white Bible

black sheep

white lamb

 

white rope

white negro

black plague

white lies

 

white noise

white powder

black Friday

white walls

 

white school

white homes

white picket fences

black families

white doors

white flight

 

white clouds

white sheets

white cops

black man

white t-shirt

white power

 

white stripes

white feet

white eyes

white face

white teeth

 

white folks

white vote

white robes

blackface

white hair

black cat

white flag

black smoke

white flight

black car

white light

black coffin

white peace

WWB (Walking While Black): Threatcon Charlie

Fact: 88% of all Veterans dropout their first year of college

Fact: 33.1% of all Black males graduate college

Fact: 1 in 4 Black men will spend time in jail

The smell of rotting desert permeates through dusk while I step onto the property of PWI (Primary White Institution) of Higher Education Inc. An eerie feeling questions my existence and follows me like local law enforcement in their vehicle. The palm trees wave “goodbye” and the cacti spines grow sharper when I pass by. The wind whistles the Civil War Confederate song, “Dixie Land,” harmonizing with a sense of not belonging.

I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray!  Hooray!

There’s buckwheat cakes and Injun batter,

Makes you fat or a little fatter

Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land

Usually, I declare my conscious level as THREATCON BRAVO meaning the conditions demand increased awareness with a more predictable threat of terrorist activity. However, on this particular day an incident when a white woman clutches her purse while a white man and I walk behind her causes me to reevaluate the threatcon level. With the white man behind me in double-time I lightly walk a wide watermelon smile around her, avoiding eye contact as she squeezes the life from her purse. Quickly, I pass and the purse is able to catch its breath when she lets go. I look back noticing that I am now the Blackface of the three-person Centipede. After this awkward exchange the threat level is increased to THREATCON CHARLIE.   The intelligence I receive indicates some form of terrorist action against me is imminent. I look at my skin and realize most often people don’t see me, but the uniform symbol of DTEC (Domestic Terrorist).

As society has become more “colorblind,” and even more race conscious, I am left skeptical of the nature of my existence. No matter how transparent society is I am always the enemy. My voice vibrates with an internalized Blackness that is difficult to ignore. White folks mistake my passion for the Angry Black Man. The truth is the quiver in my voice is from fear that I may make the wrong comment and like the FBI COINTELPRO did with Dr. Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Huey P. Newton, Fred Hampton, Assata Shakur, and Angela Davis in the 1960’s and 1970’s be placed on the PWI”s “Negro Agitator” List.  The Black experience on a PWI is complex. Social media in recent years has revealed the ways in which black men are perceived as being perpetual enemies of the state which place me in a one or all of three categories; angry, prison, coffin. WWB (Walking While Black) is a cause for alarm for everyone who is not to “Stand Their Ground,” and any other magical legal derivative like Freedom of Speech depending on race, gender, or sexual preference one is either criminalized or victimized. However the mission is to protect those who believe WWB is a threat to their safety.

While WWB on a PWI, I constantly second-guess my steps that rob me of my identity and force me to invest into the whiteness that represents power, wealth, and education. I remember when I told my father that I wished that I was “White” shortly after I lost my innocence hearing a little White boy with blonde hair and blue eyes call me, “Nigger.” Unfortunately I still have the feeling of swallowing my lips with those burning words when my dad gave me a quick pop to my mouth and said, “Don’t let me ever hear you say that again. You are Black and will always be Black.” Immediately, I was caught between a cry and a loss of breath so I swallowed the acidic words instead to avoid any other repercussions of my thoughtless comment. Still this day when I walk on PWI and I want to a reprieve from the micro-aggressions, staring, and pointing those words, “I wish I was White” burn the lining of my stomach. I quickly return to the present and my concerns of inclusion are dismissed and I am labeled as a “trouble maker” or “someone who needs help.” These labels are similar to those that United States Attorney General, Eric Holder, recently described as retrograde causes resulting in suspension of Black and Brown preschoolers at higher rates than their white peers.   When these children are suspended or expelled, denigrating acronyms and labels are pinned onto their nametags like dead bodies’ toes that affect their entire lives preceding them before their very presence in alternative entering schools. These children, as they fester into American second-class citizens are often misdiagnosed with These, as they grow older, and often informally diagnosed with a BD (Behavioral Disorder) or LD (Learning Disability), which triggers, which triggers an IEP (Individual Education Plan) which recommends to them be placed in a SE (Special Education) classroom or Juvenile Detention Center. They are already born ill with color destined for destruction from the cradle to the grave.

Thoughts are received by the the right and left communication towers in my head “If, an institution of education is conducted like a business then the dropout, suspended, and expelled end up looking like younger versions of the laid off and unemployed, imprisoned, and the deceased.”

Then, I reevaluate my NAV and I am reminded the significance of my employment by PWI, Inc. and to the preschool children of color who are labeled with BD and LD. Each acronym sounds like a contagious virus and my increased NAV on a PWI is a contribution research to finding a cure to the systemic strains that strengthen the STPP (School to Prison Pipeline) or men like WWB into the PIC (Prison Industrial Complex).

 

 

A Crowd of Strange Fruit

Strange Fruit

Yesterday, I saw my Father walk away

around the corner, I was left screaming

His shadow tore through a crowd of blue eyes

reflecting strange fruit hanging from poplar trees

I was screaming his name when I stopped

to listen to a homeless man sing Jesus’ name

reflecting on strange fruit from poplar trees

His twisted mouth sang

I heard a homeless man sing Jesus’ name

“Black bodies swing in the southern breeze”

His twisted mouth sang

“Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.”

“Black bodies swing in the southern breeze”

His shadow tore through the crowd of blue eyes

“Then the sudden smell burning flesh”

I saw my Father walk away