Generalizing to make a point, barring
slave revolts, domestic violence and deadly gun play during drug deals
gone wrong, blacks, historically, haven’t been much for mass public
shooting sprees or for violently acting out in public to instigate what
can only be called “death by cop.”
The racist brouhaha swirling around
University of Cincinnati College of Arts and Sciences Dean Ronald
Jackson should quell once and for all any lingering nonsensical verbiage
about a “post-racial” America or the “end of blackness” since the
election and return of President Barack Obama.
Some of these folks have been around too
long or they keep reappearing as council candidates/members because
perhaps there is nothing else for them to do in the private sector. But what’s their platform?
I have seen Boehner’s political rise —
from courtside seats in the early days — and I am amazed but not
surprised by it because it’s easy to be “impressive” and to be passed up
the ranks and into many branches of American politics; it’s a trait
politicians share with student/athletes in higher education.
If you have ever been past these places
at twilight, just as the exterior lights are coming up, the dichotomies
of our shadowy citizens “living” near a casino in proximity to two
entertainment districts are illuminated as the houses of justice become
the beds and toilets for the indigent.
I’m not saying whites can’t and shouldn’t
keep recording Blues, Hip Hop, Jazz, Gospel or they should quit
appropriating black African influences. Please. Keep it up. Let’s us know we’re alive and that we were here. Just stay in your lane.
Annually, those of us who care about such
things beyond the gates of Black History Month either ask ourselves
quietly or discuss the question with our intimates: Has “The Dream” been
fulfilled and how much farther, Brother Martin, ‘til we reach the
promised land here on Earth?
In the herd there are so
many students who come to college who’ve absolutely no business there;
they’re no more prepared for the intellectual rigor, the dicey social
matrix and the expectation of talent in their respective disciplines
than an average junior high school student, and no one’s had that
come-to-Jesus conversation with them until maybe well into their third
When that summer was over we got our black asses on the bus. We expected the worst. We rode the bus stiff-backed, ready for all-out race war. We weren’t comforted by our white bus driver’s choice of WEBN on the radio.
If only politicians were cicadas. At least we’d have a longer cycle of silence before the commencement of incessant droning and that annoying buzzing about. The only difference is cicadas, while butt-ugly, die after they mate.
So I could’ve married my cousin, Marc,
when I was 13 in Tennessee and we could now be 35 years into Ohio-based
bliss but, so far, I cannot marry my partner anywhere else and legally
leave her any of my crap in Ohio? SMH. And this is what the Obergefell/Arthur family is upset about.
I talked to my kids about Trayvon Martin,
the flaws and intricacies of the American judicial system, about racial
profiling and about how the smallest of bad choices can keep them from
coming home at the end of the day.
We’re all, most of us, anyway, waiting together for 93-year-old Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela to go. But, really? How much can one man bear? How much beating? How much ostracization? How many lies? How much defamation, alienation and starvation?