Tupac’s Murder Almost 15 Years Ago and the Death Knell of True Rap Music

I know that I am getting old. One of the signs that you are being trapped within “your generation” while the one that came after you is slowly floating away into the horizon, is when you start to really dislike “their music” and you constantly wax on about how much better the music was “in your day.” You are getting old when you incessantly find fault with their singers, their beats, their rappers, and the subject matter thereof. At no other time in my life have I ever been so irritated with an era of music as I have been with this one. Every generation goes through this. It is the like the severing of the proverbial umbilical cord or maybe it’s more akin to the rites of passage or a coming of age where you are finally not impressed with something just because it’s new, fresh, and cutting edge. At this point in life you have solidified and adequately defined and clarified your personal tastes. The time of experimentation and giving everything an equal chance is coming to a close. You know what you like—and you are sticking to it. Don’t get me wrong. There will always be good music to be made. I am not indicting all of today’s musical artists. But I know I am sounding like my mother when she would hear my rap music back in the 80’s and 90’s and she would say, “I can’t understand that stuff. It all sounds the same.” Though I can understand most of the crap put out today, to me, it all sounds like repetitive, over-marketed, auto-tune drenched nonsense. Seriously, does anyone use their true voices anymore? With auto-tune, can everyone now sing as well as rap? Will pure lyrical flow now be replaced with this singing/rapping/auto-tune hybrid monstrosity? Not everything auto-tune is awful. Come on, Zapp and Roger made literal classics with it (remember “Computer Love” and “I Wanna Be Your Man”?). Also, T. Pain has made his mark with quality use of this device (i.e. “Bartender” and “Chopped and Screwed”). Even the subject of this piece, Tupac, employed it to drop a classic—“California Love.” But how did the fusion (oh, I’m sorry, I am supposed to use the term “collaboration”) of rap music, audio tune, pop music, and R&B help ruin rap music (EXAMPLE - Justin Beiber and Ludacris???)? Another question that should be asked is this; how did we get to this point? Or better yet—what was the death knell of pure, quality rap music. In my (not so often humble) opinion, it was the death of Tupac Shakur.

The dictionary defines the term “death knell” as “… The tolling of a bell announcing death… (idiomatic, by extension) A sign or omen foretelling the death or destruction of something.” When I first looked at this definition, I could not help but think of the rhythmic but deep bell toll in Tupac’s classic, “Hail Mary.” It is ironic that one of his last and most enjoyed hits included a beat that was partially comprised with an ominous bell toll in the background—giving the song a sense of foreboding eeriness and bringing us closer to the fact that the man rapping over this hypnotic track was long dead. To me, his death and the release of some of his best material afterward also symbolized the beginning of the slow demise of the golden age of rap music. Many people believe the golden age of rap was actually established with acts such as Run DMC, EPMD, LL Cool J, the Beastie Boys, Public Enemy, and Ice T. Others place it in its infancy with such artists as Kurtis Blow, Kool Moe Dee, the Sugarhill Gang, M.C. Lyte, and Cool Herc. To me, the “golden age” of something is it at its very height of popularity and influence—not necessarily it’s beginning. For example, most NBA basketball fans will tell you that the golden age of NBA basketball involved the era of Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, and to an extent Dr. J. This is when the NBA broke new ground and established the foundation of the global exposure it enjoys today. I remember many years ago (before M.J. made his final comeback with the Washington Wizards) I was on a plane seated next to an Israeli man. He was much older than I was so we didn’t have much in common in regards to conversational subject matter. However, we did speak briefly about the NBA. He told me that he began to watch basketball when M.J. played and quit watching it when he left the game. I am quite sure many around the world did the same. Yes, Kobe Bryant and Lebron James are great players. Some would argue that they may even surpass Michael Jordan statistically, but no set of players will surpass those who played during in the golden era of NBA basketball in terms of influence and impact—simply because they stand upon the foundation these guys laid. They are great, but they did not redefine the game and tremendously broaden its worldwide appeal. This is the why Tupac must be considered the epitome of the golden age of rap music. Sure, you can throw other artists in there with him—no doubt. But just as Michael Jordan represents an era of an entire basketball league, Tupac symbolizes an entire era of a genre of music. He is not only the Michael Jordan of rap—i.e. the greatest of all times (GOAT), he is also its Muhammad Ali--even its Bob Marley (the representation of the entire genre regardless of era or subgenre). Like Bob Marley, Tupac’s classic songs never get old. That’s the true definition of a “classic song.” It is a song that does not lose its popularity with age. You can play a classic song at any time and the memories, smiles, and hip movements immediately surface. For example, when you hear “Get up! Stand up! Stand up for your rights!” what happens?

Okay, Okay, Okay, let me address this before it comes up. Biggie was not the greatest rapper of all time--period. I don’t care what Puffy, Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Sean Combs, Diddy, or whatever moronic moniker he adopts to get attention says. Let me repeat—Biggie was not the greatest rapper of all time. Not even close! I know all you Brooklynites out there are going to hate this next line but I have to say it—he was not even potentially the greatest. Yes, even had he continued to live, the Notorious B.I.G. would never have even been able to approach Tupac’s GOAT title. For one, Biggie’s body of work was too small. Second, his subject matter was much narrower than Tupac’s. He had classics—yes, but his classics will never stand up to Tupac’s in terms of universal acceptance. Listen, a couple years ago I was once on the streets in a small African country where English is not widely spoken. I was in a little shop and there was a small television on playing the video to Tupac’s “Hit ‘Em Up.” All of a sudden a young local boy of about 8-10 years old comes in a tried to impress me by reciting every line to the song. He even recited all the “F bombs” at the end of the song that Tupac directs at Biggie, Bady Boy, and Puff Daddy. In the same town a year or two later, the song “Dear Mama” was being played in a small local restaurant. In the eatery at that time was a group of teen-age students smoking flavored tobacco from a hookah. One of them swayed her head to the beat and recited every line. I could not believe it. This girl was about 17 or 18 years old. She was but a small child when this song was released. Yet, she told me that Tupac was the greatest rapper ever and that she loved that song. How many rappers transcend generations and are still considered the “greatest” in their genre? The only artist that comes to mind that fits this category is Bob Marley in the field of Reggae. In Africa, Europe, and Asia, etc.—in 2011, you see many people still sporting Tupac t-shirts and hats. You can look at any group of kids in these nations leaving school for the day carrying a Tupac backpack. How many Biggie hats, shirts, and bags do you see? I have even seen the phrase “West Coast” spray painted on walls in poor neighborhoods and written proudly on city buses here in Africa. People around the world know how to throw up the “Westside” hand signal. I have never heard anyone outside the New York area claim that Biggie was the greatest rapper. 9 times out of 10, it is Tupac that gets this accolade worldwide.

Compare how many documentaries have been made about Tupac and his death compared to that of Biggie. How many times has Tupac’s music been remixed and re-released? How many times have other artists redone his music and placed his raps along with their lyrical contributions on new songs?  Who has had more underground, bootleg, and otherwise unauthorized recordings and recreations released—Tupac or Biggie? What’s my point? The reason people keep taking Tupac’s music and rearranging and recreating it is because deep inside, we as his fans and admirers cannot just let him go. Yes, he has been dead for about 15 years but we still have not laid him to rest. Has such fanfare surrounded Biggie or his music? Not even close.

Tupac’s impact outside of rap was also huge. He was a movie star and an icon not only for Black youth but youth and the disenfranchised worldwide. No, I am not trying to make Tupac into some kind of freedom fighter, role model, or great political figure—he was none of those. However, the lyrical content of his music consisted of much more than thug bravado, the party/club scene culture, and sexual escapades. I have heard people from other parts of the world tell me that when Tupac raps, they relate and understand his frustration, pain, and inspiration—whether he is talking about his mother, his hood, or his ambitions.  In contrast, today’s music revolves pretty much around a famous line from Biggie's hit “Juicy”; “Money, hoes, and clothes, all a nigga knows.” Sadly, it seems that modern day rappers heard that line and decided to rap about nothing else—pathetic. Sure, Tupac made dance jams like “I Get Around,” “California Love,” and “All About You.” But he also gave a voice and told the stories of those overlooked and forgotten members of society in songs like “Gotta Keep Ya Head Up,” “Baby Don’t Cry,” and “Brenda’s Got a Baby.” He examined the political and social ills of the inequality and racism in American society with masterpieces like “They Don’t Give a F*** About Us,” “Changes,” and “Dear Mr. President.” Who could forget Tupac’s ode to motherhood through the aforementioned song, “Dear Mama,” his examination of the tragedies surrounding promiscuous young women in “Wonda Why They Call U Bitch,” his look at the urban violence swallowing up a generation of children in “Shorty Wanna Be a Thug,” Tupac’s insight into poor Black ghetto life in “Still I Rise,” or his perception of Black pride in “Panther Power”? Does Biggie have any songs of this caliber? Not at all—at the most maybe one or two. However, their worth in terms of social and political analysis??? ZERO.

When we would watch Michael Jordan play basketball it was like listening to Tupac rap. Deep inside we all knew that once he is gone—there will never be another. Rap music’s pureness, its potential and worldwide impact peaked with Tupac’s ascension to the throne. Sure, we have Jay Z, Eminem, and 50 Cent today. But even combined, these three princes of rap music still bow to Tupac’s kingly scepter. Jay Z’s lyrical content pretty much revolves around his favorite subject—himself. Though he is one of the greatest rappers to ever pick up a microphone—his ambitions of becoming hip-hop’s first billionaire will hamstring his ability to dethrone Pac. 50 Cent has always made good music and he is now dabbling into acting (even though his acting is worse that his rapping). However, no matter how popular and rich he becomes, his stature as a rapper alone will never even hold a candle to that of Tupac. He even alluded to Tupac's greatness in his song, "In Da Club" when he said, "I want them to love me like they love Pac." Again, his (50 Cent's) subject matter simply revolves around himself, his money, his sexual exploits, and his violent past (“yawn”). Besides, many agree that Curtis Jackson has peaked and that he should continue to pursue acting (much like Will Smith) in order to stay relevant. Eminem is undoubtedly one of the greatest rappers ever. No arguing that. But honestly, one must question how much of his popularity has to do with him being White. This is an unfair variable. But, whenever a minority of sorts thrives in a field that is normally dominated by those that are very different, that person usually garners a bit more credit and attention than they would receive if this were not the case. This is the same phenomenon that surrounds Tiger Woods, Venus and Serena Williams, and even Justin Beiber. Therefore, one must ask, would Eminem be who he is if he was another Black rapper, or Tiger Woods be who he is if he were some country club Caucasian, how about the Williams sisters if they were a couple of skinny White girls, and would  not Justin Beiber be another teen-age Black pop singer if he weren’t White? Still, one must consider Pac the best ever—past, present, and sadly, future.

What happened to rap since his death? Well, when Tupac died it was sort of like when James Dean died or when Muhammad Ali was barred from boxing. It came at a time when he had not even reached his peak. We will never know how much more greatness would have been yielded from the life of this interesting man. When it was all said and done, he released 14 official albums which would sell over 75 million copies worldwide. Amazingly, 8 of these albums along with the bulk of the sales came posthumously. He was also in movies and made television appearances. All this was done by a man that did not live past the age of 25. When he left, there was a huge void that no one MC could fill. Sure, many tried to put Biggie there, but tragically, he joined Tupac a little while later. After their death, rap music changed. It splintered into many more subgenres and the dominance of East and West coast rap, along with the fabled rivalry therein faded. Pretty soon, the significance of rap music, in terms of its ability to call attention to the tragedies and triumphs of inner-city African American life soon followed. What was once a way to call attention to the struggles and voices of America’s Black youth and the danger and frustrations they faced soon transformed into nothing but a platform for preaching self-worship, materialism, and the reckless pursuit thereof—ever heard of the phrase “Get Rich or Die Tryin’”? Soon, ethos such as this caused the youth to switch their focus from “Thug Life” to “The Good Life.” But Tupac was not advocating being a thug in deed but in thought. I once heard him break this down in a forum. He explained that “Thug Life” was a mentality or philosophy that said, “Since they will not give to you what belongs to you, you must take it.” I wholeheartedly agree with this. Thus “Thug Life” is not an endorsement of thievery or crime in action, it is a call to take back what we are actually entitled to as Blacks with the mentality of a cold hearted thug—because that is the mentality of those who took it in the first place and presently guard it—be it money, opportunity, knowledge, rights, etc. His focus was not on getting rich and provoking others to envy (“hatin’”). It was on calling attention to the atrocities perpetuated upon us as Black, Hispanic, and poor Americans and helping to encourage and uplift us in the process. One must not limit and define Tupac’s contribution to music and his legacy from songs like “Hit Em Up’” alone. Tupac was the soul of rap music. With his death, rap music has lost its soul—no, rap music has sold its soul and is now marketed, diluted, spread thin, lent out, and pimped like a simple street ho. I honestly believe that if Tupac would know what has happened to rap music, he would be unable to keep from shedding a tear or two.

Who knows what would have spawned from him had he still been with us? Today he would be 40. One of the things I often think about when I remember Tupac is if he and Biggie would ever have reconciled and made an album together. How great and game changing would that release be? How about if he ever got together with Nas, Jay Z, 50 Cent, Kanye West, or even Eminem? Imagine the unforgettable musical contributions that would have been created. I seriously doubt he would have faded away or gone the way of auto-tune and pop and R&B “collaborations.” He was too “rap music.” He was the last of a dying breed. I just can’t see him spending a whole song talking about the measurements of the alloy wheels on one of his half and million dollar cars. I can’t fathom Tupac doing a song about some corny dance craze that would be “hot” for a few weeks. It is impossible for me to visualize Tupac Shakur, doing stupid stuff like reality shows, corny comedy movies, or rapping exclusively about a particular brand of clothing or shoes. But sadly, since he has gone, that’s all we keep getting served to us. No wonder we refuse to let him die—because the day we do, rap music will join him.

Tyler Perry Movies: Enough is Enough!

Just watched the Tyler Perry movie, For Colored Girls… and… well, that’s two and a quarter hours that I will not get back. What can I say? It was… well… a Tyler Perry movie. Aren’t they all? I have been watching Tyler Perry productions since he was a little known playwright/actor/drag queen back in the day. You see, back in the day, before his plays were strewn all over Wal-Mart and grocery store kiosks, before he was making cameo appearances on Star Trek movies, being made fun of on The Boondocks (season 3 episode 8 entitled Pause, it’s so funny and accurate it’s scary!) animated series, or denying rumors that he is gay (which we all pretty much know is just a denial and not a rumor), Mr. Perry was some crazy dude running around in drag as an old stereotypical Black American woman full of insults, street-wise advice, a bad temper, and the uncanny ability to misquote and thus misapply various Bible verses (oh yeah, she also carried a handgun in her purse). These plays would revolve around this ridiculous character, Madea, and her interactions with friends and family members who themselves were an assortment of buffoonish stereotypes and dimwitted caricatures of Black America. At this time, these plays were mainly obtainable only by viewing them on pirated DVD’s/VHS tapes—or as we say, “bootlegs.” Usually, a person’s first exposure to one of these plays was at a friend’s house. Yes, the first time you watch one of his plays you will laugh out loud at the combination of the silly dialogue, the simplified plot, and the assortment of exaggerated typecast Black American characters. The comedy in these productions is real—I’ll give him that. If anything, Tyler Perry IS funny. His plays (and his movies and TV shows for that matter) are filled with a bunch of slang using, gospel music singing, smart mouthed, jive talking, hair-weave shaking, teeth sucking, eye-rolling, Black women that are juxtaposed with your array of either fat, goofy, rock-headed, slow, dumb, Neanderthal-ish men or muscle clad, singing, smooth talking men who just happen to be draped in some tight spandex shirt, a “wife-beater,” or no shirt at all. Simply put, the depth of the characters and the material as a whole goes no further than the depth of a teaspoon. However, in this particular movie the only thing missing was the incessant gospel singing and the silly buffoonery displayed by Black American stereotypes. Yes, there were lots of hair weaves present too. Somewhere there is a corral of horses with nubs where their tails once were—poor things. Also, there are plenty of scenes where the men are conveniently shirtless.

The usual band of characters in Perry’s productions are:

1.                         the crazy uncle who does not know how to dress but thinks he is the epitome of fashion, all the while his highly inaccurate use of the English language and constant need for attention keeps him as being the butt of many jokes and insults

2.                         the assortment of overweight, loud, bad attitude driven Black women who always have something bad to say about men and of course can cook and sing, this stereotype can be seen in so many Black American films and is probably the most recognized one

3.                         the woman who has been hurt by her man and is usually rescued by some other guy who she spurns at first

4.                         the “uppity” black woman who has “made it”, by this I mean that she came from this family of dysfunction but one day got a job as a doctor, accountant, lawyer, etc. and now looks down upon her relatives and never surpasses any opportunity to show them how far from them she is

5.                         the other hurt woman—she is either a drug addict or alcoholic and many in the family are ashamed of her and don’t trust her, sometimes she tries to steal another family member’s or friend’s man

6.                         the crazy aunt—this woman is more of an attention junkie than the crazy uncle and stops at nothing to outdo him to get it, of course she, like most of the other Black women in these productions, she is loud, ignorant, and quick-tempered

7.                         the slick preacher  occasionally shows up, he is an all-time favorite stereotypical character, he is supposed to be the source of piety and all things holy, yet he is crooked, corrupt, greedy, and always willing to give a “sister” private, hands-on ministry

8.                         the fat dumb husband is a staple in his productions, he is sometimes also played by the crazy uncle, but usually this guy serves as the butt of most jokes and can be found in front of the television eating the high caloric food prepared by his equally big wife, she talks down to him, insults him in front on everyone, and generally does all that she can to degrade him and other men—regardless of their worth

9.                         the abusive husband/boyfriend is another common character showing up within his plots, he is controlling, mean, and violent and is often confronted by one of the neck-rolling, finger snapping, weave shaking “sistas” or Madea herself, of course his victim is either rescued by the nice (often shirtless or tight shirt clad) guy who either just divorced his wife or is a widower

10.                      the cheater… this is a guy who like the abusive husband/boyfriend is another means Perry employs to victimize one of his stock female characters

11.                      Big Momma is similar to the aforementioned loud, negative dispositional, overly defensive Black women except that she is also a source of wisdom and sometime peacemaker, she is highly religious and is often the leader of the family because—of course—in Black families--the men are sorry, absentee, and weak, so Perry (a Black man himself) just reinforces this absurd idea by making Big Momma the authority figure and the glue that keeps these dysfunctional and otherwise fragmented families together

12.                      The village idiot sometimes makes appearances in his productions, most of the time it is a man (of course) who is never part of a serious scene, he is either mentally ill, hooked on drugs, or is old and suffering from bouts of senility—either way, none of these social conditions are really anything to laugh at when you think about it

13.                      The good guy is usually one of the main characters and rescues one of the hurt women who initially does not receive him very well because (of course) she has “trust issues” (such a cliché term nowadays—right?), he is patient with her constant rejection and in the end there is usually some melodramatic moment where they both reveal their feelings to one another with her finally collapsing in his arms, this guy is usually dark-skinned and muscle-bound in the plays where he also sings but in the movies he is usually light-skinned (i.e. Rick Fox and Shamar Moore), no matter what skin tone he possesses, he is always very handsome

14.                      The horny old lady is another funny character in his repertoire of rejects, she is an elderly woman who never misses an opportunity to flirt with any young buck with looks and/or money

Again, this collection of clowns is what usually makes up his productions—be they cinematic, theatrical, or on TV. Let me preface the rest of my piece by saying this: I am in no way “hatin’” on Mr. Perry. I love to see success stories. This guy built an empire by himself using his creativity, perseverance, and knowing when to make the right moves. I love the fact that this man, this Black American man, can stand as a testament of someone who used what they had to make their dreams come true—and some could argue he may have even surpassed them. I aint mad at him. I want him to make money, movies, and memories. He has found his niche—black women, gay men, and well… everyone in between. But personally, I am tired of his formula just being rehashed and served to us. It’s not that we keep eating chicken every night, it’s that we keep eating a different form of fried chicken—three times a day! This movie was actually adapted from a play written by Ntozake Shange in the mid 1970’s. Yes, this is a movie he actually didn’t write—however he directed, produced, and wrote the screenplay for it. Being a play that focuses on a bunch of hurting Black women who have been victimized by… guess who? Yep, a bunch of Black men; it was right up his alley. So, I guess he could not resist making this award winning play, which is about four decades old, into a film. Once you watch it or if you have already watched it, you will easily see why sometimes great plays don’t always translate into great movies—not even good or even watchable ones. But if anyone knows how to take a play, pandering to Black women by showcasing their victimization “issues” created by Black men, and make it into a movie--it’s Mr. Perry. Here's another interesting note; the play the movies is based on revolved around seven women. However, in this movie, there are nine women with "man issues." Perry didn't think seven was enough? He felt the need to kill us with his emotional overkill?

I am not going to rehash the plot here. I’m sure you are ready to get to the end of this piece anyway. I just want to go over a few things about the movie I did actually like and others I found interesting (not necessarily in a positive way). This movie like pretty much else everything he makes has a plethora of hurt, bitter Black women which are of course paired with your usual bunch of Black men with issues. These include a cheating liar, a married closeted homosexual, an abusive alcoholic veteran just home from the war, a child molesting father/grandfather (talked about but not pictured), a smooth talking rapist, and… I think that’s enough. In this one movie it’s like we get a feast of Tyler Perry subject matter. He must have gone crazy to have an opportunity to be involved in a movie that deals with all the major female victimization themes: rape, child molestation, teen-age pregnancy, abortion, a cheating partner, a cheating spouse, the man that beats his woman—and her children, the woman who uses tons of casual sex to cope, the extremely religious mother-figure who uses her holier-than-thou attitude to cover her own hypocrisy, the woman unable to have children because of an STD given to her from a past boyfriend, etc. etc. etc. I know—enough already! Yes, there’s more, but why continue? Yes, Mr. Perry tried to fit all this and more in the movie. It was like meshing all of his plays, TV shows, and movies that pander to Black women into one production. The movie is filled with a God awful amount of these teary-eyed dramatic moments where these women reminisce about their traumatic past or deal head on with equally horrific moments that scar them—to include a woman who gets infected with HIV from her secretly homosexual husband, a woman who witnesses her drunk boyfriend drop her two small children from a window to their deaths, a woman that gets brutally raped in her own home by a man she’s on a date with, and a teen-ager who decides to get an illegal abortion from alcoholic woman using whiskey to clean her instruments. Yes, there’s even more—but again, why go into it? To make matters worse, these scenes are all interrupted by these women quoting poetry that sounds like Shakespeare speaking gibberish. This “poetry” kills most of these touching moments and serves to further tarnish this ridiculous movie. OK, enough about that. I want to now analyze some of the dialogue that I found interesting.

Remember, the overarching theme of this movie is the victimization of (Black) women—by (Black) men. However, there are times when Perry seems to make these characters look at (but not quite examine) the concept of “personal responsibility”—yes ownership in terms of some of their problems. Here are a few examples:

In one scene, a middle aged lady, Juanita, who is ever chasing the man she knows is nothing but a liar, Frank, believes that he has left her for the same woman--again.  At this point she becomes fed up and says, “Why do I keep doing this s*** to myself?” I like that part. Here Perry moves away from the usual “blame the Black man” game and points the finger where it belongs—the woman who has allowed Frank to continually mistreat her.

In another scene, far more serious, Gilda (the ever present matriarchal figure) has a serious talk with Tangie, the sex addict who has just had a confrontational meeting with her mother. In this scene, Gilda moves past the attitude that Tangie constantly gives her and tells her like it is—with a sense of tough love; “Sleepin with all these men. You think it’s just sex. It aint just sex honey--it all has a root. And you got to find that root—to pluck it.” I really love this particular scene because the truth here is so raw and universal. Everything in our lives, whether positive or negative, has a root or roots. We cannot just pick the fruits from the tree as a way of dealing with the issue. We must find the root of it all and “pluck it” in order to rid ourselves of the problem(s). But picking fruit is easy. All we have to do is reach up and pull. This is akin to dealing with our challenges by using quick fix (albeit temporary) solutions--because there are more fruit to pick. And even if you are able to pick them all—they’ll grow back. Only when you can uproot something, will it finally lose its power in your life. We just don’t want to put forth the effort to find the root. Finding the root takes digging, and digging, and more digging. We are afraid of what we will find as we sift through the dirt. But when we dig and reach that root, we can finally take control of our lives and not be subject to something else any longer. Here is true freedom.

Another scene of interest is the conversation had between Gilda and Crystal concerning the tragic murder of Crystal’s two young children by her boyfriend. Crystal is severely depressed and here is where Gilda gives her some straight talk about how to pick up the pieces and move on:

Crystal - “I tried to stop him…”

Gilda – “You had to stop him long before he got to that window.”

Crystal – “Are you saying this is my fault?”

Gilda – “You gonna have to take responsibility in some of this. How much of it you take is up to you, but you got to take some of it. Until you do, you just gonna be livin’ to die… I know it hurts, but you gotta get up from here… There’s too much life wrapped in your voice, you gotta get up from here.”

This is my favorite scene from the film for a number of reasons. First, this character is confronted with her part in the tragedy. Yes, her boyfriend killed the children. But she allowed him not only to beat her over and over again but also permitted the children to be exposed to this abuse. She knew he was mentally unstable and an alcoholic, yet, she continued to take care of him and make excuses for his behavior. Gilda was not trying to make her feel guilty. She was trying to help this poor woman move on with her life. No matter how terribly tragic an occurrence may be in our lives, we must realize that the world still spins and life goes on. What we do at the moment dictates whether we recover and grow or we wallow in self pity and die a slow death. The very thing that we usually want to avoid dealing with is our responsibility within an issue. People skip the initial step of taking responsibility and facing issues--then they get stuck there. You can’t move on without facing it. Facing it is the first step—and first steps can never be skipped. Fearing it, avoiding it, and drowning it in alcohol, casual sex, partying, drugs, or other risky behavior only temporarily submerges it. Over time is takes more liquor, more dope, and more random sex to numb you from what you see in the mirror. Fun and pleasure are no substitutes for therapy and healing. One is a natural process the other is a terrible alternative that in the end you will pay for with your health, sanity, and self-respect—even the respect of others that love you.

The next scene of interest takes place between a wife, Jo, and her secretly gay husband, Carl. She just found out he gave her a STD and confronts him about his sexual habits. She knew he liked men but kept quiet about it. She actually says, “I know I ignored everything in me to be with you.” It seems like here she takes ownership of her part, but later she rants on and on about how every man in her life was “sorry” and how apologies are now worthless to her—dragging her back into paying the victim card again. If she suspected her husband was gay, she should not have waited until he infected her with HIV to finally deal with the problem. This displays stupidity and stubbornness on her part—not love! A rather amusing line he says when she asks him if he is gay is when he outright denies being gay but then says, “I am a man that enjoys having sex with other men.” He continues on about his masculinity and manliness in spite of his homosexual desires. To me, this is rather ridiculous. That’s like me saying, “You know, I am not a thief. I do not steal. I just enjoy taking things that don’t belong to me and keeping them.” Or even better, “I am not a cheater. I do not cheat on you. I may have sex with other women, but I make love to you. See the difference? I am faithful to you. I just enjoy sexing other women.” Furthermore, this scene ends with another silly moment. Jo hands Carl her wedding ring and her HIV test results and says defiantly to him, “I want you gone and take your HIV with you!” Now how realistic is that?

Finally, there is the last scene when all these women with issues are gathered on a roof top and one of them says, “I am having so much fun and there is not a man around.” Wow! I was immediately irritated by the blatant last minute example anti-male bashing that Perry had to fit in here. I will end now. I am getting irritated again just recalling it.

In conclusion, I don’t think that Tyler Perry is a bad film maker. I rather enjoyed his films, The Family that Preys and Daddy’s Little Girls. These were excellent. I also liked Why Did I Get Married (although unlike those other two, this one really fit his usual plot mold). I just think that when I do decide to view something of his, I have been so inundated with his usual stuff, that I will approach it with a bit of skepticism. But Tyler, keep doing your thang boy!!!

About the Night My Buddy and I Almost Got Shot by the Presidential Guard

It was a night back in ‘08 like any other night--hot and humid. Here in Northeast Africa days are either hot, hotter, or the proverbial "hot as hell." Many people, who did not use profanity or cuss, soon employed such speech shortly after coming here. I mean, it literally DOES get that hot here. There's no other way to describe it. When you go outside after just taking a shower (regardless of what time of day or night it is) and you are drenched in sweat after a few moments, all you can say it "(insert cuss word here)________ it's HOT!" The heat here is the source of much misery. It gets up to and sometimes above 50 C or 120 F. Anyway, back to the night in ‘08. I wanted to stay here at the U.S. government run compound where I live and work. But my friend, well... I'll refer to him as "Lance," wanted to leave. He had a sense of urgency about him so I relented and signed off camp as his (required by policy here) "liberty partner." I promise, from the outset of it all, I just had one of those bad feelings. I was usually all for leaving this depressing place of work and residence in the middle of the desert to go into this nation's pathetic excuse for a capital city. But for some strange reason I really did not want to go out this particular evening. Lance in the other hand, a usually reserved guy in his mid-forties, was kind of jumpy and in a hurry to go--almost desperate. When I put those two items next to one another, I just got that bad feeling in the back of my mind that said, "Man, don't do it." However, being the loyal "buddy" that I am, we were on our way in no time. But that feeling of a not-so-good night ahead of me still lingered. As we stepped off the premises, I was on the lookout for something bad to happen. I didn't have to wait long. We went to the area right outside our compound where the local taxis gather and were met with the first omen...

Before I begin, let me discuss the taxi racket here. Number one, there is no real set of legitimate policies that govern the taxi drivers or their vehicles. They have only a loose union of sorts and their various forms of intimidation they use at times. In this country, the combination of extreme poverty, no traffic signals (at all), horribly neglected roads (wherever there are roads--seriously), no real desire for regular maintenance of these vehicles, and a taxi driver workforce that is pretty much chewing khat (a local plant that is chewed on to give one a small amount of the same effects of an amphetamine that is considered a narcotic in many western states) from the afternoon until late at night has created a fleet of vehicles that are very unsafe to say the least. Filled with dents, missing door panels, mitch-match body parts, seriously unaligned steering systems, missing rear windows, cracked and even shattered windshields, faulty brakes, hit-and-miss lights, heavy use of spare "donut" tires, balding regular tires, malfunctioning safety belts, and ever present rust, many of these vehicles belong in a junkyard or museum more than they belong on any road--let alone with paying passengers inside. Nonetheless, we risk our lives every time we step into these gas powered death traps just to be able to get away from this (prison) camp we call home and our workplace. On top of that, many the drivers are very shady. They are parked in a medium sized lot right outside the camp in order to pounce on the employees that leave the camp and force them to pay the mandatory "fees" to go to certain places in the city. These fees, I must add, are much higher that what the locals pay and even higher than the prices paid by the French (ironically their former colonizers who left nothing but a few buildings, their dying language, and an educational system that not only neglected to teach these Africans their own history or culture but brainwashed them into thinking that France was/is the center of civilization and also filled the minds these people with their anti-American rhetoric). The drivers don't allow people who park their vehicles in this lot to give any of the workers or residents of this camp a ride. If they see this, they will surround the vehicle and demand a payment of force the person inside to take a taxi. They also force people who park in this "public" lot to pay fees. If they don't they may find serious damage done to their vehicle. So, you pay for them to "watch" your vehicle and "keep it safe." The officials on this American run base are well aware of such occurrences but refuse to act. I guess there are more important things to deal with than the safety of their service member and civilian workforce when they travel off-camp. Anyway...

Our taxi driver drove up. We were stuck with him because they wait in line and whoever you are lucky to get is your driver. First of all, I had never seen this guy before. He looked old enough to have his driver's license revoked just on age alone. I am in my mid-thirties and this dude would have given my eighty-something year old grandfather a run for his money. Of course he drove slow like his car was a float in a parade and we had to repeat everything two or three times to him (no that it really mattered--he like most in this only francophone nation in East Africa spoke only the local language, Somali, the religious language, Arabic, and the colonial language, French). He gripped and hugged the steering wheel like it actually supported him and sat his head up so close to the spider web cracked windshield that I doubted if his poor eyesight allowed him to see too much past his own face. We soon found that to be true. Lance and I looked at the car. Wow, it looked like a Chevy Citation and an 80's era Toyota Tercel got together and produced this vehicle after a drunken one night stand. Either that or Optimus Prime (leader of the Autobots from the Transformers movie and cartoon series) squatted at a junkyard, took a dump, and this car emerged. The car was about the size of any super compact car. It was definitely not made to function as a taxi. Lance and I looked at the car, the driver, and sighed the old "here goes nothing" sigh and slid in. The car looked worse on the inside than the outside. He and I are both about 6 feet tall. But we felt like giants in this matchbox. Not only that, there was no door panel present, over half of the dashboard and other internal covering were missing--exposing an interesting array of internal wiring. On top of that the old man seemed to be talking to himself the whole way. We told him where we wanted to go and he nodded as if he understood. With a few pushes of the gas pedal, Lance and I were on our way. For some reason he was taking this unfamiliar route to our destination. Every time we repeated where we wanted to go, he would quickly quiet us with this, "I know, I know, I got it." universal type nod. Oh yeah, of course the seat belts didn't work either. Back to the route... the way he took us would bring us past the entrance near where the president lives. Of course his residence is far from the road, but it is so huge that it can be seen from afar. When you approach this area, there are flashing lights actually within the street. There is also a series of speed bumps, a stop sign, a small guard shack with a couple of his AK-47 armed presidential guard, and finally some strategically placed small metal barriers that will not stop a car per se, but will force one to slow down because of their narrowness.

As we approached this area, instead of this car, which was already traveling at a crawl, slowing down, the driver increased his speed as we neared the stop sign. At first I didn't pay any attention, but soon enough he not only ran through the stop sign but be whizzed past the guard shack and beyond the metal barriers. I was so shocked that I didn't even feel the speed bumps. By this time we are yelling and screaming at him to stop the car. He then hit the brakes and the only thing that kept us from going through the cracked windshield was that fact that we were already stuffed in the car to begin with. As soon as he stopped, there were two AK-47 clad troops running towards the car--faces intent and focused and weapons ready to fire. We both put our hands up and as soon as they approached the car we screamed and pointed to the taxi driver, "It was him! It was him! It was him!" All the while, this driver, who was probably born before the first car made in onto African soil, just sat staring out of the window continuing to mumble to himself. How could this guy not be alarmed? Had he not realized how close to death we all were? Anyway, the soldier must have realized from the petrified looks on my and Lance's faces that we were truly innocent, so he lowered his weapon and asked the driver a few questions to which the driver always replied in some mumbled gibberish that I am sure even he could not comprehend. After a few minutes of this, we finally lowered our hands, exhaled, and unclenched our anuses. The guard instructed the driver to make an immediate u-turn and drag his carcass of a vehicle down the road. Needless to say, we were more than happy to do so. As we sat in silence, save the car’s engine which was as closer to death than the fossil behind the wheel, I wondered how truly close I came to death... How would it look for me to be killed in such a way? An unfortunate chain of events leading to my demise. I just couldn't shake it.

Finally, we were at or destination. The normal fare would have been about $12 but this guy had the nerve to try and ask us for twice that. I could not believe that he had such courage to so do. First, $12 was a hugely inflated price, then for him to try and double it was even more insulting. Yet, for him to try this after almost getting us killed is what set me off. I yelled something at him that I am sure he could not understand anyway and threw the equivalent of $12 in their currency on the passenger's front seat. I also told him if he didn’t agree he could come and get the remaining money from me himself. He simply shook his head, continued to mumble and eased on down the road.

Thank God, the night went by without any further incident. But when I made it back to camp, I wondered whether or not if the president was even home. I say this because in countries like these, the authorities, whether police or military, tend to shoot first and ask questions later. And with us racing past the stop sign and barriers like we did, I am sure that if the president was inside, the guards would have added plenty of bullet holes to the dents and rust on the taxi that night--not to mention killing Lance and I and putting "Methuselah" out of his misery. Oh well, I am here to tell the story. I have lived another day--or two. I guess these are the things that we hate going through but say, "One day we will all laugh at all of this." Hopefully you have had a few.

Why Am I Still Called “Colored” Here in Africa?

The Intro

When I first visited South Africa, I got into a conversation with one of my newfound friends there. I was asked about my ethnicity/race, to which I replied, “I’m Black.” (Of course with a puzzled look on my face stemming from why she would ask me this) She then with wide-eyes and a dropped jaw gasped and said, “You’re not Black, your colored. I mean what are you mixed with?” I was almost floored. Colored? Colored? This is a term that has not been used in the U.S. since before the days of Martin Luther King Jr. Even he did not refer to Black Americans as “colored” but as (also an outdated term) “negroes.” Today, if you refer to a Black American as “colored” (especially if you are not Black) you will most likely have a serious fight on your hands. I had a stepfather once who would use this term, but he was a World War II veteran born in 1921. The only other time I heard this term spoken in front of me was from an old White bigot who came into the department store I was working in at the time (in Georgia) and asked about the “colored boy, Bernard.” This “boy” (another American racist term used in this context) he asked about, Bernard, was a Black man in his late forties to early fifties who was a pastor that sold men’s clothing there part-time. Because I wanted to keep my job and my mother brought me up to respect elderly people—no matter what, I calmed myself and simply replied, “He is not working here today sir.” But believe me, I wanted to punch him in his toothless mouth so hard, that his little grandchildren would cry from it.

Anyway, I answered her. I am a child of a Mexican-American father and a Black American mother. In California, people like me are jokingly referred to as “blaxican.” On the west coast as opposed to the east coast, there is a huge gap between the Hispanic and Black communities. Most Hispanics in California and the western U.S. in general gain their heritage from Mexican (or what was formally the property of Mexico until America “gained” it) descent. However, on the east coast, the Hispanic community is mainly comprised of both Hispanic and African contributions because these people come from nations that imported sizable amounts of African slaves (i.e. Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, etc.). Thus, the cultural and relational gap is much narrower. Also in the western part of the U.S., many in the Hispanic community refer to themselves as “Mexican” even if they are American citizens--born and raised as such. This is more of a regional cultural identification rather than a rejection of their true nationality. Hence it is an accepted and understood term in this part of America.

Back to the conversation in South Africa… I explained to her that we don’t use such terms in America and that they are actually quite offensive. But she in turn explained to me that being labeled “colored” in South Africa simply meant that a person was of mixed racial descent (of course by mixed racial descent, it is understood to mean that one or more of one’s ancestry had to be of Black African origin). Thus, to be “mixed” most likely refers to being “Black” and something else (as opposed to a mixture of two or more non-Black groups). As far as that goes, it is pretty much the same here in the U.S. However, even though my father is of Mexican-American descent and my mother is Black, I am considered and referred to as simply “Black.” When someone may venture out and ask what else I am “mixed with”, it is not a question of racial identification—because no matter what, as long as one of my parents is Black, I am Black—it is simply an inquiry intended to yield further clarification regarding my ethnicity and other cultural make-up. Stated differently, in America, Blackness has nothing to do with paternity or maternity by themselves as in other cultures, but it has to do with whether or not any of your parents have within them genetic material contributed by a progenitor from Black Africa. America currently operates on what is commonly known as the “one-drop rule,” meaning that if a person has but “one drop” of “black blood” in them, they are to be considered and categorized as Black. And here it was for all these years, that I thought we all had “red” blood. Such a policy is also referred to scientifically as the “hypo-descent rule.” This rule stipulates that racially mixed people are to be assigned or designated the status of the “subordinate” or “inferior” group. Historically, wherever Whites and Blacks dwelled together, Blacks were usually put into such roles through slavery, systematic discrimination, social customs, and/or by force. But it was not always this way.

The Background

In America during the days of slavery and for a brief period following its “legal” abolishment, a person’s race was dictated by the ordinance in whatever state that person was in. For example some states considered a person white if they only had up to ¼ of Black parentage (the equivalent of a grandparent) while others restricted it to 1/8 (a great grandparent). Such policies gave rise to terms like quadroon (1/4 Black) and octoroon (1/8 Black). This issue became significant in nature because in a land where a person’s race determined the class of their citizenship and thus their access to certain types of employment, legal rights within the civil and criminal judiciary system, marriage, etc. how one was categorized racially determined so much of their life and potentially what was available to them in quality as well as quantity (education, healthcare, land, etc.). Therefore, even though a person may have had “black blood” in them, it was so much more advantageous to minimize this presence of such blood and maximize the legitimacy of one’s Whiteness—or life would be so much tougher otherwise. As for those that were half and half, well, they were of course classified as Black. In fact, it was not uncommon for slave-owners or their sons to sire children from their female slaves and then sell (what was in all actuality their own offspring) these children into slaver y. In instances like these, the slave-owner would act as his own “stud” to create livestock—of course for profit. Take a moment and let that sink in…

However, this form of racial classification changed drastically at the dawn of the 20^th century mainly through the efforts of racist Democrat politicians in the Southern American states like Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and so on. To gain a stronger grip on political power, assert White social, economic, and political supremacy, and to reinforce the aforementioned by further disenfranchising Black America, new laws were passed to classify people racially. No longer was a person considered White if they could prove that the majority of their ancestry was, now if a person had “any known” Black African ancestry they were deemed Black. In certain states that wanted to mathematically clarify this, the Black to White ratios went from ¼ and 1/8 to 1/16 (a great, great grandparent) and even 1/32 (a great, great, great grandparent).  This in a way made Blackness into a sort of “racial contaminant.” In other words, once Blackness is introduced into a racial mixture, it deems the product unfit to be classified as anything other than that which contaminated it—Blackness. Yes, we get our definition about Blackness in today’s America from a rather racist ideal. In addition, this did a few other things; it further restricted the political and thus economic and social standing of Blacks, it also created a sort of binary view of race in America (you were either Black and disenfranchised or White and privileged), and finally (probably not intentionally) it solidified and galvanized the Black and bi-racial community socially because in a sense they were all in the same (proverbial) boat. It is still the same today. No matter what you are “mixed” with, in the U.S. you are accepted as Black within the Black community if you have some type of black parentage.

In South Africa things were a bit different. I went to another friend of mine from South Africa for clarity regarding this issue. He told me that there, when one deals with pure to mixed race individuals (I use the term “pure” very lightly) there were (and to an extent still are) three main branches: Black, White, and Colored. During the Apartheid era, both Black and Colored individuals were discriminated against and suffered under harsh exclusionary policies rooted in racist and White supremacist ideology. But, according to him, people classified as “Colored” enjoyed a little bit better treatment than their Black brothers and sisters. I would guess that this could have been used to divide these two disenfranchised communities—which of course would serve the Whites interest. One thing that the White racist colonists have taught the world in regards to dealing with Black people—Do not give them something to fight for, but leave just enough for them to fight over. Because I grew up partially in the Reagan and Bush Sr. era, we got very little information about South Africa. These president’s policies towards this nation steeped in racist violence against its majority Black citizenry was one of neutrality and silence. To me then, our politicians silence made them complicit in the abuse and inhumanity. Therefore, as a child and teen-ager all I can recall about South Africa was Apartheid and Nelson Mandela.

Not only have I faced this issue in South Africa, but in other places and with other acquaintances of mine from various parts of Africa. I live and work in Northeast Africa so I am mistaken for being an Arab all the time (especially when I am wearing a beard). I don’t have to tell you how much this sucks in certain airports. But in this part of Africa, if you say you’re Black (or Arab for that matter) they’ll take your word for it. Other times, my Swahili speaking Kenyan friends have asked about my ethnicity. Amazingly, one of them wondered and asked if I was White or not. I could not understand this one because I have full lips, a rounded nose, very curly hair, and caramel colored skin. Nonetheless, this person said that if I were to arrive at her village, I would be called “Mzungu” (a common Swahili term usually employed to describe White people but also not so often used to label any foreign outsider). But the worst name I have heard came from a very good friend of mine from Rwanda. I asked this person how I would be classified in Rwanda, and I was told as a “half-caste.” When I heard this term I was immediately appalled. The term caste is usually associated with the social system of extreme discrimination practiced in India. So, to me this term spoke less of my racial identification than it did of my social value. However, when I realized this came from a Rwandese person I better understood. You see, Rwanda, probably more than most other African nations, has always had serious issues in regards to societal classification in terms of race, ethnicity, tribe, clan, etc. They are one of the few African nations that have had these deep seeded issues before, during, and even after colonialism. My Rwandese friend also told me that some in Rwanda would refer to me as a “point five.” This was not as offensive as the other name, but if someone calls me a “point five” they will not get the same pass as the old man in the department store.

My Take

As a kid growing up in Northern California, I had no question about my racial classification. I was Black. Nothing in the U.S. awakens you to this truth more than hearing a White person refer to you as a nigger. Yes, in the 1980’s and 1990’s I heard this word almost every day of my life when my mother married my now diseased stepfather and we moved to a very rural area where there were no more than 10-15 Black kids at the elementary, middle, and high schools I went to. Not until I was able to move in with my father (at age 16), who lived in a decent sized city, was I not forced to endure such ignorance. This ignorance was not only displayed by the students, but also by adults. I once remember a teacher of mine in high school telling me (of course the only Black student in that particular Math class) that if I didn’t make it in life I could always be a “doorman.” Anyway, although my father is Mexican-American, the large amount of Hispanic kids still referred to me as “mayate” (the Mexican-American equivalent of calling a Black person a “nigger”). Put simply, the fact that my father shared the same ethnicity as they did meant nothing--I was judged by my mother’s Blackness. But being the attention junkie that I am, this really did not bother me. I knew what I was. I knew I was Black--with a Mexican father. The racial slurs and jokes did not make me bitter against Whites or other non-Blacks. I did not (as many of them did) judge the whole because of the ignorance of a few.  In fact the constant teasing only sharpened my verbal skills and thus, I became more quick-witted. I could and can still take a joke—but be ready for my comebacks. If one of those White or Hispanic kids had the guts to call me out, in the end he would be the one being laughed at and teased. I decided early that I could not fight everyone who called me nigger. That would become and waste of my time. The best thing to do with the ignorance within someone is to expose it. So, I may have been a nigger, but I was a smart one. I got better grades than them, was more creative than them, and when my hormones started kicking in, I was taking their girls from them. When I made the honor roll, won art and writing contests, and collected the phone numbers of young White and Hispanic girls at school, it was my way of gaining vindication. Besides, I had so many non-Black friends who weren’t at all bothered by my color that in the scheme of things, I knew that there was nothing wrong with me--but with them. I am so thankful that I did not develop the proverbial chip on my shoulder and harbor hate towards White people.

Nonetheless, this semi-exclusion of sorts actually compelled me to further embrace my Blackness. I can remember all of this converged with the strong emergence of rap music—particularly rap music that focused on Black pride and issues affecting Black America. I would listen endlessly to groups and rappers like Public Enemy, KRS-One, Gangstarr, Paris, Eric B. & Rakim, N.W.A., Ice Cube, Ice T, etc. These guys would teach me about America’s systematic racism and their efforts to hide their evil, violent, and racist past as a nation. I would hear them rap about inner-city racism practiced by police, educational systems, the judicial system, and public service employees. These rappers let me know that even though the civil rights movement may have ended, being Black in America still set me up to deal with discrimination and the prejudgment of many of its citizens. I even began to wear one of those old-school black leather medallions with a cut out of the continent of Africa painted red, green, and yellow on it. It was also about this time that I read the Autobiography of Malcolm X (a book that still to this day shapes my thinking). I peppered my speech with more slang and would use the word “nigga” frequently. I was also into Spike Lee and John Singleton movies. Of course all these suburban White kids were getting into this stuff too. Furthermore, my father’s marriage after my mother was to another Black woman. We went to a predominantly Black church. My dad, being heavily involved in church, had mostly Black friends. So my environment, both far and near was predominantly Black. I didn’t grow up in a bilingual household like my Hispanic friends. The music my father and stepmother listened to was mainly Black Gospel music, while my mother mostly listened to R&B. We all watched shows like The Cosby Show, A Different World, Different Strokes, 227, Sanford and Son, Goodtimes, and In Living Color. All these factors fed into and reinforced my sense of Blackness.

 I was not consciously denying my Hispanic heritage, but the fact is, I was never allowed to experience it in the first place. Before I could delve into it, I was prevented from doing so from the very people who shared my father’s racial/ethnic identification. I was not prevented from doing so by my father’s side of the family.  I didn’t see them that much because they lived in Southern California while we lived up north (ask any true Californian and they will tell you that Northern and Southern California are like two different states). Besides, they always showed my brothers and me nothing but love. But this was perpetuated by the Hispanic kids I dealt with at school. To be honest though, I was so used to being “Black” that the desire to be anything else never really materialized. However, I knew that there was more to being “Mexican-American” than piñatas at birthday parties, speaking Spanglish (an American form of a linguistic hybrid of English and Spanish), mariachi music, low-riders, tattoos of the Virgin Mary, and mobile taco trucks. Ironically, my father never brought this up. He understood my racial classification in America and never did anything to discourage me from exploring and living it.

My mother and father taught me—ingrained in me even, not to judge people according to things such as race and/or skin color. My mother, father, and stepmother never treated any of my friends different--no matter what race/color they were. As I write this, I must admit that I feel a bit teary eyed thinking about how I would bring White, Hispanic, Black, Asian, and mix-raced friends to my house and none of my parents would ever treat them funny or later try to put any racist garbage in my mind. It feels good to be able to deal with ignorance head-on as a kid at school and then to come home and see my parents show me the true meaning of color-blind love. Out of my six younger brothers (I have no sisters), five are married. One married a Mexican-American woman, one married a woman who is mixed with Filipino and Black, two married White women, and one married a Black woman. My mother of course married my father who is Hispanic, then remarried my first stepfather who was Black, and after he passed away, she married a man who is both Japanese and Italian American. More than any other family I have ever encountered, my family has shown that true love and family transcends such trivial things as race and skin color. Not only my immediate family but my aunts and uncles have done likewise. My stepmother who is Black has three brothers and one sister. Of these, I have gained one black aunt, two white aunts, and an uncle from Nigeria through marriage. On my father’s side I have gained a White aunt and two White uncles through marriage. Yes, I have a cousin who has dark hair and tan brown skin (like most Latinas) and at the same time I have one with blonde hair and blue eyes. When I am with them, they are my first cousins and I am proud to be so.

So What Should I Be Called?

                Still today, I feel the same way. I am Black. Technically, one can call me “mixed”, “bi-racial”, or maybe any of the other creative monikers I have been labeled with while in Africa. But at the end of the day, as an American, I am Black. There are a few reasons why I cling to this. None of which is any desire for me to reduce or deny my Hispanic heritage. No, not at all. Like I said before, I appreciate it, but in the Mexican-American world of the time and place I grew up in, I was not shown a seat at their cultural/ethnic table. It was for all intents and purposes closed to me and others of my “kind.” No, reason number one is because if I were to have grown up in the days of slavery or America’s enforcement of Jim Crow laws, I would have had to eat, drink, and even relieve myself in facilities intended for “colored people.” I would have gone to “colored” schools, attended a “colored” church, and slept in “colored” motels. In America, there were no “half-breed” accommodations that were better than the colored ones but not quite as nice as the White ones. You were either Black or White. Moreover, in the days of slavery, there were no plantations for “mixed-breeds” as myself. I would be picking the same cotton, getting the same whipping, and suffering from the same lack of rights and privileges as slaves with two Black parents. Another reason is that when racists look at me, no matter what color they are, I am still a nigger, coon, darkie, shine, monkey-ape-baboon, spade, spear-chucker, eggplant, porch monkey, or whatever derogatory term they use to describe me. I would suffer the same fate and abuse as someone with two Black parents—and I actually have. Never in my life was I treated better than a person with two Black parents because I only have one. Finally, I would be classified as Black by most other people regardless of their racial attitudes. How is my president, Barak Obama classified? Black--but he has a White mother. How is Bob Marley classified? Black--but he had a White British Father. How is musical genius, Quincy Jones classified? Black--but his mother was ethnically Jewish. So, why not be consistent? Besides, I love being me. Always have and I hope that I always will. I love my Blackness and am very proud of it—even more so since I have lived here in the land from which it originated—no matter if they recognize it or not!

After speaking with a person about this entry and contemplating further about this issue, I have decided to share a little bit more. I guess in some sense what I feel is that people like me who have a Black parent and a parent of another race/ethnicity who grew up in American society may at times feel forced to embrace our Blackness and only that--whether we want to or not. I have never met any other by-racial person like myself that has a Black parent claim to be anything other than Black. They may mention what they are "mixed" with simply as a side-bar or asterisk of sorts. It's always, "I am Black mixed with______" never "I am ______ mixed with Black." In America, the Blackness seems to become the racial dominator by "societal default." I remember hearing in Biology class that dark skin, brown eyes, and curly hair are all expressions of dominant genes. I guess that has in some way been translated into racial expression in terms of society's way of categorizing you. I chose this partially because in a way it chose me. Like I said earlier, I was not given a chance to explore my Hispanic side. Upon further reflection, I feel that there may be some feelings in me of being deprived. Maybe this system of almost forcing people like me to choose one side--or better stated, have one side chosen and forced upon them, is extremely unfair. Who knows? As a man in his mid-thirties, I see I have so much more to learn about myself. It hurts to feel that the Hispanic side of me in terms of exploring it and at times being it was killed before it had a chance to grow. But who do I blame? I could not force those others to accept me? Should I have gone it alone? Should I have just said, "I am Mexican." and denied my Blackness while my skin tone, hair, and lips told a different story? I remember knowing a person who is mixed like me having an Indian girlfriend. Her parents allowed her to date outside her race but forbade her to date anyone Black. Since this guy was half Black, he would still be considered Black by her parents. Well, he eventually met them, but because he didn't want to cause trouble, he told them he was Turkish. I also remember working as a substitute teacher. In a particular class there was a significant number of Southeast Asians. This was a 3rd or 4th grade class. I remember at one moment turning my back and one of these children yelled out, "Nigger!" I don't know if he was trying to be mean or funny. I was an educated professional. I was for that day his teacher. But to him, a minority himself, I was just a nigger. Also during this time in a conversation with some children of the same age, I was told by another Southeast Asian boy that his parents told he and his siblings that they should marry within their ethnicity. But if they wanted they could marry a White person. However, they were told never to bring a Black person home. For some reason, so much of the world has been told that Blacks are at the bottom rung on the ladder of racial hierarchy. I remember as a child my father once sat me down and told me, "Son you have two strikes against you--you're Black and you're Mexican." I didn't really understand him then, but I understand him now more than he knows. No one chooses their parents and thus their racial/ethnic category. But as humanity in the 21st century, when will we get past the color (or lack thereof) of a person's skin and pick something less trivial to misjudge him or her by?

Foresight, Insight, and Hindsight—how these relate to good governance…

Introduction

I have always been interested in the operation of organizations. What makes an organization work and succeed and what causes it to fail and eventually die? By an “organization” I mean any type—a church, a family, a business, a nation, a government, a non-profit organization, or any group of any size that has some semblance of unity and shares one or more common goals. An analysis such as this can yield countless volumes of books that can contain tons of drivel and redundant rhetoric. Yet, I feel that there are a few fundamental elements that create an environment that is conducive to growth, development, and progress. Put another way, I sincerely believe that the elementary principles that cause a company or nation to succeed, when applied, will have the same effect upon a family or church. Within these basic components is the concept of sight. A general description of sight is the ability to see. Sight is technically the sense that allows one to absorb through visual perception things such as colors, values, shades, brightness, and contrast in this world. But on a more figurative level, sight is the ability to look at, study, and analyze things (i.e. ideas, concepts, objects, people, etc.). This type of sight is purely figurative and, to me, is broken down into three main categories: foresight, insight, and hindsight. All three of these types of sight also relate to the three rudimentary aspects of time: past, present, and future. Furthermore, it is my intent to explain how both sight and time are major contributors, when incorporated properly, to the success of organizations. In addition, these categorical aspects of time and sight directly relate to what I believe are the three (again) necessary pillars of any successful organization: leaders, managers, and outside observers/advisors/critics/opposition (more on this last group later). But firstly, let’s get a brief clarification of these three categories of sight.

Breaking down “sight”

 Foresight is (like the rest of the proceeding words under analysis) a compound word taken from two words, fore, meaning in or of the future, before, or in front of, and sight. Therefore, this word speaks of having the ability to either see into the future or recognize something in the future on its way to the present. It suggests that a person with foresight has the ability to make certain predictions or can anticipate what others fail to recognize. Based on this ability, such individuals often make decisions that others question because at the time these decisions seem odd. However, as time unfolds, the wisdom of such decisions is recognized and this person’s foresight is better trusted and eventually relied upon.  This quality is found within successful leaders. Leaders are said to hold the vision of their particular organization. In other words, a leader, more than anyone else in that group, knows what direction to take that group; what goals to go after and what things to avoid. Without foresight, organizations tend to become stagnant or can expend time, money, and/or energy trying to move forward but make little or no progress. In extreme examples, these same organizations that suffer a lack of vision can actually weaken and eventually vanish. Although this piece of writing is not at all religious in nature, I believe that the Bible has two great examples of this found in its non-doctrinal but pragmatic verses. One is found in Luke 6:39. It says, “And he spake a parable unto them; Can the blind lead the blind? Shall they not both fall into the ditch?” These timeless words from Jesus are not so religious or doctrinal, but they serve as a universal truth. Without a leader with foresight, those who follow this leader will be lost and eventually fail with him/her. Apparently, without vision, progress is impossible. Here is another found in the book of Proverbs 29:18; “Where there is no vision, the people perish… ” This suggests that, in general, where no clear direction is provided—failure is a surety. Thus, quality leadership in an organization begins with that leader having foresight and this leader articulating the vision based on his/her foresight to those under his/her leadership in order for the whole organization to move forward. But as we shall see, great leadership does very little without management with insight.

Insight is the quality of being able to see “into” something in a way that is not as easily recognized by most other people. In other words, someone with insight uses this capacity to gain a deeper or more accurate grasp or understanding of something that is not readily on the surface. This quality deals with the present. People with insight seem to be able to see more than the rest of us. Where most of us see an opportunity, an insightful person recognizes unseen flaws, risks, and/or disadvantages. Or where most of us see nothing of any significance, a person with insight sees a grand opportunity and/or overwhelming potential. This may sound a bit like foresight, but these two qualities are quite distinct. As stated earlier, insight deals with the present—or things already here… tangible things if you will. Whereas, foresight pretty much involves things not here yet—it’s futuristic in nature. I would say that where foresight is a telescope (bringing things far away into a visionary field of grasp) then insight is a microscope (bringing a more clear focus on what is already before you). Organizations need both of these assets to succeed. Insight is best suited for management.

Now in grad school, when I took courses like Organizational Theory, the question would often arise concerning the difference between a leader and a manager. Some would argue that there really was no difference and that these two descriptions really overlapped in regards to responsibilities, qualities, etc. Others would state that these two terms were very different and that they were for the most part mutually exclusive in a lot of ways. Though I am not 100% in agreement with either school of thought, I tend to side with the latter point of view. To lead is to direct or to show the way. To manage is to organize, run, or supervise. Yes, these may seem to overlap a bit, but they are more different than usually perceived. While a leader has his/her head in the future--a visionary, the manager is more grounded and focused on the here and now. The leader steers the organization in a direction dictated by the vision. The manager makes sure the organization holds together and stays healthy enough for the journey. The manager is the organizer of what the leader provides. One does not lead money, one manages money. One cannot lead time, but one manages time. A shepherd may lead the sheep, but the sheepdog manages them. Daddy usually leads the family but mommy manages them. A general leads his troops, but his sergeants manage them. The leader clarifies and gives the orders; while the manager makes sure they are carried out. In terms of governmental branches, the executive would be the leadership, while the administrative would be the management. It is not enough to have a great leader with an awesome vision. It is through the union of a well articulated vision and excellent management fueled by insight that organizations proper. Time and money alone do very little. However, when both are managed properly, they yield tremendous results.

Finally we arrive at hindsight. Hindsight is more simplistic of a term and is practiced by everyone. Hindsight is the ability to understand something only after it has occurred. How many times have you said, “If I would have known that earlier I would have done things differently.” or “If I would have known then what I know now, I would be so much better off.”? How many times do sports fans criticize their favorite athlete’s decisions the day after the big game? This may not seem as important or valuable as the other two forms of sight discussed earlier, but this serves as another vital component to the success of an organization. Why would I say this if hindsight is so readily attainable? The truth is, leadership and management are often so preoccupied with their foresight and insight that what may seem so easy to recognize to the majority of us, is often times unreadable to them.

How many times have you been in an organization that keeps doing things the same way but at the same time expecting different results? How many times have you wanted to ask management and/or leadership how is it that they cannot see that the current course or way of doing things is not working? There are other reasons. Sometimes leadership is too proud or stubborn to admit that their idea is not as easy as it seemed or that it just does not work. Other times the leadership is surrounded by incompetent management or the management is too afraid to be honest with the leadership concerning the current course of failure. This is often the case because the leadership is much too sensitive to criticism or too insecure to accept an idea or suggestion from someone else. No matter what the reason, those with hindsight become frustrated when they try to share what is so clear to them with the decision makers who often disregard their concerns. This leads to the organization suffering from internal strife, misunderstanding, and lack of communication. When left unchecked, challenges such as these can splinter an organization or even cause it to implode.

The ones that usually are the best to exercise this type of sight are outside advisors/observers, critics, and even opposition. Though hindsight may not always come across smoothly and is by default critical in nature, it is nonetheless vital. Without proper hindsight being utilized to create constructive and needed criticism, how can organizations survive let alone thrive and prosper? For example, if a new policy is created, it must have a purpose to serve. The policy is dreamed up and articulated by the leader or the one with foresight. The policy is then put into action and enforced by the management with the insight. Finally, the observer or critic looks at whether or not the policy does what it was intended to do and uses hindsight to gauge its effectiveness. You can see where in each step of the process, a different type of sight is needed. This is the synergistic nature of it all. They all succeed when used together, but without one, failure is imminent.  So what does this have to do with good and effective governance?

How This Relates to Governance…

In my travels, I have had the opportunity to visit many developing nations. When it comes to governance, these nations usually have very strong leadership. However, this leadership is more often than not surrounded by fearful, corrupt, and/or incompetent management. On top of that, there is little to no opposition. In terms of sight, these nations basically have very strong foresight but a paltry amount of insight and not really any hindsight. You need every type in order to succeed. Sure, these top heavy egotistic leaders can’t stand opposition or criticism—but it’s needed. Even when the opposition has ill will and their criticisms are based in selfish motives, one can still listen and learn. Opposition is needed in order to keep a government honest and on its toes. It’s needed as a prod of sorts to make sure that governments do not relax or deviate from their objective--to lead the nation into prosperity and maintain this prosperity in the face of numerous challenges.

 In these nations which are often controlled by either one or a few elites and/or one political party, what starts out as an organization focused on positive change and improvements most always morphs into a monolithic group of individuals consumed with the objectives of their party and personal gain rather than making life better and safer for the citizenry. When allowed to operate unchallenged, un-criticized, and unchecked, the people suffer tremendously and the leadership and management, blind to hindsight, lead these nations into despair. By those with foresight, rejecting those with hindsight, nations of multitudes of people continue to perish needlessly. Money is stolen and wasted and time is needlessly thrown away because those charged with positions which require insight, either don’t have it or do not use it. These three types of sight, dealing with the past, present, and future, operated by leadership, management, and those who are tasked with measuring effectiveness are all components that must be utilized properly in order for good governance to come forth and remain. Without any of the above, we as humanity will keep falling into ditches.