“The Closer” is dividing critics and fans of epoch-defining comedian, Dave Chappelle.
An “equal opportunity offender” for most of his career, the widely recognized GOAT in Stand-Up has spent a considerable portion of his last four Netflix specials either commenting/joking about trans issues or defending himself against criticisms by members of the trans community.
For most of his career, Chappelle has focused his observational humor on racism and his experience as a Black man in a very White nation. His early jokes were rich with cutting truths that laid bare the hypocrisies and evils of a country whose initial prosperity sprang from slavery.
With wit and satire, The Chappelle Show helped an entire generation of all races think and even laugh about the poison of racism. Dave’s experience as a Black man made his art personal, authentic, and believable. He could say shocking things with impunity because he owned the experience he was presenting.
With “The Closer,” Chappelle seems to be pleading his case more than simply trying to entertain. He is wondering aloud how the trans movement has gained so much traction and influence while Black Civil Rights movements from MLK all the way to BLM still struggles. He posits that Civil Rights leaders in the 60s had to make real, sometimes mortal sacrifices for change while today’s social Justice warriors mostly form woke Twitter mobs to cancel their opposition and wear “pussy hats” to raise awareness for their cause (neither being very effective).
He has some valid points within these comedic jabs, and if he is to be taken in good faith, perhaps there is much to be learned. The idea of “roasting” someone or something is to ridicule, exaggerate, and criticize every single possible weakness so that when the subject survives the lambasting, they are much stronger, maybe even invulnerable. Roasting is an exercise in building thicker skin.
If Dave is truly an ally (this seems up for debate), then the LGBTQ+ community would do well to take his jokes deeper than face value and try to use them to become stronger, maybe even laughing them off like all of Chappelle’s other targets that must do the same to enjoy his humor.
But, in this latest Netflix special, I can’t help but notice a seeming personal stake that Chappelle has in not just making jokes, but condemning those who have condemned him. It seems personal.
Everyone wants to believe they are “the good guy.” But a champion for justice and truth would not pick unworthy targets, right? A powerful mechanism of Comedy is how it maintains the status quo by ridiculing the outliers of society. The majority doesn’t like something about a minority, so a joke could be used to point out that difference in a mocking way and make the majority feel comfortable in their bigotry or ignorance. It’s a very regressive use of comedy and one Chappelle would probably never wish (intentionally) to use…
But perhaps that is exactly what he has been doing to the trans community for four Netflix specials now. And when they tell him they are victims and not worthy of this ridicule for all they have endured, Dave doubles down. He now believes *he* is *their* victim (or at least people he admires like Kevin Hart and DaBaby).
Perhaps the blind spot in Dave Chappelle’s hubris is that his success comes from speaking on his personal experience against injustice and hypocrisy that affected him. Audiences gained universal truth from his subjective experience because he eloquently captured and criticized them with the highest degree of wit.
White people were commonly a target of Chappelle’s most stinging accusations, but they heralded the comedian. Perhaps, deep down, they agreed with him and recognized the work still needing to be done in regards to race relations.
The trans community is not taking their abuse as kindly (for the most part – I have seen some positive reviews while scouring google, Reddit, and Twitter).
This vitriol from members of the trans community means either they have some growth needed to embrace the ridicule we are all subjected to when we have a place at the table, or maybe Dave is really doing more damage than he wants to acknowledge or believe. He ended his special saying something to the effect of, “I’m done telling trans jokes until y’all can handle it.”
Imagine if a White comedian tried to represent Black issues like Chappelle has? It would seem a bit out of place. Chappelle ridicules White people because he has felt antagonized by many Whites. He ridicules Black people because he has lived the Black experience. It doesn’t seem like Dave has any credible connection to the trans community apart from his friend, Daphne, that gives him authenticity in his use of the subject for humor.
Maybe these trans jokes should be told by the “Dave Chappelle of trans comedians” instead.
“It doesn’t matter if we win or lose, it’s how we play the game.”
An old cliche that finally made complete, visceral sense to me this past week.
Covid has kept family and friends apart for so long that simple occasions that we once took for granted now feel like an historic achievement.
I got a bunch of family and friends together to play a simple kickball game. There were people present I hadn’t seen in a few years, some for a decade.
With heat, mosquitos, and small children (I had 2 toddlers to corral), I didn’t give us great odds to get though an inning let alone an entire game.
But everyone there seemed to understand the ever rarer ability for occasions like this to happen in these Covid times. Even the young ones, 7 to 14, hustled to their field positions or stepped up to the plate in pro timing with a sense of importance and urgency.
We got through 7 full innings with a very productive game of 3 outs or 5 runs per inning: double plays, home runs, peg outs, force outs, and more.
The young ones weren’t given special treatment so when they got on base or forced an out, there was a real sense of achievement and not a cheap pandering feeling.
I happened to be the final out of the game (I got pegged out representing the tying run). And when we lost, I had perhaps a brief sigh of failure before turning to the overriding sentiment we all shared: SUCCESS! WE HAD COMPLETED A GAME!
I had participated in one of humanity’s longest standing art forms: Sport. Whether to stay physically fit, for enjoyment, or to practice necessary survival skills like hunting or combat, Sport is an all time great achievement of our species.
Knowing I had been part of a successful execution of a single game of kickball was so satisfying, I did not care at all that we had lost.
This is why the Olympics are so important. Sport is happening. Peace is happening.
So much value is placed in winning and that is well and good (it is PART of Sport: to win), but if we do not value the ability to even execute sports, if there is no greater society to functionally host, or if cheating destroys the entire foundation and spirit of a game… then winning means nothing.
The real victory is having any games at all and completing them properly.
This goes for politics as well: the real victory is having a system that allows for fair elections and functioning government at all.
My biggest takeaway from this simple, kickball game is that I will teach my children to play hard, compete with everything they are capable of, and give every last ounce of life to their pursuits – Sport or otherwise; but to value the higher morality most of all: that we even get to play the game – Sport or otherwise.
For as far back as my hippocampus extends, I have heard the mantra, “I am a product of my environment.” A legion of research has supported the notion contained therein the mantra of the circumstances in which one grows up in can and often does have a major bearing on how the person matures. Personally, I concur; particular actions I have taken were majorly influenced by members of my family I had close contact with. Nonetheless, even though I was privileged to have great paradigms of success as family members, I grew up in an extremely destitute area where the ramifications of poverty were widespread and rampant. Consequently, some of my fellow adolescents propended towards selling drugs; robbing; and other activities a lot of people would consider to be nefarious in context.
Due to some of the fellow adolescents I am referencing being considered as friends at the time, I had the opportunity to engage in the same activities as they were. Therefore, if the people I am referencing were individuals I liked being around, why did I not spend my time similar to them? Albeit I would be remiss and sheerly ignorant even to say my family members’ impact was not part of the answer to the question, I contend the truest component of why I did not do so is because I knew those actions did not align with the life I desired to live. Thus, the decision I made at that moment of my life was the crux of me being able to live the life I live now.
That being said, I challenge each reader to gauge the standard of decisions he/she is making. Are the decisions you are making aligned with securing the desires of your heart? If not, please rectify. Often, more important to our success than the skills or knowledge we possess, are the decisions we make.
Here we are again. In the midst of a COVID outbreak. I was hoping we had learned something the first time around; however, that turned out to be just a hope. I’m especially disgusted with the way Governor Gretchen Whitmer, or should I say “Big Gretch” hasn’t stepped in to do more for MDOC (Michigan Depart of Corrections). I should also express my utter disdain, disgust, and outright fury at how Heidi Washington, Director of MDOC, is handling this. The men and women housed in these facilities are human and still have rights. The state of Michigan and MDOC have an obligation to keep these men and women safe, and right now they are doing the opposite. They are intentionally exposing inmates, staff, and surrounding communities to COVID-19 by continuing to ignore the deplorable conditions at many facilities that allow for rapid growth of the virus.
Let’s go to Central Michigan Correctional Facility in Saint Louis, MI.
There are approximately 2560 men housed at this Level 1 Facility and as of November 21, 2020, 1566 inmates have tested positive and 806 inmates have been identified as close contact. Testing ceased until December 3, 2020. 94% of the inmates in the facility are COVID positive. What does that mean for the inmates? What does that mean for the staff, who leaves and goes home every day? The counselors are calling off left and right because they are either COVID positive or close contact. What does this mean for the greater community who come in contact with the staff on a daily basis? Why hasn’t Big Gretch and Heidi responded? What are they waiting on?
There is more, Shall I continue?
Just two weeks ago, they gave these adult men hot dogs and carrots as a meal and for dinner a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, only to turn around and give them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with cereal for breakfast. These meals are nowhere near the required calorie count for a healthy person, yet with 94% of the inmates COVID positive, this is the meal they were given. How are these men expected to have any shot at recovery with an imposed unhealthy diet, limited access to nutrient-rich food and vitamins?
Additionally, the men are not being given time outside, which is limiting their access to fresh, clean air. This takes minimal effort from the staff. Recall, this is a Level 1 facility where many men are on their way home. In fact, many are incarcerated for non-violent offenses and have less than 5 years remaining on their sentence. Where is the humanity? 94% of the population is COVID positive and close contact, this number doesn’t include staff. The inmates aren’t being given nutritious food so the least MDOC could do is ensure they have time outside for movement and access to fresh air.
There’s more, Shall I go on?
The facility is NOT being cleaned. Period. The inmates are given non-germicidal bleach to clean; however, the directions state the bleach has to sit for 15 minutes before it’s deemed effective. Let’s be clear, it is NOT sitting for 15 minutes before it’s being wiped up. Why not purchase the cleaning supplies suggested by the CDC, unless of course, you don’t care.
For one unit in particular, there are currently ONLY 3 porters assigned when there should be 12. You have 25% of the manpower needed to adequately clean the unit.
Governor Whitmer and Heidi Washington do NOT care about these men and their actions support this claim. Let’s be clear, the information I’ve shared is only a snippet of what the inmates and the staff are experiencing. These men are already physically incarcerated behind bars, now they have to finish out their sentence with a virus running rampant, no access to adequate cleaning supplies, subpar food, and no time to go outside. This is a death sentence imposed by Governor Gretchen Whitmer, “Big Gretch”, Heidi Washington, and MDOC.
Why aren’t more people talking about this??
This article was originally published on 3 December 2020.
“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
Last night over dinner my eldest son, almost 8, asked me if Donald Trump had become rich by winning the lottery. Amused, I told him that Trump’s father was already a rich man when his son Donald started making his own money in business. He replied, “I think Trump’s father got rich by making TikTok videos or something similar.” I don’t know where my son got familiar with TikTok as no one in our family owns an account, and the anachronism was of course a good reason for my partner and I to have a good laugh, but then I started reflecting on my son’s vision of the world.
Two years ago, they didn’t know who Donald Trump was, and Covid-19 didn’t even exist. Since January 2020, these have been our main focuses, as we watched the news of the world and commented on both situations, in both cases appalled by what we heard and saw. We have since learnt how to keep a safe distance with other people, how to wear a mask correctly, how to wash our hands thoroughly. We have learnt that being a racist, a misogynist, a con man and a liar could make you, then destroy you. Or not exactly…
To be honest, the overrepresentation of Trump and his acolytes in the media was almost as much a sore as the literal toll Covid-19 was taking on humanity. Waiting shakily for the weekly update on the toll, the safety measures and closures, wondering whether schools would close again was, and still is, our daily lot. Comic relief came in the form of a character Shakespeare would not have disowned in this larger-than-life tragedy. How many times did I think I had heard it all, only to be contradicted the next day? I didn’t attempt to count, and I am glad I didn’t. Rather, I used Trump as a lesson to teach my sons about truth, respect, tolerance and fair-play. I told them they were growing up in a very special time, and they needed to remember that our planet defends itself against us sometimes, just as we defend ourselves against people like Donald Trump.
I watched, flabbergasted, as the Capitol rioters claimed to rescue their nation from the Big Bad Democrats. I watched as they invaded, threatened, broke, stole, and laughed. I watched as they made excuses for themselves claiming they were just doing what the President had enticed them to do, powerless as he was to fight against this newly born evil called defeat. I watched as the President himself failed to bear the consequences of his words, his acts and his lies. I was lucky enough to watch, instead of lying in a hospital bed attached to a ventilator. This, I told my sons, is how a dictator falls. This is how a nation realizes it must stand together stronger and reclaim what is their founding principle: justice and freedom for all. It didn’t take long for me to be disappointed. The decision to reject the impeachment of the now-former President of the United States is a political move, by no means justice. You may loathe or love the man, but you must recognize him for what he is, and has always been: a selfish, arrogant, and spoilt megalomaniac. Losing the election was only fair revenge considering the harm he did to the American people. The ultimate step was to acknowledge that he had behaved the same way as those leaders he admires so much. Impeaching him was the only way to tell the Americans they had been swindled, mistreated, and lied to. As Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” That we had to wait for it to happen –again— in the Land of the Free, couldn’t be more ironic.
If Biden, or anyone, wants to help fix this broken country, he must start with the people who claim they are dedicating their life to making it great. The fracture between Democrats and Republicans can heal, just like a broken bone, with reason and admission of guilt, not excuses. Fresh faces representing the USA’s multiculturalism will be needed to cement and reinforce the unity. Donald Trump shattered an already fragile skeleton, watched it crumble and danced onto its pieces. His failure to address the issues revolving around the pandemic contributed to his downfall, but the level of protection he benefits from is properly shameful. Aristotle’s assertion that all communities aim at some good only serves to highlight the decision-makers as prioritizing their own good at the cost of their country’s. We are witnessing a very special moment in history as the whole world is fighting a deadly virus. Since we have to rely on our governments to drive us through this crisis, now their time has come to shine, although making amends is sometimes the only way.
By refusing to impeach Donald Trump, the Republicans have lost the trust many Americans, but also world citizens, had in justice. Sadly, I presume they have also gained unconditional support from those who think that getting away with crime is proof of leadership and strength. I do believe there’s dignity to be found in acknowledging one’s mistakes before starting anew. Hopefully, my sons will grow up to see the USA stand again, proud to be free as a true democracy, and Donald Trump will never be on TikTok.
I’ve heard it all. Which, as a U.S. born Citizen… feels surreal. Out of my entire family, I am the first to be born in the United States, though my heritage and ancestry span continents.
Originally, my ancestors are from India’s northernmost region, Punjab, to be exact, but the story does not start from there, though.
No, the story begins with my ancestors integrating with the Greeks, the Romans, the Persians, the Afghanis, the Mongols, and essentially the multitudes of other ethnicities that dreamt of India’s wonders and sought to conquer, trade in it, or subjugate it.
With each new group, with each new conquest, and with each new age, my ancestors survived, thrived, and grew. In a time where there were no universal laws or rules, my bloodline prevailed. And through all this time, they paved the course of my path, the purpose of my being, to one day be here, sitting in this very chair, typing these words out for anyone to read and digest.
Through famine, war, disease, political intrigue, migration, poverty, wealth, my ancestors ensured I would be here one day.
In a land that would be alien to them, but to me, it is all I have ever known to be home.
Here in this nation –
I scraped my knees for the first time, rollerblading.
I played handball in the public parks against the bigger boys.
I saw scobby-doo and sang along to its theme song E.V.E.R.Y. T.I.M.E.
I enjoyed my first pop-song – NSYNC
I had my first school detention
My first beat up after school.
My first fish, turtle, bird, dog, and now cat pet
My first best friend
My first kiss
My first love
My first heartbreak
My first Slurpee (My first brain freeze)
My first pizza
My first BaconEgg&Cheese
My first educational degree (Then my second first master’s degree)
My first credit card
My first job
My first paycheck
My first exposure to death
My first breakdown
My first sense of accomplishment…
You see, this country was my first for everything, as I was the first of my family to be born here. So when you tell me to go back to where I came from, where do you think that place is?
How could you know what it took, the sacrifices, the pain, the defeats, the victories, and the resilience and determination it took to ensure that I would be here one day?
They couldn’t know, but you, dear reader, you now know.
The next time someone decides to tell you to go back to where you came from, take a moment and realize you are everything your ancestors hoped, prayed, traveled, worked, fought, and died for to be here.
You are your bloodline’s greatest achievement.
And just like you, I am here to stay, to grow, to achieve, and to inspire.
During 2008, I signed a small record contract with an Indie Music Label in Yokohama and had the pleasure to perform my first tour in Japan around that time. What I learned then about Japanese culture seemed strange and almost archaic. Now, while living during a pandemic, it makes complete sense to me.
Perhaps Japan, one of the oldest surviving civilizations on the planet (its first settlers came possibly 15,000 years ago), has not only survived its share of pandemics, but also learned from them enough to adopt customs that effectively combat them.
Here are all the customs inherent to Japanese people that seemed strange when I visited, but now seem like remnants of a post-pandemic society:
Bowing…
No kissing like Europeans. No hugging like Americans. Not even high fives or fist bumps. The Japanese did not touch at all, but they were still extremely affectionate in their accepted form of greeting/departing. A longer, deeper bow meant that much more respect or love than a simple head nod.
I saw a young girl recognize my tour manager from across a record store and run full speed right up to him only to stop 5 feet short and bow almost all the way to the ground. It was akin to the biggest hug you ever saw in America.
This custom seemed distant and almost silly, pre-pandemic. Now, as I see friends in safe, outdoor settings and we awkwardly say hi or do a nervous fist bump, I understand how useful it would be to have a universally embraced form of greeting that was both effectively expressive and Covid-safe.
Face masks…
In Japan, I was caught off guard at the airports and walking around Tokyo to see so many face masks – a decade ago! I thought, “are these people horrifically sick? Should I be nervous?”
When I inquired about the custom that was only bothering American me, the response was almost condescending: “They are just sick with a cold or flu and don’t want to spread germs to others. It’s basic consideration.”
Americans seemed to detest the stigma of showing weakness or hiding their face… or maybe they just don’t care about negatively affecting their neighbor?
Whatever the reason for not having this custom pre-pandemic, it would seem the stigma persists as mask-wearing has been a uniquely American political conflict during Covid when it would seem like the easiest way to reduce (not eliminate, mind you) the spread of infection.
Residences Off Limits…
I was surprised when my record label in Yokohama put me up at a hotel instead of staying at a family residence. I was used to sleeping in guest rooms or pull-out couches around the US and UK as a way to save money and also have a sense of “home” or family while abroad. In Ireland, my agent had a guest room that practically felt like mine for how many nights I had stayed there on multiple tours.
But in Japan, residences were sacred and I was not welcome in anyone’s home. I thought it had to do with privacy, but in a Covid world, I wonder if it had more to do with germs. Americans were used to constant visitors from friends and family before the pandemic, but that has drastically changed to be much closer to pre-pandemic Japan with little to no guests now.
Of these 3 Japanese customs, I would be very happy to see bowing and face masks become a permanent part of American life. I would, however, be very sad to lose frequent and numerous guests in my home as that is my most regrettable loss this past year. I miss family and friends visiting, holding my children, singing songs, and sharing a moment of affection in this brief, precarious existence.
Last year, the United States descended into pure chaos. Systemic racism was thriving and it resulted in several untimely deaths. All the while, we were ill-equipped to handle the pandemic that seized the world due to inadequate leadership. So many civil uprisings, rallies, and rioting for change that was long overdue. Now, after the election in November 2021 is looking to be the start of that change.
When Biden and Harris won the election, I sighed with relief. While they might not be my number one pick for president and vice president, I think that they can get the ball rolling for the United States to improve for all of its people.
For some states it was time to elect new Senators, Georgia being one. What is so significant about Georgia is that it is a traditionally red state. It has been for a long time. And yet, for this election, Georgia flipped to blue, directly resulting in the White House, the Senate, and the House being blue.
The two new Senators, Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock, are not originally politicians. Ossoff was an investigative journalist and documentary film producer and Warnock a senior pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church. I believe that the more non-political people we elect into positions of power, the more likely legislature will be passed for all people due to the diversification of personal, academic, and professional experiences of the people in power.
Warnock is the first Black Senator of Georgia, and this can only mean great things moving forward for communities of color. He might be the catalyst for even more people of color obtaining positions in state and federal governments. While I’m not from Georgia nor do I live in Georgia, I am excited to see what Warnock will help make happen to address the racism that has been running rampant.
However, I think the short term implications are worth considering. With the diversification of the government, it has exacerbated the tyranny of President Trump and the radical actions of ‘the proud boys’.
On January 6th, an armed mob stormed the U.S. Capitol in retaliation to the federal government turning blue. This was an act of domestic terrorism and yet President Trump did nothing to get the mob to leave. He did nothing to ensure the sanctity of the White House. All he did was condone their actions and allow them the privilege of destroying government property. The only thing on my mind as I watched this on the news is how if this mob was predominantly people of color, they would be shot before they even made it to the lawn.
I saw on the news a few days later that the mob planned to attack not only the U.S. Capitol again, but also all fifty capitols in the United States. CNN also said that if President Trump was impeached before the inauguration on January 20th, they will attack. Of course, there were death threats towards Biden, Harris, and House representative Pelosi.
I don’t know if these threats are still a concern, especially now that the House has impeached President Trump for the second time. Yes, beautiful progress is being made, but I worry about whether there will be a safe transition of power, and about whether President Trump and his ‘proud boys’ will be held accountable for their transgressions.
Author’s note: This is an actual message that I sent to a friend – someone I had known for many years. I felt it important to share with LCR readers who may be experiencing similar struggles. The content of this message has been *lightly* edited to provide clarity for general readership.
==================
I have given this a great deal of thought, and I feel I must say this. I have always tried to do my best to be open-minded to other opinions. And I will continue to do so. But my willingness to listen to opposing sides was carelessly abused Wednesday evening. You saw fit to use my Facebook post decrying the violence and loss of life at the hands of a mob incited by the sitting president as an excuse to peddle conspiracy theories. The photos of “proof” you provided were doctored to make uninformed, gullible people believe that Antifa – not Trump supporters – were behind the insurrection at the Capitol on Wednesday.
The real proof – not hearsay (you claimed that your “reliable” friend provided this “proof”) – is that the people in the photos were all identified as well-known Trump supporters, some of them active in QAnon – a bastion of the most horrible, outlandish conspiracy theories I have ever had the misfortune to hear. These people saw fit to bypass legal and peaceful means to air their grievances, violently pushing themselves into the building – breaking through windows and doors, shoving through barricades, overpowering a Capitol Police officer to the point that he suffered fatal injuries, and forcing another officer to shoot a rioter – directly resulting in loss of human life. This wasn’t a protest. This wasn’t a righteous “Second American Revolution”, or “Second Civil War”. This was an attempted coup by a mob of closed-minded, disgruntled people who voluntarily chose to swallow Trump’s lies and cult of personality hook, line, and sinker, believing his persistent, baseless claims of a stolen election just because he said so. There is no PROOF. The EVIDENCE for my claim is the FACT that the vast majority of judges didn’t see even enough evidence to allow a case to be heard. The highest court in the land, packed of judges that Trump himself placed, ruled these claims to be baseless and without merit. The blindness of those who refuse to even see the proof boggles my mind.
We had known each other for years. I used to believe that you, living and working in Washington as an advocate for disabled Americans, were a level-headed, critical-thinking human being, who cared about truth and facts. I tolerated your meek argument that Trump “was a nice person”, based on a single personal meeting, without evaluating him beyond what mask he decided to wear on that day.
I invite you to reply to my post and apologize as soon as humanly possible for your mistake of promoting photographs that have been proven to be doctored with the intent to redirect blame. I would hope that you would have the self-awareness to accept the abundant facts refuting the photos you posted – and that you state so in public.
My heart is broken for my country, for the people who were injured and killed, for the duly-elected people who run our government as they fled to escape the violence in fear of their own lives – and for the friendship that I mistakenly gave, and now am compelled to take from you.
Brooklyn Hospital was under siege during the first wave of the coronavirus outbreak in April. I live one block away from the Civil War era hospital. As ambulances raced through the empty streets, I could hear the echo of the sirens reverberate off of the buildings nearby.
The sirens wailed for weeks. To keep my mind occupied I had thrown myself into my work to preserve my sanity. From my brown upholstered chair in the corner of my apartment, I could hear every ambulance that passed by. At the sound of every siren, I could envision the darkness that was about to overtake the nation.
A tsunami of past traumas crashed into my mind as I recalled the lasting impacts of 9/11 on New York City, the country’s abysmal public healthcare system, and America’s world-renown legacy as one of the most viscously racist nations in the history of mankind.
I was defiant in my refusal to be mentally waterboarded by the sensationalism of the American media. Having already experienced NYC during 9/11, I already knew that the city was in dire straits in the years ahead. With the hourly increase in ambulance sirens and the death tally rising on my television screen, I clicked off the news media and turned up the volume of my soulful music collection.
In the weeks ahead, I dove into the business deals that I was working on and leaned heavily on my depression coping mechanisms. I was successfully navigating my way through murky mental waters until May when the recorded murders of two separate unarmed black men were released for the world to consume.
I sat there staring into the nothingness that I was feeling inside. Wondering yet again how America first contracted this disease of ruthless systemic racism. For a moment of relief, I imagined the scene from the television series Game of Thrones where the fictional character, Jorah Mormont, was inflicted with the disfiguring Grayscale skin disease by the exiled Stone Men. The disease of American systematic racism would reveal its hardened gray, scaly, scarred skin to us all in the midst of this devastating public health crisis.
(Silverbacks Note: Greetings from Amsterdam North! Frankly, it’s been difficult for me to write over the last several months. I began to find my stride in beginning to share my personal narrative with you in Music Is Life and Power of Love. I still have more to share on that basketball journey but it’s been tough to write from a negative headspace. As I attempt to find my roar again, I have been busy growing other aspects of the Soulful Silverback brand.
Since I last published a piece, we released the Silverback’s first reading mixtape on American racism titled “Chaining Day” (check out the fire album cover art here), we launched our first paid advertising marketing campaign (Oy! the comment section was divisive), we replenished the t-shirt inventory on the Silverbacks Shop (go cop some merch!) and registered the business as a company in the Netherlands (pretty dope, right?). More on this in the coming months.
It’s often been said that the pen is mightier than the sword. And y’all know I’m damn nice with my pen. This vignette is one of those occasions where I felt that I had to pick up my sword. Warning: parental advisory, colorful language in the words ahead.
Cheers,
P.S. – Click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
I sank deeper into the padding on the chair, deeper into thought, and was stunned by the intersectionality of this mounting crisis. I could taste the bitterness of America’s racist bitches brew hit the bumps on my palate.
It’s all of these nauseating miasmic ills mixing together: this nation’s continued bloodthirsty investment in the military-industrial complex; the amoral marriage of corporate profits to citizens’ healthcare; and the nation’s savage legacy of importing humans and legally classifying them and their offspring as non-persons.
These ingredients are America’s handcrafted recipe, her lasting legacy on the world stage, and her most lethal weapon; her bitches brew if you will. This concoction is so potent that Adolf Hitler was inspired by America’s centuries-long systemic performance that he commissioned the formula to be the foundation for his own deadly race laws.
During the last week in May, my phone began to vibrate as text messages from family, friends, and acquaintances from all over the world.
Big Nev! Just checking in on you. I wanted to make sure you’re good.
Hi my love, I wanted you to know that Mom is praying for you always.
Mate, how are you going? Crazy what’s happening in the States.
My initial feelings of being cared for were quickly switched to dread as I scrolled past a notification that Minneapolis law enforcement had killed an unarmed black man while in police custody. Given the flood of text messages, I instantaneously knew the visuals of the murder were likely to be devastating.
Just weeks before in early May, a cell phone recording was released of armed white men hunting and shooting a Black runner, Ahmuad Arbery, in the southern State of Georgia. In the chilling video, you can see Ahmad fleeing his attackers only to be cornered and shot dead in the street. His lifeless Black body lying facedown on the pavement in the southern breeze was an all too familiar image of the antebellum south.
Weeks later in late May, as more concerned text messages poured in, it only fortified my resolve to avoid the video of George Floyd’s execution until I was mentally prepared for the visuals. I continued reading the text messages.
How are you holding up Neville?
I can’t believe that this is happening. I am so sorry bro.
Hey Nev, be safe out there big fella! We’re worried about you.
As more and more concerned text messages from mostly white friends and acquaintances arrived, the more bewildered and enraged I became. The cushion beneath me was morphing a launchpad and I was beginning to rumble in anger. I wanted to lift off and explode in response to the text messages.
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN AM I OK?! I LIVE MY LIFE WITH THIS EXISTENTIAL FEAR!! I EXPECT THIS BEHAVIOR FROM WHITE FOLKS. THE REAL QUESTION IS: ARE YOU FUCKING OK WITH WHAT YOU SAW?
Delete, delete, delete, you can’t respond with that I thought. These folks are concerned about you.
But it was too late, I had already been poisoned by the news of the day.
I needed to calm down and quiet the war going on inside. I put my phone down and went back to working on a large technology partnership with Jay-Z’s entertainment company, Roc Nation.
Eight months prior, I had delivered one of the most riveting and personal business pitches to the leadership team at Roc Nation. Jay-Z had once compared the technology industry and its lack of diversity, inclusion, and retention to Major League Baseball prior to integration on his song Legacy.
“We gon’ start a society within a society
That’s major, just like the Negro League
There was a time America wouldn’t let us ball
Those times are now back, just now called Afro-tech”
With rhymes like that, it wasn’t lost on me that I was a Black man selling technology to the company he founded. It was a proud moment in my career to stand at the plate in the sleek Roc Nation conference room and deliver a homerun presentation to win their technology business. Just like Jackie Robinson stealing home plate decades prior, I was able to exemplify that diversity, inclusion, and retention can benefit corporate profits when our talents are unshackled and enabled to flourish.
When I brought the deal to my company I was again confronted with the taste of America’s racist bitches brew. I scheduled a conference call to discuss the details of the pricing negotiation. Two of my white bosses were on the conference call and when I joined the call I overheard their conversation.
“This is why I don’t do business deals with any Roc Nation type of companies,” one White boss scoffed to the other.
“Oh no, the guy we are working with is a White guy,” the other white boss replied to his off-color comment. “He’s not Black.”
It’s tough to describe the complexity of my feelings on that conference call but you know that bathroom scene from the movie Trading Places?
There’s an important scene near the end of the movie.
During the scene, Billy Ray Valentine, the main character, is hiding in a nearby stall and overhears the details of brothers Randolph and Mortimer Duke’s nefarious experiment as they settle their infamous $1 wager in the bathroom.
I guess you could say that I felt like Billy Ray overhearing the Duke brothers’ conversation except these two knew I was present on the call. But it was too late, they had already exposed their diseased mindset about Black people.
I remained silent on the call as that all too familiar taste of casual cultural racism filled my throat like vomit. I wrestled internally as to whether I should have made a witty remark or let the exchange slide entirely.
I didn’t address the offensive exchange and focused on the task at hand. This was not the time for activism, so I brushed off the comments and forged ahead with the internal conversation.
Months later when the deal closed in June, one of those white bosses had the audacity to attempt to tie my success with Roc Nation to the timing of George Floyd’s murder.
“Seems like George Floyd’s death really helped us close this deal,” he said in a pleasurable tone.
“Don’t tie that man’s tragic execution to my success in this deal,” I bristled. “The two events are not correlated.”
I was confronted with the casual nature of cultural racism at every turn. The reality of Jay-Z’s sharp lyrics from The Story of O.J. came to mind and my mood was dampened.
“Light nigga, dark nigga, faux nigga, real nigga
Rich nigga, poor nigga, house nigga, field nigga
Still nigga, still nigga”
The Grayscale skin disease was spreading and taking its toll on my mental health.
It took me weeks but I finally mustered up the courage to watch the full 8:46 minutes of George Floyd’s execution.
Late one night around the midnight hour in early June, I turned off all of the lights and closed the shades to be in total darkness. I slipped into my bed and curled up under the covers for what I was about to see and experience. I took a deep inhale and pressed play on the YouTube video.
There had been so much talk of the recording that I was not surprised by the images on my screen. It was just as devastating as I had feared.
I had been conditioned to expect white Americans to treat Black bodies with excessive force. However, what struck me the most about this video was the defiant entitlement, comfort, and smugness on the face of the white officer as he pressed his knees deeper into the skin on George Floyd’s neck. You could see from the expression on the officer’s face that he was relishing every moment of the execution.
I COULD NOT BELIEVE THAT THIS WAS STILL HAPPENING WHILE THE PLANET IS BATTING A FUCKING DEADLY PANDEMIC AT A SCALE THAT WE HAVE NOT SEEN IN OVER 100-YEARS! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN WITH PEOPLE STANDING RIGHT THERE?
American racism was crafted so that the enslavement was intellectual, moral, and legal. American racism is the real Grayscale skin disease from fictitious television series – except its white folks that are the asymptomatic carriers and they have infected us all with this highly contagious disease that has been slowly destroying the nation.
This strain of racism may be as infectious as “Grayscale” but its impact is excruciatingly more real. Black folks in this nation have been suffering from our daily engagement with this disease-riddled system for centuries.
American racism and white supremacy rob white people of the experience of being fully human. This particularly evil brand of racism is a disease that white people need to be cured of. Throughout history, the experience of attaining an elevated or supreme position within one’s community is earned through the content of one’s character and not by the birthright of their skin color.
I could go on and on about this topic but I refuse. I’m so tired of this shit. I fucking hate writing about racism.
The reality is plain and simple for the world to now see: America is not a healthy environment for the overall wellbeing of Black Americans across all socioeconomic backgrounds.
Sadly, unlike the television series, there is no healing ointment or witches brew to cure us of this disease either. Not Samwell Tarley, not Joe Biden, or even Jesus Christ can apply a balm to our skin to heal us from this affliction. We are irrevocably disfigured as People because racism is codified into the nation’s governing documents, cultural norms, and workplaces.
Sipping on America’s piping hot brew is slowly killing me and I have to protect my future generations from grappling with these feelings of worthlessness and despair.
America’s demons will never release this nation from its clutches and I refuse to fight against the federal and cultural racism that will likely result in my dead body being tossed onto the already mountain-high pile of young, gifted, and Black bodies that have spoken out against injustice before me.
I had to finally give up on America and flee her borders for my physical safety, my mental sanity, and my future legacy.
It was time to put down the sword and apply a healing balm to my hardened gray skin before it was too late.
