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.
RIP AMHAUD ARBERY & GEORGE FLOYD